The Italian Matchmaker (28 page)

‘No, you must leave it as it is. It’s a museum. Don’t touch a thing.’

Romina thought of telling her about the intruder, but the folly had remained untouched for some days now. There was every chance the trespasser had gone.

That night Luca took the key to the folly and met Cosima outside the church as arranged. She still felt superstitious about their relationship; that it would only survive if she lit daily candles to Francesco to reassure him that her love would never diminish. Her happiness was an uneasy condition, anchored so firmly in grief. Only when she was in Luca’s arms could she let herself go. When they made love she stole her pleasure like a thief unworthy of such riches. When they were apart she nurtured her joy like a precious diamond, afraid of letting it show, as if it might shine through the darkness to give her away. Even though the darkness was comfortable, and it was what she felt she deserved, she was so tempted by the light.

It was a relief to see Luca standing in the shade of a plane tree, hands in pockets, patiently waiting for her. She ran up and threw her arms around his neck, allowing his strength to envelop her.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. I’m just pleased to see you.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Up the coast?’

‘Wherever you want.’

‘Somewhere we can be private.’ Remembering where she was and the danger of being seen, she moved away and folded her arms. ‘Where’s your car?’

They drove up the coast, holding hands over the gear stick, the warm wind blowing in through the open windows and across their faces. They found a little restaurant in a small medieval town Cosima had never been to. It was picturesque with whitewashed houses with pink-tiled roofs and a small church with a pretty bell tower rising into the magenta sky. They sat under the awning on straw chairs, a candle lamp flickering in the centre of the table surrounded by a ring of scarlet flowers. They drank crisp white wine and held hands across the table. After they had eaten, Luca pulled a velvet pouch from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he explained. ‘I was in Naples today and saw these in the window. I know we’ve only known each other a short time, but I want you to know how serious I am about you. I’ve played with the hearts of many women, but you’re different. You’re breaking through to a part of my heart I never knew was there. So, this is for you. Because you’re different.’

She blinked back tears. ‘I don’t deserve you. I feel guilty for being so happy.’

‘Don’t feel guilty, my darling. Go on, open it.’

Tentatively, she loosened the little rope and peered inside. The present glittered through the darkness. He had bought her
real
jewellery. She opened her hand and poured the contents into her palm. When she saw the size of the diamonds she let out a gasp. She stared at the drop earrings as if they were stolen goods. ‘You bought these for me? They’re stunning.’

‘They’re antique. Put them on.’

With trembling fingers she took off her usual gold studs and replaced them with the new diamond earrings. The stones shone out against her milk chocolate skin, accentuating her white teeth and the clear whites of her eyes. The pear-shaped drops dangled as she moved her head.

‘Put your hair up,’ he said, longing to run his lips over the soft skin of her neck. She pulled a band off her wrist and swiftly tied her hair into a high pony-tail. ‘Now they look spectacular.’ Unable to contain her excitement she rushed around the table to embrace him.

‘I have to see them on. I’ll go and look in the bathroom mirror. Back in a second!’

Luca lit a cigarette and smiled with satisfaction. Giving had never afforded him such pleasure.

When she came back she walked slowly, the curve of her waist and hips emphasised by her clingy cotton dress. She leaned across the table, her eyes full of lust. ‘Let’s go to the folly and make love,’ she breathed, her voice low and husky.

Luca needed no encouragement. He paid the bill and they left, running to the car like a pair of teenagers. Before he let her inside, he pressed her against the door and kissed her, running his lips over her neck and behind her ear where her new diamonds sparkled. He could feel the heat of her body and the rise and fall of her breasts. The smell of lemons, warm on her damp skin, was invitingly tangy. The drive to the
palazzo
only increased their ardour. Luca parked the car a little distance away from the front door and they crept through the trees. The moon lit up the sky like a Chinese lantern, illuminating their way through the damp undergrowth until they reached the folly. Luca was too hot with desire to care about the intruder. He lit a candle while Cosima pulled back the silk bedspread, unzipped her dress and dropped her panties to the floor. She was naked but for her diamond earrings and the lust that glinted in her eyes. He took off his jacket but before he had time to undress further, she moved towards him and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it over his shoulders. Then she buried her face in his chest, kissing every inch of skin. The tension grew thick in the air with the scent of candle wax and lemons as they took their pleasure in that small folly designed for love.

Suddenly they were alerted to the sound of movement outside. Then, the rattling noise of a key in the lock, unsuccessfully attempting to turn against Luca’s key. Then the shuffling of footsteps. Luca and Cosima froze. They lay entwined on the bed, barely daring to breathe. They sensed the person circling the folly, spying perhaps through the windows.

‘Can he see us?’ Cosima whispered.

‘I hope not.’ Were he dressed, Luca would have flung open the door to confront the intruder, man or woman. His nakedness rendered that idea farcical. By the time he struggled into his clothes the
voyeur
would be gone.

‘What do we do?’ she hissed.

‘Nothing. We remain very still.’ She made to speak again but he silenced her with a finger across her lips. ‘Shhh, my darling. Nothing’s going to ruin our night.’

 

The following morning, as Luca had not come downstairs, Romina took Fiyona to the
trattoria
in the hope of finding Rosa. If anyone could help with her research it was sweet, garrulous Rosa.

It was a cloudy day. A grey front was approaching from the east, threatening rain. Fiyona had changed out of her red fishnet tights and skirt into a pair of jeans, pink flipflops and a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, her large handbag hanging over her shoulder like a penance. Romina’s nostrils flared at the musky spice of her perfume. She looked like she could benefit from a thorough scrub.
Molto Inglese
, Romina thought. What was it about that type of English girl? She always looked grubby.

They found Rosa sitting outside chatting to Fiero. When she saw Romina, Rosa smiled and waved. ‘
Buon giorno
,’ she said.

‘
Buon giorno
, Rosa. I have someone to see you.’ Romina ushered Fiyona forward.

‘My name is Fiyona Pritchett, I’m a journalist for the
Sunday Times
magazine,’ she said in fluent Italian.

Rosa was impressed. ‘You speak very well!’

‘I do my best,’ Fiyona replied modestly. ‘I like to practise. The only opportunity I get in London is with waiters.’ She looked at Fiero and the young man’s eyes lit up, responding enthusiastically to an unspoken message.

‘Coffee,
signorina
?’ he asked, grinning back at her.

‘Black, please.’

‘I’ll have one too, Fiero,’ said Rosa. Fiero turned on his heels and disappeared inside.

‘So, you’re writing the article about the
palazzo
?’ said Rosa. ‘Shall we sit down? Breakfast is on the house,’ she added grandly. ‘I know all there is to know about that place. My mother is Alba, Valentina’s daughter. Just ask away. It’s my favourite subject.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Romina, looking at her watch. ‘I have things to do at home. So many people, you know . . .’

‘Give us an hour, if that’s okay with Rosa,’ Fiyona suggested.

‘You can have all morning,’ Rosa replied. ‘It’ll be quiet today and Fiero is here to help.’ For a moment her face turned moody. ‘I can’t imagine Cosima will show up. She got home at four this morning and she’s still in bed! Such a sudden transformation. She deserves an Oscar for that sort of performance!’

Romina narrowed her eyes. She had heard the car and her son’s merry whistling some time after that. So that’s who was keeping her son up to that ungodly hour of the morning.

‘So, will your mother talk to me?’ Fiyona put the tape recorder on the table and switched it on.

‘No, she won’t even go up to the
palazzo
. She’s furious that it’s been developed. I think she feels it should have been left to rot. She’ll hate me talking to you but she forgets that Valentina was my grandmother. I’m very like her, you know.’

‘There are no photographs of her . . .’ Fiyona began.

‘But there is a portrait. Wait, I’ll get it for you.’

As Rosa rushed off to get the picture, Fiero returned with Fiyona’s coffee. ‘Would you like anything else?’ he asked.

‘I’d like you to talk to me. It’s important that I practise my Italian,’ she replied with a flirtatious smile. She placed a cigarette between her red lips. Fiero was quick to snap open his lighter. She leaned forward, steadying his hand with her own. ‘You’re very young, Fiero.’

‘Twenty-five,’ he replied, disarmed by her predatory expression. She looked him up and down.

‘Italian men are more sophisticated than their British counterparts. Are you a good lover?’

Fiero ran his tongue over his bottom lip. ‘You know how we Italians are. We live for making love. We live for women.’

‘Shame I’m only here for such a short time, otherwise we could strike a deal. I’d teach you English if you’d teach me Italian. Get my drift?’ He nodded, his nostrils flaring. ‘Another time, perhaps.’ Rosa returned with the picture of the reclining nude that hung inside, oblivious of the lascivious gleam in Fiero’s eyes. She handed it to Fiyona. ‘No one notices it now. But that is Valentina, painted by my grandfather.’

Fiyona read the handwriting beneath it: ‘
Valentina, reclining nude, Thomas Arbuckle, 1945
.’

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘Beguiling,’ said Fiyona. ‘Naughty smile. I can see the resemblance,’ she added, grinning at Rosa.

Rosa was pleased. ‘I’m not that naughty. Sadly, I don’t have the opportunity.’

‘You’re married?’

‘Yes. Three children. Very conventional!’

‘Valentina might not have been so naughty had it not been wartime. She took lovers to survive.’

‘I don’t think she took up with Lupo Bianco to survive. For her he was a ticket to the high life in Naples. With him she could be someone different.’

‘Simple village girl found in diamonds and furs,’ said Fiyona, recalling the newspaper coverage of the murder. ‘Terrible shock for your poor grandfather.’

‘They were due to marry that day. So romantic, to be swept off your feet by a handsome foreigner! You know, they say that the statue of Christ didn’t weep for the first time in years, predicting the tragedy.’

‘You believe that?’

‘Not really. They say it’ll only weep again when all the ghosts are at peace.’

‘They still think the old
Marchese
haunts the
palazzo?
’

Rosa turned serious. ‘There
was
something strange going on. My husband is a policeman. Before Romina bought it there were dozens of sightings. Lights moving through rooms, strange noises. No one dared go up but him. He is extremely brave.’

‘Did he find anything?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing. I have been up many times. It doesn’t scare me. There was something beautiful about the ruin. It’s not the same now.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve come face to face with the ghost?’ said Fiyona, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Rosa laughed dismissively. ‘But I wouldn’t rule out a living ghost sneaking about trying to scare people. Romina complains of someone haunting the folly. She told my husband that someone sleeps in there and dragged him up to take a look.’

‘She’s eccentric but she doesn’t strike me as superstitious,’ said Fiyona.

‘She’s
northern
Italian. There’s a big difference. People down here are very primitive.’

‘So you don’t believe the
Marchese
’s hanging around, repenting killing the woman he loved?’

‘
Of course not
 ! Someone’s just having some fun. Or the people of Incantellaria made it all up to stop anyone buying the
palazzo
and turning it into a hotel. They like their peace and they’re rather proud of their history. They wanted to keep the place as it was, as a kind of morbid shrine. But they failed miserably.’

‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘You can quote me on anything you like. You can include a photograph too. After all, I’m the image of Valentina.’

‘I can’t use the drawing?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Rosa gasped, snatching it back. ‘Only if you want another murder in Incantellaria!’

‘Is it true that your great-uncle killed the
Marchese
for revenge?’

‘Right there in the
palazzo
.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘In a leather chair in his sitting-room.’ She drew a line slowly across her neck. ‘They killed him like a pig.’

‘They?’

Rosa flinched as if stung. ‘I mean
him
,’ she corrected, blushing. ‘Falco.’