The Italian Matchmaker (3 page)

Freya joined in. ‘I told him to take the summer off. Go to Italy and stay with his parents in their new
palazzo
on the Amalfi coast.’

Fitz’s eyes lit up. ‘The Amalfi coast?’

‘It’s a small fishing town called Incantellaria. You’ve probably never heard of it.’

‘Incantellaria,’ Fitz repeated, turning pale. ‘Bill and Romina have bought Palazzo Montelimone?’

‘You know it?’ Luca asked.

Fitz glanced nervously at his wife. ‘I went there once, many years ago. The
palazzo
was a ruin.’

‘My parents bought it about three years ago. It took two years to renovate.’

‘But what a perfect team!’ Freya exclaimed. ‘Bill’s an architect, Romina’s an interiors painter. I bet it’s stunning.’

‘They wanted to recreate it as it was before a fire almost destroyed it in the sixties. Return it to its former splendour. I haven’t gone out there yet. I’ve been too busy. I haven’t seen them in months. Now I’m free I just might pay them a visit.’

They turned to Fitz expectantly. ‘What took you to Incantellaria?’ Luca enquired.

Fitz stared down at his plate. ‘A very special woman.’ He said the words with such tenderness Freya felt the hairs stand up on her arms. ‘Before I met your mother, Freya,’ he added tactfully.

‘Apparently it’s a very secret place,’ said Luca.

‘Secret and secretive,’ Fitz confirmed. ‘Once you start digging in Incantellaria, there’s no telling what you’ll uncover.’

 

Fitz took the dogs out alone after lunch. Miles was required at the bridge table. This was a relief for Fitz who wanted time with his memories, as bright now as if they had just received an unexpected polishing. He strode up the track towards the woods. Digger and Bendico disappeared into the field in pursuit of hares. The dark clouds had moved on, taking the rain with them. Now, patches of blue were visible and occasionally the sun shone, catching the wet foliage and making it glitter.

Incantellaria. The very word pulled at his heart, creating a mixture of regret and longing. He couldn’t help but think of what might have been. Now he was old he appreciated the miracle of love and the fact that, having let it go, he would never get it back.

He remembered Alba as she had been when he had fallen in love with her, now thirty years ago: her expression defiant, her strange pale eyes at odds with her Mediterranean skin and dark hair, her laugh wild, her careless disregard for other people, her irrepressible charm. He remembered her vulnerability too, her need to be admired, her unexpected love for little Cosima, the niece she had found with her mother’s family when she had set out to Incantellaria in search of them. The joy with which she had accepted his proposal and returned with him to England. The day she had wrapped her arms around him and told him she wanted to go back to Italy. That she couldn’t live in England. She had implored him to go with her. She had insisted that she loved him – but not enough. Not enough. ‘
Don’t say it’s over. I couldn’t bear it. Let’s just see. If you change your mind, I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting and hoping and ready to welcome you with open arms. My love won’t go cold, not in Italy
.’ He had let her go and he hadn’t followed her. Her love must have gone cold. Alba needed love like a butterfly needs the sun. He entered the woods and walked up the well trodden path. Ferns were beginning to unfurl with the first signs of bluebells, their shoots bright green and vibrant against the brown leaves and mud. The air was sweet and damp, the twittering of birds animated as they went about building their nests. He wondered where Alba was now. Had she stayed in Incantellaria or had she grown bored of that sleepy little town and moved to somewhere more exciting? Perhaps she had married, had children. At fifty-six she might even be a grandmother. Did she think of him as often as he thought of her? The twist of regret in his heart would never go away. Oh, he was happy enough with Rosemary. But, after Alba, there was no falling in love again. He had closed his heart and married with his head. However, he often wondered what his life might have been like had he followed her to Italy. Dreams that came and went like clouds across the sky, some dark, others light and fluffy, but always the sense of having missed a golden opportunity.

‘Is Fitz all right?’ Freya asked her mother as they sat on the sofa in the drawing-room, sipping coffee out of pretty pink cups. ‘He went very quiet over lunch.’

‘Things are a bit tense at work. One of his favourite authors is moving to A.P. Watt.’

‘Poor Fitz. He should retire.’

‘So I keep telling him. He works so hard. But he loves what he does. He won’t quit until he’s dead. But losing Ken Durden is a real blow.’

‘I should have gone out with him.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. He likes going out on his own.’ She patted Freya’s knee. ‘What a lovely house party you’ve got this weekend. I’m pleased you’ve found your old friend Luca again. My goodness, isn’t he handsome?’

‘He’s been through a ghastly divorce.’

‘Well, he does look a little frayed around the edges. More rugged than he used to be. You did well marrying Miles. Men like Luca are good for fun, but not for ever.’

‘Oh, Mum!’ Freya protested. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘I’ll never forgive him for hurting you. But that’s all water under the bridge, isn’t it? I bet he regrets it, though. They always do.’

‘Have you heard of Incantellaria?’ Freya asked her mother.

‘Yes. Only because your stepfather nearly went out in pursuit of an ex-girlfriend just after we met. I talked sense into him, though. No point trying to put something together that’s irreparably broken. Besides, it’s a sad little place. No life. It’s between Sorrento and Capri. Overlooked on the map. Italy wasn’t the place for Fitz. He’s too English. Can you imagine Fitz marrying a foreigner?’ She gave a shrill laugh.

‘So, she wasn’t his “big love”?’

‘Gracious no!’ Rosemary retorted a little too quickly. ‘She broke his heart, but I put it back together again. Why do you ask? Did he mention her?’ The sudden flash of anxiety surprised her. Thirty years was a long time to hold on to fear.

‘No, Luca brought up Incantellaria,’ Freya replied hastily. She couldn’t tell her mother of the wistful look on Fitz’s face when he had mentioned the woman who had taken him there. ‘I’m just curious about his past. Everyone has a past and I bet Fitzroy’s is rather colourful.’

‘He was quite a catch.’ Rosemary smiled proudly. ‘Not only devilishly handsome, but also a budding literary agent. You know he used to represent Vivien Armitage?’

‘Vivien Armitage! She’s huge.’ Freya was suitably impressed. ‘You never told me that.’

‘She’s dead now. But she’ll continue to be read for decades. People never tire of stories of unrequited love and broken hearts. Don’t forget, I had had my heart broken too, by your father. Fitz and I healed together and I saved him from dying of boredom in Incantellaria.’

‘Luca’s parents have bought a
palazzo
there, overlooking the sea.’

‘How lovely,’ said Rosemary, her tone patronising. ‘A pleasant escape.’

‘He might be spending the summer there, while he works out what he wants to do. He’s quit the City and everyone’s talking about it, so Miles says. He’s really put the cat among the pigeons.’

‘A sleepy little place like that is probably just what he needs right now, though I bet he’ll come scuttling back to England in the autumn. I can’t imagine there’s a great deal to do in Incantellaria.’

Fitz returned from his walk and put the dogs in the back of his Volvo Estate after giving them their lunch and a bowl of water. They lay on tartan blankets panting against the glass and he lingered a while, stroking their silky heads, his thoughts lost among the olive groves, his senses recalling the smell of figs that had always pervaded that place. Finally, he shut the boot and pushed his memories back into the far corners of his mind to gather dust. There was no point dwelling on regret.

The drawing-room was tranquil. The children raced around outside while the grown-ups played board games, sat chatting or reading the Sunday papers. Peggy cleared away the coffee cups, bumping into Fitz in the hall as she returned to the kitchen. ‘My dear Peggy, you can’t carry all that on your own,’ he said, taking the tray from her.

‘Oh, I’m used to it now.’

‘Perhaps, but none the less, it’s heavy.’ She followed him down the corridor into the kitchen where Heather Dervish was packing up her things to return home.

‘What a splendid feast you cooked for us today,’ he exclaimed.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ she replied, placing her apron in her bag and zipping it up. ‘I’m coming back to cook dinner.’

‘Shame I won’t be here to taste it.’

‘I’m cooking a cheese soufflé and there’s treacle tart for dessert. I know you like treacle tart.’ She picked up her bag and made for the back door and her little white van.

Fitz pulled a face to show his disappointment. ‘My favourite.’

‘Next time,’ she said, giving a little wave. ‘See you!’

‘I’d better go home and put my feet up, too,’ said Peggy, loading the cups into the dishwasher. ‘Otherwise I won’t make it around the table tonight.’

‘The prospect of treacle tart will get you through dinner, Peggy,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I don’t imagine there’ll be anything left for me.’

‘Then we’re in the same boat.’

‘It’s my favourite, as well. Though, at my age I have to be a bit careful.’

He looked her over appreciatively. Peggy sucked her stomach in, barely daring to breathe. ‘You’re a fine figure of a woman. I’d say a little treacle tart would do you nothing but good.’

She giggled. ‘I admit I don’t deny myself much.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Life’s too short to make those sort of sacrifices.’ He gave her a genial smile. ‘Have a restful afternoon, Peggy. If anyone deserves a rest, it’s you.’

Peggy watched him leave the room and then slumped into a chair with a sigh. She felt a little light-headed and picked up a magazine with which to fan herself. A cup of sweet tea would revive her. Mr Davenport always made her feel special in a way that no one else ever had. She’d happily cook him a treacle tart that he could eat all on his own.

Fitz and Rosemary left shortly after tea. Freya and Miles went out to see them off. Their black Labrador attempted to jump up against the boot of the Volvo to see Digger and Bendico before cocking his leg on a back wheel instead. Luca wandered out from the croquet lawn having been given a guided tour of the estate by Annabel. He leaned in at Fitz’s window.

‘Good to see you, Fitz,’ he said, patting his shoulder. ‘Tell me, what am I to expect in Incantellaria?’

‘Magic, miracles and wonder.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The statue of Jesus in the little church of San Pasquale weeps tears of blood. There is an account of the tide mysteriously covering the beach with bright red carnations . . .’

‘The Mediterranean has no tide.’

‘Exactly,’ said Fitz darkly. ‘Incantellaria abides by her own rules.’

‘The south of Italy is full of such superstitions,’ Luca argued.

‘Incantellaria is special. You will see. As for Palazzo Montelimone, that is possessed by an altogether different kind of magic.’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you’re referring to.’

‘It’s not the dead you need worry about, but the living!’ Fitz looked across at Rosemary. ‘Ready, darling?’

Luca watched, perplexed, as they drove away. He wasn’t sure whether Fitz had been joking.

That night the guests came down to the drawing-room in dinner jackets, the girls in pretty dresses and discreet jewellery. When Luca saw Freya, her beauty gave his gut a sudden wrench. She had pinned her hair up, displaying her fine bone structure and long neck. Her skin was smooth and pale, her grey eyes light against the dark mascara on her eyelashes, her figure slim and willowy in a floral wrap-around dress. She smelt of ginger lily, reminding him once again of his foolish youth.

‘You’re still beautiful,’ he said under his breath so that only she could hear him.

‘Thank you, Luca.’

‘You’re by far the most beautiful girl in the room.’

‘I thought you and Annabel were finally hitting it off.’

‘She’s a sexy girl,’ Luca conceded. ‘But she doesn’t have your beauty or your poise.’

‘But she’s available and willing. I can tell.’

He grinned mischievously. ‘So can I.’

‘Well then?’

He gazed into her silvery eyes, suddenly serious. ‘I’m through with soulless encounters that leave me empty, Freya.’

‘Maybe you’ll find a voluptuous
signorina
in Incantellaria. I’m sure your mother will fill the
palazzo
with smouldering Latin beauties.’

‘I don’t want a Latin beauty.’

‘You want what you can’t have.’

‘Yes.’ He pulled his cigarette packet out of his breast pocket and tapped it against his hand. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘Not really. I’m just being polite.’ He placed a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter. He smiled at her with intense blue eyes, causing the crows’ feet to deepen into his skin, and she felt that familiar effervescence in the pit of her belly.

‘Whatever you think you feel, Luca, I just want to say how happy I am that we are friends again. I’m sorry we drifted. I should have made more of an effort. But I didn’t like Claire and I know how you feel about Miles . . .’

‘Miles is a good man,’ Luca interrupted. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay, so I’m jealous, but that’s not his fault. You came good when I needed you.’

‘You’ll be there when I need you too. That’s what friends are for.’

At supper, Freya had put Annabel next to Luca in an attempt to throw them together. It gave her a mean-spirited sense of victory to see him so tormented with regret. How she had loved him. How he had let her down. But now she felt vindicated by the naked longing in his eyes.