Married Under the Italian Sun

CHAPTER FIVE

IT WAS several days before Angel saw him again. She was used to him dropping in during the evening, ostensibly for a friendly chat with Berta, but always having a word with her before he left. Gradually she’d come to look forward to these chats, which took the form of more or less friendly bickering, with an exciting edge.

But suddenly Vittorio vanished. She told herself he was just busy, but once, after a trip to Amalfi, she returned to find some estimates of necessary expenditure on her desk. Berta explained that he’d left them there while she was out.

It might have been an accident, but Angel had noticed him as she had driven past him, and could have sworn that he’d seen her. Which meant he’d come to the house when he had known she wasn’t there.

Taking the papers, she went out to find him, where he was working in the lemon orchard.

‘Do we really need to replace so much of the cliff railing?’ she asked. ‘You dealt with the place where I fell.’

‘Yes, and since then I’ve had a much closer look at the rest. It’s old, and money needs to be spent on it. I’d been planning it next year, but it’s worse than I thought, and the work needs to be done before winter. With your permission, I’ll put it in hand.’

‘Yes, please do that,’ Angel sighed.

She would have liked to stay and chat, perhaps even to tell him how his kindness had helped to chase away her demons. But his manner was that of a man impatient to get back to work, and it was as though the word padrona was raised like a barrier between them.

Angel understood. He was telling her that they were still mistress and servant, and the events of the other day must be forgotten. He would not presume on them, but-equally important-neither must she.

With a sigh, she turned away. When she looked back a few moments later, Vittorio was absorbed in his work, his head bent. She might not have existed.

As she returned to the house a decision was forming in her head. The thoughts had been hovering for a while as the bills mounted up remorselessly. When the fertiliser had been paid for, a machine would break down and either had to be repaired or bought new. Now she could no longer avoid facing the truth.

After hesitating a little longer, Angel picked up the phone and dialled a London number. It was the direct line to the editor of GlamChick.

‘Mack?’ she said brightly when he came on the line. ‘I’ll bet you never thought you’d hear from me.’

‘My pet, I knew you’d call. You never could resist a good deal, and I offered you a great deal.’

‘Oh, you think so? You want to invade my home and pay me peanuts?’

‘Invade your home, nothing! We’ll do a really high-class photo shoot, showing you in beautiful Italian surroundings, dressed to kill. You talk about your new life, how happy you are, how Joe Clannan can go soak his head because you’ve found something much better. It’ll be a couple of days’ work and you’ll pocket a nice fat fee.’

‘Not quite fat enough, I’m afraid,’ she said, trying to sound casual, although her heart was thumping. The next few minutes would be crucial.

‘Oho, you want more! OK, I’ll play-up to a point. How much more?’

‘Double what you offered.’

‘Are you out of your mind? Double?’

‘I think it’s worth it for an exclusive.’

‘It had better be an exclusive for that price. And there’s got to be something new that you never talked about before.’

‘It’s a deal, then?’

He groaned. ‘I suppose it’s a deal. But I want it as soon as possible.’

‘Then you’d better get a contract out to me quickly.’

‘You can’t trust my word?’

‘I prefer it in black and white.’

‘OK. I can see you weren’t married to Joe Clannan for nothing.’

Angel laughed. At one time the words might have hurt. Now she was just relieved at having achieved the vital boost to her income.

The contract arrived overnight and she turned it around at once. Two days later, Mack called to say, ‘OK, I’m doing this one myself, and I’ll leave tomorrow, with a camera crew. There’ll be three of us.’

There would just be time to do this before Sam arrived, Angel reflected. In the meantime, they could have the three downstairs rooms that were already prepared.

Angel explained to Berta that their guests would be from a magazine. There was no point in hiding the truth.

Berta merely said, ‘Yes, padrona. I will arrange food and wine.’

But Angel could sense her surprise and disapproval. No doubt she would call Vittorio’s mobile phone as soon as possible. Angel had confirmation of that when he arrived at the house later that day on some trivial piece of business that could have waited. He didn’t mention what he knew, but he looked at her in a way that there was no mistaking.

It hurt after their brief moment of closeness. His expression contained as much sadness as cynicism, saying that he’d been right about her all the time.

She could have said, Look, I need the money to pay all those bills you keep presenting me with. Then given him chapter and verse on just how meagre Joe’s settlement had been.

But her temper flared into life, telling her that pigs would fly before she explained herself to him. After snubbing her for days, who the hell did he think he was to judge her so easily?

‘Don’t let me keep you,’ Angel said coolly, and saw his face harden against her.

She knew her temper boiled over too easily these days. Eight years of keeping it strictly under control had left her glad of the release of anger. As Vittorio walked away there was even a bitter satisfaction in knowing that she had the upper hand.

She repented almost at once.

‘I’m not a nice person,’ she muttered. ‘What’s happening to me?’

But it was too late to call him back, and her mind was becoming filled with darkness and tension again.

‘Not again,’ she whispered. ‘Please, not again. Not until this is over.’

It was hard to resist the thought that this had happened because Vittorio had turned against her, but she told herself not to be absurd. The mere idea that the offer or withdrawal of his friendship could affect her like this was one that she wouldn’t tolerate.

On the afternoon before Mack and the photographers were due to arrive, Vittorio said, ‘Do you want me to meet your friends at the airport?’

‘No, thank you. That isn’t your job. I’ve made arrangements.’

‘Yes, padrona,’ he said politely, and left.

A hired car and chauffeur would be waiting for them at Naples airport. Angel had chosen not to go there herself, because she wanted to spend all the time on her appearance. It took an hour to decide on the dress. The one she finally chose was white and luxuriously simple, with a V-neckline that plunged down between her breasts, suggesting, but not quite revealing.

Her face took even longer. She’d never depended on make-up artists, but she’d learned from them and could now produce the desired effect unaided: just enough darkening around her large eyes to make them even more emphatic, the luscious gleam added to her lips.

Then her hair, shining, tumbling over her shoulders, long enough to flick this way and that in tempting attitudes. She’d wondered if she’d forgotten how to do all these things, but the skills returned to her with disturbing ease.

She was downstairs an hour before they were due, checking and re-checking the bedrooms, the kitchen where Berta was preparing a feast, the dining room where the table was laid with crystal and silver. She declared everything perfect, which made Berta beam.

Vittorio appeared, carrying a heavy silver dish, and it suddenly struck her as odd that he should be here. Odder still was the fact that he was smartly dressed in black trousers and snowy white shirt, with a dark red bow tie. With a sense of outrage, Angel realised what he looked like.

‘Why are you dressed like a waiter?’ she demanded.

‘I suppose that’s what I am,’ he said mildly. ‘I’ve offered to help Berta serve the meal. We want to make the best impression on your friends, padrona.’

That last remark sounded like a calculated insult, she thought. She knew why he’d done this-not to be helpful, but to stay here and make his disapproval obvious. With difficulty, Angel restrained her temper and said calmly, ‘That’s very obliging of you.’

Vittorio nodded like a good servant, set the silver dish down and left the room. But she followed him into the hall, seized his arm and forced him to turn.

‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ she flashed.

‘Being obliging, padrona.’

‘The hell you are! You fixed this so that you could keep me under your eye. How dare you spy on me?’

His eyes narrowed and she guessed he wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. But it was his own fault for provoking her.

‘Why are you so determined to think the worst of me, padrona?’

‘Don’t call me that! Do you hear? Don’t ever do it again.’

‘But it’s the truth. We are mistress and servant. If I can face it, why can’t you?’

‘The way you say it, it’s a sick joke.’

His eyes raked over her, and she understood the implication. It was a sick joke.

‘How dare you?’ she breathed.

‘What do you want me to say? The other night you rejected Angel. You said she was shallow and stupid and knew nothing except how things seemed on the surface. There was an honest woman talking, a true woman, with a heart. But now? Look at you. You’ve turned into that creature again and invited the world in to see you using my home as a backdrop to your shallowness. And I say that by doing so you desecrate it. There now, are you answered?’

Vittorio was sorry as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The gaze Angel turned on him was stricken, as though he’d struck her a savage blow. He hadn’t meant to. Lashing out defensively, he’d forgotten the vulnerability she strove so hard to conceal, but he could see it now in the dark shadows in her eyes, so like the ones he’d seen before.

‘Look,’ he said hastily, ‘take no notice-’

But before he could finish there was a sound from outside, and a man’s voice called, ‘Angel, where are you?’

Instantly Vittorio saw something come over her. She straightened up, adjusted her shoulders, and took a deep breath. Then, right there in front of him, she turned into someone else. Her eyes grew brighter, her mouth stretched into a calculated, dazzling smile. She was Angel again.

Then she was hurrying towards the front door, arms outstretched to meet the three men descending from the car. The first one, a great bear of a man, enveloped her in a hug, bawling, ‘Angel, my sweet!’

‘Mack, darling!’

Vittorio watched her embrace each of the three men one by one, laughing, teasing them, apparently overwhelmed with delight. If he hadn’t seen the transformation a moment ago, he would have believed every word of it. Now he could only see the strain behind each word and gesture.

He heard the beefy man say, ‘You really made them pay over the odds for this, so let’s make it a good one.’

Then Angel’s tinkling laugh, and the provocative words, ‘Well, a man ought to pay over the odds, and I always give good value.’

Mack gave a lecherous guffaw that made Vittorio want to knock him to the floor.

He wondered what she would say if she knew that he had volunteered to help out today, not to spy on her, but simply to be there if she needed him. She would probably laugh, he thought, exasperated with himself. It drove him wild that his hostility was constantly undermined by a mysterious urge to protect her.

When everyone had been installed in their rooms, there was wine and cakes. Then Angel began to show them around while the photographers inspected the house, seeking angles, setting up lights. Vittorio kept severely away from them.

Then the pictures began: Angel in the garden, flooded with bright sunlight, walking through the roses by the fountain, Angel the expert lemon-grower, indicating the terraces. From a high-up window in the house, Vittorio watched this at a distance.

When they returned they were still discussing lemons, and Mack was saying admiringly, ‘You’ve really become an expert in a short time.’

‘It’s not down to me,’ Angel disclaimed quickly. Seeing Vittorio crossing the hall, she said, ‘This is the real expert. I only know what Vittorio teaches me.’

‘Is that so?’ Mack said, advancing on Vittorio in a friendly spirit. ‘So, you’re the guy that Angel relies on?’

Vittorio gazed at him blankly. ‘Scusi?’

‘Angel says you know all about lemons.’

Mack spoke slowly, but it didn’t seem to help. Vittorio simply stared. After a moment he said in a carefully stupid voice, ‘Me no spikka da English.’

‘Cut that out,’ Angel muttered, half annoyed, half amused. ‘You “spikka da English” perfectly well when it suits you.’

Vittorio reverted to Italian to say, ‘But in the presence of your eminent friends my wits desert me. I am overwhelmed to meet such great people-’

‘Shut up!’ she said, trying to fight back her laughter. ‘Don’t play games with me or I’ll stamp on your foot.’

He grinned. ‘Scusi, signora. Me no spikka da English.’

‘Get lost.’

‘Si, signora.’ He gave her the grin of a conspirator and glided away before she could reply.

‘Angel, honey, can we have you over here?’

Angel sashayed back, giving Mack a wink and twisting her hips in a way that had the photographers begging for more. She felt strong and ready for anything. It made no sense that Vittorio could do this merely by grinning and sharing a joke with her, but then a lot about her response to this man didn’t make sense.

For dinner she changed into a black, figure-hugging evening gown, and descended slowly, stopping to pose every few steps. When Mack gallantly offered her his arm, she caught a look of faint surprise on his face.

‘I forgot, you’ve seen this one before, haven’t you?’

‘I admit I thought you’d have raided the couture establishments in Milan and Rome by now.’

‘At one time I would have done, but these days I’m just a simple country girl.’

‘That’s going to come as a great disappointment to your male admirers.’

‘There, and I thought it was me they loved, and not the trappings.’

Laughing, they went into the dining room, where Angel posed for more pictures as the perfect hostess of a sumptuous feast. Mack sat next to her, mentally taking notes, she was sure. He’d been interviewing her on and off all day, but she knew that the serious business was still to come. For what the magazine was paying, he’d made it clear he would expect more than platitudes.

Somewhere in the background she heard the house phone ring. After a moment, Vittorio came to find her.

‘There’s a man on the phone for you, padrona.’

‘Did you ask his name?’

‘No, padrona,’ he said quietly.

Puzzled, Angel went into the hall and took up the receiver. The called turned out to be Roy, one of Sam’s carers.

‘Sam asked me to call you right now,’ he said. ‘He’s feeling bright and on top of things.’

‘Wonderful!’

Then Sam’s voice, saying, ‘Hello, darling. How’s my girl?’

‘Sam,’ she said eagerly. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to hear you. I miss you so much.’

‘I miss you too, darling. How do you like Italy?’

He even remembered that she was in Italy. The pleasure of finding his mind so clear made Angel laugh aloud.

‘It’s lovely here,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be even nicer when you’re here too.’

‘When am I coming?’

‘Not long now, darling, we’ll soon be together again.’

Vittorio, carrying things from the kitchen to the dining room, tried not to overhear, but the words seemed to stab him.

Mack was buzzing with eagerness when she returned.

‘Come on, tell. Who’s the man phoning you? A new lover? I thought you’d have been followed by hordes of lustful Italians by now. Can I tell my readers how you like Italian men?’

She gave a teasing laugh. ‘Mack, I promise you, Italian men are just like men the world over.’ She leaned close and whispered, ‘Very, very annoying.’

He chuckled, and the dangerous moment passed, but soon she knew she would have to confront the question of exactly how much she would tell him. How much could she bear to tell him?

Then she thought of the estate, peaceful and beautiful beneath the noonday sun. She thought of the lemons, gently ripening, ready for their moment of splendour when they would rescue the whole estate. She thought of the people who depended on her: Berta, the maids, the gardeners. She thought of Vittorio, bitter and awkward, but working selflessly to save the place he loved.

And she knew what she was going to say.

After dinner Angel took Mack into a small side room, which had once been used as a library, although most of the books had gone.

‘Let’s talk about Joe,’ he said. ‘How did you feel when he told you he’d found someone else?’

Angel managed a shrug. ‘Not really surprised. We’d been drifting apart for some time.’

‘Had you found another man?’

‘No, I never played around, so stop looking hopeful,’ she said with a hint of teasing.

‘Not one lover, hovering in the background?’

‘Not one. Give up.’

He gave a resigned sigh, and she thought she’d won this round, but he was preparing his bombshell.

‘Have you heard anything about Joe and Merry’s wedding?’ he asked with a casual air.

‘No, but our divorce became final last week, so I guess it’ll be soon.’

Mack grinned, reaching into a leather bag he was carrying, and whipping out a bunch of photos that he spread over the table in front of her. They showed a wedding. Joe Clannan grinned fatuously at his young bride, who resembled an overgrown meringue adorned with too much satin, too much lace, and too many diamonds.

‘They married two days ago,’ Mack said, watching her face closely. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘Why should I know? I don’t think they planned to invite me. Good luck to them.’

‘You can say that, even now you’ve seen what she’s wearing around her neck?’

Angel shrugged, trying to seem light-hearted. She’d been hoping Mack wouldn’t make the connection.

‘Angel, c’mon, this is me, Mack. I did the first ever interview you gave after you married this man eight years ago, and you showed me the necklace he’d just given you. You told me what a pretty speech he made about “his special lady”, how he’d dreamed of seeing it about your neck.’

Tell them a good tale, darling, Joe had said. I must have said something charming and romantic, but you fill in the details.

‘Now it’s around another woman’s neck,’ Mack continued remorselessly. ‘Don’t try to pretend it isn’t the same one.’

‘OK, it’s the same one. Joe wanted it back and I agreed as part of our divorce settlement.’

‘Did he leave you with any jewellery at all?’ Mack asked shrewdly.

‘You don’t understand. This is my new life. I don’t need all those baubles. He’s welcome to them.’ She gave a faint, bored yawn. ‘To be honest, I was getting rather tired of that life. It looks fun from the outside-clothes, money, jewels, parties-but then you start to realise you’re on a treadmill. The same party seems to come round again and again.

‘I can remember one night when I got confused and thanked someone for a wonderful evening, thinking she was the hostess. Actually I’d been to a party at her house the previous week. The real hostess was someone I’d been talking to several minutes before, and I have a horrible feeling that I said it was a dull evening.’

Mack laughed and urged her on. ‘So the whole life was beginning to pall?’

‘Yes, it was. I found I wanted something more, something I was never going to find under the glittering lights.’

‘Can you remember when this feeling started?’

Angel took a deep breath. She’d known this moment would come, and now there was no turning back.

‘Yes, it started when I lost my baby,’ she said simply.

Mack’s face showed his amazement. This was one story that had never got out. Mercifully, he had the tact to keep silent while she went on,

‘It happened in the third month. I wanted a baby with all my heart, and, when I lost it, I was devastated. Nothing was the same after that. I was a different person and Joe-well, as I say, we began to drift apart.’

Once she’d sworn never to give such an interview, and now it hurt as much as she’d known it would. But it was the only way to earn enough to protect those who relied on her. And, as she went on talking, she had the comforting feeling that she was fighting off enemies, watching them retreat.

Mack pressed for more. He would have liked her to bad-mouth Joe, but she saw what he was up to and shook her head.

‘I’ve already given you a real exclusive,’ she said. ‘I’ve filled my part of the bargain.’

‘Sure, you’ve really earned your money, I’ll give you that. But Joe doesn’t come out of it well-’

‘Not through anything I’ve said,’ she interrupted him firmly. ‘Now, hush up, Mack, and I’ll tell you something else. I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d miscarried, so three days later I did a TV show.’

His eyes lit up. ‘The show must go on, huh? That was very brave.’

‘Not really, because I was living in a trance, and between doing a show, or telling people the reason why not, it was easier to do the show.’

‘But didn’t your husband-?’

‘Mack, it was my decision, nothing to do with Joe. I’m my own woman, you know. Always was, always will be.’

‘I reckon there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye-oh, thanks, yes, I will have another whisky.’

This last was addressed to Vittorio, hovering like a shadow with the decanter. Angel was startled. She hadn’t known he was there.

He refilled Mack’s glass before asking,

‘Something for you, signora?’ He leaned closer to her to ask, ‘A cup of tea?’

‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ she said at once, wondering what instinct had led him to the perfect conclusion. It was almost as though he were inside her head.

And as he turned to leave Angel almost thought she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder. But it was so light that she might have imagined it.

When the tea arrived it was just how she liked it, and it gave her the energy to carry on. In the end it was Mack who yawned.

‘I was up at four this morning,’ he said. ‘Can we finish this tomorrow?’

‘Sure.’

In the hall she said goodnight to him and the photographers, then returned to the kitchen to thank Berta for the meal.

‘And for the tea,’ she said. ‘It was perfect.’

‘As good as the English?’ Berta asked slyly.

‘Better than the English.’ They laughed and Angel looked around. ‘Where’s Vittorio?’

‘He left, padrona. But he will be here tomorrow. He said so.’

‘That’s lovely.’

It was absurd to feel disappointed, but she’d been sure he would wait and talk to her. There was nothing to do but go to bed and lie there in the darkness, feeling lonely, until she fell asleep and her dreams were haunted by the sound of fading footsteps.