where are you going to drag Giovanni tomorrow?’
A guilty expression, as furtive as a fox skirting the suburban shadows, crossed her face.
‘The usual tourist hot spots, I’m afraid.’
‘Why are you afraid?’ he asked, a teasing challenge in his voice.
She straightened and looked down her nose at him. ‘Because I’m sure Mr Well-seasoned, Euro-rail-during-my-gap-year is well beyond all that. Don’t tell me, the cheese farm you’re visiting tomorrow is one of five on a south-facing slope, where the cows eat organic grass and the cheese is turned daily by peasant stock groomed for generations for this particular task?’
‘I’m not that much of a tourist snob. The reason places like the Spanish Steps, the Vatican et al are popular is because they are amazing. There’s nowhere quite like Rome in the world. The Eternal City. Antiquities, culture, history. It’s got the lot. Go forth, my child and enjoy.’ He employed a suitably patronising note in his voice before adding, ‘And I must ask them tomorrow who does turn the cheese. That might be a nice detail for the menu.’
The sunshine streaming through the full-length filmy curtains made Lisa push back the white, crisp, cotton sheets and skip the few steps it took to cross the cool, tiled floor and throw open the French doors. She stepped out onto the balcony, squinting in the brilliant light and drank in the scent of the dew-laden wisteria tracing its way around the railings. Lifting her head and rolling back her shoulders, she stretched, a sudden leap of joy firing through her at the magical warmth of the early-morning rays touching her skin.
Swallows darted and danced, wheeling across the brilliant blue sky, flashy and exuberant, racing across the front of the balcony and up beyond to the eaves, before peeling back out in swift formation. A frisson of excitement danced low in her belly. Rome. Today she could explore worry-free. By tomorrow, Giovanni would have spoken to his friend and she’d have to think about addresses, rings and family.
Across the way, the grand villa slept, the blinds at its many windows pulled like blank stares and no sign of life anywhere. The lights which last night had lit up its glorious façades had been switched off and, with a fanciful thought, she imagined the house like Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awoken by a prince racing up the stairs, running his hand along the elaborate balustrade alongside.
Her daydreams were interrupted by the sudden whiny buzz of a scooter, which whizzed up the driveway. Bright scarlet with its single headlight and antennae-like mirrors, it reminded her of fierce red ant. As it came closer, she saw that the driver was a woman, wearing navy Capri pants, a white shirt and a natty, colourful scarf, which she recognised as having a definite touch of Missoni about it. Siena had taught her well. The girl on the scooter pulled to a stop below, cut the engine and stepped off before lifting off her helmet. Lisa could have predicted the clichéd fall of glossy brunette hair that came tumbling down. In her big sunglasses and chic clothes, the woman looked like some movie starlet and the scene was straight from some Hollywood film in the sixties.
With practised ease, the woman hung the helmet on the handlebars and then sauntered out of view, her footsteps crunching on the gravel, the sound of which was quickly followed by the peal of a bell somewhere in the flat. Lisa straightened.
Was she a friend of Giovanni’s? What sort of state was he going to be in this morning? Checking the time on her phone, she realised it was quite early. Seven-thirty. Should she answer the door? Was anyone else up?
Then she heard the slam of the front door. Muffled voices and the squeaky drag of a chair on the kitchen floor. She looked at the time again, relieved that someone had saved her the indignity of the job of answering the door to the glamorous starlet, wearing her skimpy plain cotton bum-skimming t-shirt and a sleep-worn face. This woman probably wore silk peignoirs in bed, whatever they were.
The smell of coffee, dark, rich and beguiling lured her down the corridor, where she could hear Will in the kitchen, chatting with ease, interspersed with light melodic laughter.
She paused for a second before stepping into the kitchen.
‘Morning.’ She took in the scene. Will sat at the table, leaning back, his chair tipped on two legs, opposite the woman from the scooter.
‘Lisa, you’re up early. Coffee?’
Even before she’d nodded her head, he eased himself to his feet, rising with his usual languid grace that never failed to stop her in her tracks. She couldn’t even define why. Though he was long, lean and loose-limbed he was also broad in the shoulders and had a dusting of hair on his well-muscled chest. She might have had only the one night with him, but the shape of his body without his clothes on was indelibly etched into her memory.
As he lifted the silver pot from the stove, she stared at the dark-blonde hair on his forearms, the memory of its unexpectedly silky feel bringing an unwelcome burst of … something, she didn’t want to think about.
Will poured her what looked like a thimbleful of coffee in a tiny cup, without any milk.
She liked her coffee with plenty of milk. There wasn’t even room for a splash in this doll-sized cup.
‘This is Gisella.’
The girl rose and put out her hand. ‘Buon giorno.’
Lisa shook the proffered hand, ‘Buon giorno.’ Her first Italian words. Maybe she should learn Italian. ‘Is that the proper way to say it?’
The girl smiled, her wide, pink-painted lips suddenly dominating her face. She was gorgeous, but Lisa winced at her own uncharitable thought, that she did have one hell of a big all-the-better-to-kiss-you-with mouth.
‘I’m not sure I’m very proper.’ She flashed a charming, confident smile. ‘My brother is always complaining about my behaviour, but he is, as you say, a stuffed shirt.’
Lisa hadn’t ever used the phrase stuffed shirt in her entire life. This girl’s command of English was flawless and virtually accentless.
‘Wow, your English is amazing.’
Gisella tossed her hair over her shoulder, sending a waft of definite night-time perfume Lisa’s way. ‘I spent six years in London.’
‘Is that how you know Will?’ asked Lisa, glancing to where he sat at the table, sipping from a tiny cup of espresso, frowning down at a list on a sheet of paper in front of him, a pencil held in the other hand.
‘No, I never met him before today.’ The mouth curved with cat-like satisfaction as she shot a glance at him.
‘Her Aunt Dorothea is a friend of my mother,’ Will chipped in. ‘I needed an Italian-speaking guide.’
Gisella beamed at him. ‘We’re going to,’ she rattled off a name quickly. Lisa didn’t catch it but she did spot the appraising once-over the other woman gave her. ‘I didn’t realise someone else might be coming.’ With a rueful smile, she added, ‘I only have transport for one.’
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