sad air about it. A few of the delicate panes were missing or cracked. At some point Sofia had commissioned a specialist stained-glass maker to install some coloured panes in a whole variety of shades, randomly dotted throughout the conservatory. It meant that when the sun streamed in from a particular angle the conservatory was lit up like a rainbow, sending streams of colour dazzling around the space. The doors at the end of the conservatory opened out to the terrace and gardens, which led to the sheltered cove below with a bubbling hot spring. It really was like a little piece of paradise.
She settled on an old pale pink wooden rocker sitting on the terrace that creaked as she sat down. She smiled, holding her breath for a few seconds for fear the wood might split. But the rocker held as she poured her wine then rested her feet on the ledge in front.
The azure sea sparkled in front of her. The horizon completely and utterly empty. It was as if the whole rolling ocean had been made entirely for her viewing pleasure.
She closed her eyes for a second. There was something about this place. Something magical.
In her head she could see the glittering parties that Sofia had hosted. Full of film stars, models, producers, and Sofia’s very own special Prince. Portia sipped her rosé wine, letting the dry fresh flavour with hints of cherry and orange zest fill her senses as she rocked back and forward in the chair.
If she could capture just one of those moments, and bring all the gossip twenty years into the future, she wouldn’t need to worry about her job any more. Times had been different then. No instant social media. No mobile phones in every pocket or every bag.
She gave a little smile as she closed her eyes and continued to rock. A warm breeze swept over her, scented with jasmine and hugging around her like a comforting blanket. It was almost as if time had stood still at Villa Rosa.
And for Portia’s purposes, that was just fine.
* * *
Javier finished nursing his last bottle of beer. He’d crossed over on the last evening ferry to L’Isola dei Fiori and, instead of heading straight to the house, he’d headed straight to the nearest bar.
L’Isola dei Fiori had been a favourite haunt of his mother’s. Her friend Sofia’s house had been a refuge for her when her manic behaviour had got out of control, she’d stopped eating and stopped taking her medication. His father had learned quickly not to try and intervene. Sofia’s presence had been one of calmness and serenity. A fellow model, she’d understood the ingrained eating habits and learned behaviour that his mother just couldn’t shake in later life. Even though she was always beautiful in Javier’s eyes, as his mother had aged she hadn’t taken kindly to losing modelling jobs. Each loss had seemed to spark more erratic behaviour and his film producer father had struggled to cope.
Javier had been too young to understand much. He’d just learned that when his father pulled out the large monogrammed case, it generally meant a visit to Aunt Sofia’s. She’d never really been an aunt, but he’d thought of her in that way. Sofia’s air of grace could never be forgotten. She hadn’t walked—she’d glided. She’d talked to him as if he were an adult, not a child, with no imposed rules or regulations. Instead, Javier had been mainly allowed to amuse himself. Not always wise for a young boy.
But somewhere, in the back of his brain, he’d held fast the little element that this place was a sanctuary. Somewhere to find calmness. Somewhere to find peace. And that was what he needed right now. A place where the paparazzi weren’t waiting around every corner. A place where he could nod at someone in the street without their frowning and wondering where they’d seen him before. A place where he could have a drink in a bar without someone whipping out their phone to take a selfie with him in the background.
He left his money on the bar and picked up his bag. He’d been here for at least three hours with minimal conversation. He liked that. The hours of travel had caught up with him. He patted the large iron key in his pocket. At some point over the years his mother had ‘acquired’ a key to Villa Rosa. It was odd. Neither of them had been back since Sofia’s funeral a few years ago and he’d heard that the house, once in its prime, was now pretty run-down.
Maybe he could make himself useful while he kept his head below the parapet for a while. When he was a teenager his Uncle Vinnie—a veritable handyman—had taken him on many of his jobs. Anything to keep him from turning down the wrong track. At the age of thirteen, with a mother as a model and a father as a film producer, he’d probably already seen and heard a million things he shouldn’t. After he’d almost dabbled with some drugs, his father had shipped him back to Italy and into his brother’s care for the summer. Javier had learned how to plaster and how to glaze. It appeared that sanding and smoothing walls, and cutting panes of glass were therapeutic for a teenage boy. Not that he’d used any of those skills in Hollywood...
He walked out into the warm evening. Dusk was settling around him. The port was still busy with the boats silhouetted against a purple and blue darkening sky. If he were an artist he would be tempted to settle down with some paints, a canvas and easel. But Javier Russo had never been known for his painting skills.
Instead, his name normally adorned the front of Hollywood cinemas. His latest film had just been publicised by putting a forty-five-foot-high image of Javier next to the D on the Hollywood sign. He’d never live that one down.
But it seemed that Hollywood loved Italian film stars. In another year it was predicted he’d be one of Hollywood’s highest earners—much to his agent’s delight.
He’d just finished four back-to-back movies taking him halfway around the world. Two action movies, one romantic comedy and one sci-fi. He’d ping-ponged between the Arabian Desert, the expanse of the Indian Ocean, the nearby island of Santorini, the Canadian Rockies and the streets of London. For some it sounded completely glamorous. In truth it was lonely and had taken him away from those that he loved. The family that he’d failed.
Now, he was exhausted. Pictures had emerged of him attending the funeral of a family friend looking tanned and muscular—just as well nothing could reveal how he was feeling, the way his insides had been curling and dying from the fact he hadn’t been there to help.
Much to his agent’s disgust he’d reneged on some immediate future arrangements. In another four weeks the cycle would start again with publicity and interviews for the first of those films. Right now he needed some space.
He smiled as he turned the corner to Villa Rosa. The long walk had done him some good. He stretched muscles that had been cramped on the flight over from Los Angeles and frowned at the cracks in a pale pink façade. This place was in bad need of repair. He wasn’t entirely sure about the material. Maybe he could phone Uncle Vinnie for some advice?
He set his bag down and pulled the key from his pocket. With a wiggle, the key gave a satisfying turn in the lock. He pushed the door open not quite knowing what to expect.
Silence.
He frowned. Something was off. The house wasn’t as musty as he’d expected. He walked slowly through the large main hall. It was clear someone must have been here. There were small signs of life.
Large dust covers had been pulled from the furniture in the painted room and heaped in one corner. He ran his finger along the plaster, snatching it back as a tiny piece of paint flaked to the ground. In the dim light his eyes caught the line snaking up the curve of the dome. He felt his frown deepen. It would take skill to mend a crack like that. Skill he wasn’t sure he possessed.
He glanced around him. The air in here was fresh. There was a hint of something else. The rustling from outside sounded
