felt strange to be alone.
It was so quiet; the only sounds were the insects and the gentle splashing of water against rock. After a moment or two, I too went through the gates, walking slowly, feeling as if I was trespassing. The heat contained inside the wall was stifling, and the smell of jasmine, sweet and musky, reminiscent of Anna’s perfume.
I was standing on a driveway, gravel beneath the soles of my uncomfortable sandals; weeds and thistles and self-seeded grass and wildflowers growing through the small stones. On either side, shrubs and climbers tangled together. Flowers climbed through the trees, set free from their beds and their borders. Cicadas sang; birds fluttered between the branches. It was chaotic and creepy and magical, riotous; spots and splashes of colour and movement flickering on the periphery of my vision.
I took a few steps forward, turned a corner and saw Joe ahead of me, looking around with awe. Fading sunlight gilded the garden. Joe reached up into the leaves of a tree and picked a fruit. He raised it to his lips and bit into it, then he threw the fruit into the flowers.
I followed him through alternating patches of golden sunlight and deep shade as the drive meandered to the left, then to the right. At every step, something new revealed itself; a wild creeper scrambling over a statue; a patch of bright orange poppies, the veins of the petals picked out by the sun; sparrows dust bathing; a lizard posing on a giant sundial with a crack in its centre; a huge old olive tree, its trunk gnarled and solid as rock. Then, at last, behind a line of topiary gone feral, an old, low-growing tree masking one corner of the building, we found the villa.
It was classical in design, two storeys high with a red tiled roof, whitewash peeling from plastered stone walls. A stone balcony ran beneath the three central, first-floor Palladian windows and beneath was an open, colonnaded porch. Although weeds were growing from the gutters and there were holes in the roof where tiles had slipped, the villa hadn’t lost any of its beauty. It was an ageing film star, a retired ocean liner – beautiful, abandoned, fading, but not yet destroyed and sympathetically lit by the dying sunlight. Time kaleidoscoped. I swear I could feel Joe’s ancestors moving around me, coming in and out of the villa. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I would have heard the whisper of their voices.
A dove startled us, rising up from amongst the undergrowth, the sound of its wings like gunshot.
I came closer, until I was standing feet behind Joe; so close that I could smell the fabric of his shirt, his skin, his sweat.
The villa windows were covered by shutters reinforced on the ground floor by planks of wood nailed over them. They were strung with cobwebs, decorated with windblown petals, the paint peeling, the wood beneath bleached. The front door was barricaded too; two planks criss-crossing diagonally, bolted into the frame. The last people to come to the villa had made it secure before they abandoned it to the wildlife and ghosts.
In the next instant, I had the strongest feeling that somebody was watching from inside the building. I looked to the upper windows, my eyes scanning them one by one. If anyone was there, they were hidden behind the shutters and we’d never be able to see them from down here. Or perhaps they weren’t in the villa, perhaps they were in the garden. I turned, half expecting to catch someone peeping from amongst the undergrowth, but the only movement was butterflies flirting amongst the flowers. Still, the visceral unease grew stronger; someone was watching. I was sure of it.
The colour of the light grew even more intense; scarlet and gold bled across the sky; one last hurrah before the sun died and the villa’s façade glowed red. When the sun set, the garden would be plunged into darkness and then we wouldn’t be able to see anything, we might not be able to find our way out, we would be at the mercy of whatever, or whoever, haunted the villa and its garden.
I shivered.
‘Let’s go now,’ I said to Joe.
He didn’t say a word, but turned and led the way back to the car.
10
While Joe locked the gates, I gazed at the sun sitting on the horizon and the darkness creeping over the bay. Mosquitoes murmured about my face. Across the water, lights were coming on in Porta Sarina, street lights and lamps in the windows of the houses clustered above the beach. A string of coloured bulbs was reflected beneath the harbour wall. Outside the Villa della Madonna del Mare, the water made soft, slapping noises against the rocks.
Joe moved from the gates, took out his phone and stared at it, his face illuminated by the screen. In that strange light, I caught a glimpse of Daniel. I hadn’t seen Joe in such a long time that I’d forgotten how it was sometimes that I’d look at him in a certain way and see fragments of our son.
‘There’s no reception here,’ Joe said. ‘We’ll have to drive over to Porta Sarina and hope the hotel has room for us.’
‘You said they definitely would have room.’
‘Yes, and I’m sure they will.’
‘What if they don’t?’
‘You can have the car; I’ll sleep on the beach.’
‘Joe!’
‘It’ll be fine!’ he said. That was obviously his favoured response to any potentially difficult question.
I wrapped my arms around myself, annoyed with Joe and also with myself for not sorting the accommodation earlier. Fitz had suggested I organise a room ‘somewhere convenient’ when I was booking the flight, but I didn’t know the geography of the region so didn’t know where ‘convenient’ would be and I couldn’t bring myself to ask Joe. Deep down, I’d been hoping I’d be able to return to the UK the same day. Now that obviously wasn’t the case, I desperately wanted the opportunity to be by myself, in a room of my own.
My emotions were knotted. I needed unravelling, stretching out. I needed a bath and a comfortable bed; soft pillows, space. I did not want to sleep in the car. Why couldn’t Joe have sorted out accommodation before we arrived, if he knew we’d need it? Why didn’t he ever think of these things? Why hadn’t I behaved like an adult and addressed the issue with him before I left home?
We took our places in the Fiat. I scratched at a bite itching on my wrist. Joe started the engine and we chuntered uphill. The old woman from the mafia cottage was still out in her garden, pointing a torch down the track, looking out for us.
At Porta Sarina, I stayed in the car while Joe went into the hotel; he returned to say there was a room for each of us, which was a great relief to me. I attempted to give him some money, but he said we would settle up later.
I followed him into the hotel, the suitcase twisting and yanking at my arm. Inside was very bright, with mirrors everywhere. I saw myself reflected behind the reception desk; saw how creased and crumpled I was, my hair a mess, dark circles beneath my eyes, the awful suit hanging from me, the ribbons of the blouse dangling, my pale, Northern European skin already reddened by the sun and shining from the earlier heat and exertion.
I scratched the lump on my wrist, found another a little further up my arm.
Joe caught my eye in the mirror. I looked away. He gave me the card key for my room. ‘You’re on the first floor,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
He
