Christmas at Claridge's (24 page)

Signora Benuto stopped at a steep flight of steps just before a stone wall and turned to check Clem was still with her – she had set a swift pace in her white soft-soled shoes –
before climbing up. Clem followed and was amazed to find they were on a small, humped bridge, traversing a narrow public footpath below. Beyond the wall on the other side was yet more garden, but
it was wilder and uncultivated here, just a tangled olive grove with a compost heap on one side and an upturned wheelbarrow. After a few more minutes of silent marching on the winding path, the
wind suddenly picked up and a flash of pinks to Clem’s left made her catch her breath – her first glimpse! They had come to a short round stone building, also painted in pink and peach
stripes, like a matching pepper pot to the house. A key was already in the door and Signora Benuto led the way in.

‘These are your rooms,’ the housekeeper said, standing back so that Clem could pass.

Clem, who’d been straining to peer at the port through the trees, reluctantly stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The room was round, maybe four
metres in diameter, the floor was stone, the white walls thickly plastered, and large circular windows like outsized portholes were spaced evenly all around. A small comma-shaped sofa in dusty pink
linen was pressed back against the wall to the left, with a round glass-topped coffee table before it, and a lemon-coloured squashy armchair positioned to the near side, with its back to the door.
A television sat upon a bookcase, and a wood-burning stove was set into the right-hand-side wall. ‘Bijou’ was the best way to describe it.

‘Alberto has already left your bags in the bedroom upstairs, signorina,’ Signora Benuto said, indicating the dark wood winding staircase next to where they were standing.
‘Would you like me to unpack for you?’

‘No, that’s OK. I’ll do it myself,’ Clem mumbled, her eyes scanning the small, rough oil paintings on the walls, mainly depicting Mediterranean scenes. She was
practically itching with agitation.

‘I shall leave you to settle in then. Would you like to take dinner in the house tonight or here?’

Clem thought of the Swimmer waiting for her in the big house. She could just imagine him standing by the windows, barefoot, one hand in his pocket as he’d watched the boat speed her
towards him, waiting for her to appear in his Italianate garden in her Portobello clothes, caught at last. Well, in spite of her promise to Stella, she had no intention of surrendering to him. The
rules of the game had changed since their bet on the bed and it was terrifying enough that she was out here at all. She couldn’t cope with his manipulations, too.

‘I’ll eat in here tonight. I’m tired from the journey.’ It was a petty victory but a clear signal to the Swimmer to think again if he thought that her being here was any
kind of indication that things between them were going to go the way he planned. She was determined to show him that ‘no’ in Portobello meant ‘no’ in Portofino too.

‘Of course, signorina,’ Signora Benuto nodded. ‘It shall be with you at nine o’clock.’

‘Thanks,’ Clem replied briskly.

She waited for the door to close before breaking into a run and sprinting up the stairs. The ceiling was vaulted with rafters and a huge round bed, which was encircled by white gauze that hung
from a central corona that dominated the room. But it wasn’t that which she was interested in. Clem dashed to the farthest window and opened it hurriedly, feeling the wind zip round her
immediately, as though it had been waiting for her on the other side of the glass. As she thought, the folly was on the rocks, on the opposite side of the private beach to which she’d
arrived, and ahead of her lay the empty horizon as the Mediterranean stretched out like a rumpled silk sheet.

She ran to the next window to the left and saw the Ligurian coast, hazy on the opposite side of the bay, but tightening into clarity as her eyes tracked nearer. She moved across to the next
window and the smooth indistinct coastline began to crumple and jut with inlets and headlands. Another round striped folly, this one yellow and beige, stood perched on an outcrop lower than hers;
it was so close to the water it was as if it had been built as a dare.

She ran to the last window. The private beach was 270 degrees behind her now and she finally glimpsed what she’d been looking for: the tiny, pinky rectangular notch that had become a
global watchword for sophistication.

The buildings were shabbier than a newcomer might expect, the piazzetta even smaller than they might anticipate, the small fishing boats that bobbed lightly in tethered rows, disappointingly
humble compared to the shoals of super yachts that clustered in other premier destinations like St Tropez or Capri. But Clem wasn’t a newcomer. She’d been here once before and every
last detail was as highly nuanced in her memory as if she’d grown up here, or visited last week. This was where her dreams drifted to if she didn’t blot her nights out with drink, this
was where her thoughts settled if she didn’t fill her days with chat. She remembered this tiny, remote, foreign village on a molecular level, and the sight of it soaked into her like water
into sand because this was where her old life had ended and her new one had begun. She closed her eyes as the tears slid and her soul trembled. She didn’t want it to be true, she always
resisted the fact with every conscious fibre in her body, but there was no getting away from it: her heart was here and this was home.

She slept with the window open, wanting to feel the warm, salty wind brush her, even in her sleep, but she awoke damp and early, thanks to the sound of the waves breaking on
the rocks below. She lay in bed for an hour, her fingers stroking the comforting silk pouch beneath her pillow, every part of her reconnecting with the sounds, sights and smells she’d denied
for so long. The urge to drink or go for a run was overwhelming.

Running seemed the most cautious option. The most sensible. She should do that. She’d run all the way back to Genoa if she had any sense at all.

A familiar bleep on her phone drew her out of herself. It was Stella, checking in.

‘How goes it?’

‘Not seen him yet. Cast out in a clifftop folly.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’
Clem took a couple of pictures – one of the bedroom and one of the view back to Portofino – and sent them over.

‘They probably heard about your table manners.’

‘Xpect so.’

‘Can we call it your Ivory Tower?’

‘No. It’s stripy and looks more like a stick of Brighton rock.’

‘Are you going to grow your hair long?’

Clem got the Rapunzel association immediately and burst out laughing.
‘ROFL’.

‘Good. Laters then! Xxx’

Clem sighed, feeling cheered up, and wandered downstairs in The Killers tour T-shirt Tom had missed when clearing out his wardrobe. To her astonishment, a tray was sitting on the table filled
with a coffee pot, cup and saucer, and a basket of cornetti wrapped in linen. The coffee was still steaming. She hadn’t heard a sound.

An envelope was propped against the side of the cup and she opened it curiously.

‘Please come to the house at 10 a.m.’

Her summons. She poured herself some coffee and slumped on the arm of the sofa. The games were about to begin.

Clem knocked at the door and stepped back, wondering whether today’s outfit – her black leather trousers, black ankle boots and sloppy grey marl sweatshirt –
would pass muster with Signora Benuto.

The door opened and the housekeeper motioned for Clem to enter.

‘Buongiorno,’
Clem said, instantly taking in the vast ceiling height first, the hammer-beam timbers second. Her eyes swept over the reticulated staircase, two large
hunting-scene tapestries that were suspended on poles on the walls, an antique oak blanket box that was adorned with ornate silver candlesticks, and taffeta curtains at the window.

She resisted the urge to blow out through her cheeks. Everything was expensive and befitting of a house of this stature, but it clearly hadn’t been touched in thirty years. If it was
grand, it also felt musty and unappealing. Why would a man like the Swimmer – no slouch sartorially – want to live in this?

Her pulse quickened at the thought of him as they walked through a long room with windows on one side, an enormous fireplace on the other and bald velvet chairs arranged in groupings in between.
More tapestries, Clem noted.

‘In here,’ Signora Benuto said, stopping at the doorway to a room that was more fully furnished, with a Prussian blue and red rug, tatty red silk curtains and a pale gold velvet
sofa. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides and an antique desk was positioned in front of the set that looked out to sea.

Clem took a deep breath and stepped through, feeling her pulse accelerate as she braced herself, yet again, for that moment that always seemed to take so much from her. It would get easier, she
reassured herself, looking around the room for him.

She turned a full circle.

‘Where is he?’ she asked Signora Benuto.

‘Where is who?’ the housekeeper replied, looking equally puzzled.

‘Signor Beaulieu.’

‘He is not here, signorina. We are not expecting him.’

‘But . . .’ Not expected? ‘But then why am I here? I can’t get on until he’s briefed me.’

‘This is your office now. He has said you are to have free rein.’

A chuckle escaped her. ‘Well, there’s having free rein and then there’s having free rein, if you see what I mean.’

The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No.’

God, sense of humour failure, Clem thought to herself. ‘Well, is there a spec I can look at until he does deign to arrive? At least I can get up to speed with the floor layouts, colour
charts, fabric swatches and stuff. Who’s the interior designer?’

‘There isn’t one. Signor Beaulieu was very clear that you must make it look like you would like it to look.’

He wouldn’t say that if he’d seen my flat, Clem thought, laughing, before realizing what the housekeeper had just said. No interior designer? She shifted weight, more nervous now.
‘You . . . don’t mean he wants me to do the . . . the whole thing?’

The housekeeper nodded solemnly, but her pursed lips revealed her private feelings about the directive. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

Clem blinked. This couldn’t be happening. ‘Look, there’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I am
not
an interior designer. Our company doesn’t do
entire
houses
,’ Clem said, waving her arms in the air at the words. ‘We do leather finishes and furniture.’

‘Yes.’

‘So . . . so then you’ll realize that I cannot wrap this entire house in leather. I mean, I
could.
It’s theoretically possible and God only knows we need the
work!’ she muttered, before realizing she was being indiscreet and clearing her throat. ‘What I’m saying is, I have to get a brief from him on exactly which walls or floors he
wants done, what furniture – such as whether he wants a leather wardrobe in the master suite or a sling log basket in here. I mean, we do the accents, not the whole thing.’

‘Yes,’ the housekeeper repeated.

Clem sighed. She obviously wasn’t making herself clear. She tried speaking more slowly. ‘You have to ring him, you have to explain this to him. I can work carte blanche, if
that’s what he would like, within an interior designer’s overall scheme, but I’ll need to see that scheme and collaborate with
them.
They design, we supply. Capiche? Will
you call him please and tell him that?’

The housekeeper nodded. ‘And I shall bring you some coffee. Please feel free to look around the house.’

Clem rolled her eyes as the older woman walked away.

There was another set of doors at the far end of the room, on the same side as the doors she’d just come through, and she walked through them into what had clearly once been the library.
The walls were lined on both sides with floor-to-ceiling shelves, though they were dusty and bare of books now; just a Meissen chandelier and a chair on castors remained. She clocked a door on the
right and peered through – it opened into the long room she had passed through moments earlier. Exiting at the far end, she found herself back in the imposing entrance hall, at the foot of
the stairs.

She walked up them slowly, checking for creaks, but its construction was sound and she stood at the top, with corridors flanking her on both sides. She took the left wing first and studied the
three bedrooms dispassionately, making mental notes about the dimensions, original features, and directions they faced, the condition of the plaster walls and the wooden floors. They had only beds
in them, no further furniture, and the two bathrooms had been ripped out so that only exposed, capped-off pipes remained.

She did the same in the opposite wing, sketching with her back to the windows so that she could concentrate on the job in hand and formulate a strong initial impression of the tone of the house.
The final two bedrooms were upstairs in the attic but still boasted impressive ceiling heights and proportions that could comfortably swallow her London flat.

By the time she wandered back downstairs, Signora Benuto was laying out the coffee.

‘Did you speak to him?’ Clem asked without any gracious preamble.

‘He says you are to proceed as though it was your house,’ the housekeeper nodded, repeating her earlier words.

‘But it’s
not
my house,’ Clem protested in exasperation. She should have spoken to him herself, except that . . . the thought of his voice in her ear . . .

‘He wants you to think of it as though it were.’

Clem and the housekeeper stared at each other, mutually aghast at the very clear message being spelled out between them. This was Fleur’s role, not hers.

‘The boat, too,’ the housekeeper murmured.

Clem shook her head as panic began to assail her: eight bedrooms, a library, a drawing room, a long room, the entrance hall – all needing redecorating and refurbishing from scratch. And
she hadn’t even seen the kitchen or other downstairs rooms yet. And as for the boat . . .