Christmas at Claridge's (31 page)

Today, though, she was alone. She ran down the paths she now knew so well. She was becoming recognizable to the locals, too, who enjoyed walking to the lighthouse and watching the sun set,
nodding to her as she jogged politely on the spot, allowing them to pass, all of them working up to a ‘
buonasera
’.

She took the right turn down through the winding paths of the castle gardens, even though it was quicker and easier to go over the top – to do that was to miss the point. She ran on her
toes, grabbing onto the handrails on the sharper turns, stretching between uneven steps and flying over broken slabs, and she felt her colour rise and the sweat begin to spread between her shoulder
blades as the temperatures stayed above seventy, even at eight o’clock at night.

She emerged from the gates of the overgrown park with an athletic leap, arms outstretched, hair flying as she landed lightly on the cobbles of the harbour, startling the fishermen winding in the
nets. She smiled at them and ran past without stopping, not noticing how they paused to watch her go.

The piazzetta was busy again after the afternoon lull, with visitors milling around the water – some eating gelatos, most admiring the yachts that sat on the privileged silken waters
– and she dodged them gracefully, arms pumping lightly, her lean legs long and strong in her runners’ shorts. Her skin had begun to tan lightly in the sun, even though she spent no time
lying in it, and her reflection in the mirror every morning (when she bothered to look) was glowing.

She passed the cafés, their parasols down now; passed the restaurants with their evening specials marked up on the blackboards; passed the waiters standing hovering, smiles ready for the
early birds who would make the first sittings of the night.

She disappeared up the ramp in the furthest left corner and ran bouncily up the shallow steps between the tall, narrow houses with starfish-embossed railings and waxy-white potted gardenias.
Ahead were the steep steps that would take her up off the road and onto the raised footpath – the home straight – and she geared herself to race up and down them three times, a last
burst of anaerobic power before she eased down to the hotel.

She turned the corner of the wall, taking the deep breath she would need to blast her up the steps, when everything suddenly flashed into fast forward and she found herself flying towards the
stone steps, simultaneously aware, in her peripheral vision, of a man leaning against a girl leaning against the wall.

She landed heavily on her front, her arms only just breaking her fall, and feeling the skin on her bare knees graze and bleed. She looked up angrily.

The long strap of a red patent handbag was tangled around her feet, but the girl it belonged to seemed unconcerned, one foot propped against the wall, her skirt pushed up her thigh.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Clem muttered furiously from the step, incensed further by the girl’s lack of apology, before noticing her companion staring down at her.

Her stomach twisted. To her relief, he had avoided her for over three weeks now, seemingly only working outside her office walls when she was in Viareggio with Chad, and disappearing into the
maze of scaffolding that clad the house like an exo-skeleton the rest of the time. Only the occasional sight of Luca, kicking his ball on the terraces, told her he was in there, somewhere.

Rafa reached out a hand, the gesture gallant but reluctant as she saw the hostility in his eyes; she recoiled, balling herself away from him and scrambling up the steps, her hands like paws on
the cold stone as she got herself out of there.

She was at Chiara’s in a minute when it should have taken her two, her chest heaving so hard she started coughing, her hands pressing against the wall.

Dammit. Dammit.

She paced the footpath agitatedly, her hands on her hips, trying to calm down, shaking her head as if she had a wasp in her ear.

‘
Ciao
.’

She looked up to find Luca peering through the back door, watching her.

‘. . .
Ciao,
Luca,’ she managed back, straightening up and finding a smile.

He held the door open for her and she followed him in, noticing how upright he was when he walked. He seemed tall for his age and nowhere near as little as he’d seemed to her that first
day when he’d smashed the window and shrunk into himself. Her kindness that day appeared to have won his trust, too, and they had begun to share shy smiles through the windows.

‘I saw your goal today,’ she said in rusty Italian as he automatically paused to let some guests pass on the stairs. ‘It was really good.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, replying in English. Chiara insisted upon it, she knew.

She listened to the sound of his bare feet on the tiled floor. ‘Who’s your favourite player? Lionel Messi?’ she asked provocatively, a teasing tone in her voice. She
didn’t know much about football but she did know Messi was Argentinian.

‘No!’ Luca shook his head sternly, a frown creasing the peached smoothness of his flawless skin. ‘Ronaldo!’

‘Ah! Of course!’ Clem chuckled.

Chiara looked up at the sound of their laughter, just as the two of them walked in to the small family kitchen. She was sitting at the table, a small glass of Rioja in front of her, her ledgers
spread out left, right and centre.

‘Oh, is it time?’ she said, looking up at the clock on the wall and starting to gather everything into piles. They had planned to go through the ideas for the dining room tonight. At
the moment the hotel only offered half board, with a buffet breakfast and no room-service option. It suited Chiara that way as it meant she didn’t have to deal with the three-headed monster
of daily changing menus, fresh food ordering or temperamental staff.

But Clem was on her case about it. The fact that the hotel was languishing wasn’t just because the décor was outdated, it was because they weren’t offering the amenities
discerning modern guests expected. They had the space, and Clem was adamant Chiara had to do it if she was going to get that coveted fourth star.

‘Relax,’ Clem said, waving her to sit down again, as she poured herself a glass of water from the tap and glugged it. ‘There’s no rush.’

‘But I have not even started dinner.’

Clem wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, taking in how pale Chiara looked again. ‘I’ll do it. I’m sure I can manage. What were you planning to cook?’

‘Lasagne.’

Clem’s face fell. Oh. She watched Luca take a yo-yo from his pocket and begin to expertly swirl it around his hands.

‘You have not made it before?’ Chiara asked, watching her.

She hadn’t made anything before, unless boiled penne and a tipped-out jar of ragu counted? ‘No, but I’ll give it a go,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s actually on
my “To Do” list for this year. That and learning to drive. I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

Chiara frowned. ‘Do you know how to make a roux for the béchamel?’

‘You what?’

Chiara laughed, getting up. ‘Is OK, Clem. I like the offer, but I will make it. Is quicker.’

‘Oh, Chiara,’ Clem moaned, dropping her head. ‘I feel so useless. And you’ve got so much to do.’

‘I will show you,’ the smallest, highest voice in the room piped up.

Clem and Chiara looked over at Luca. He was spinning and threading the yo-yo between his two hands now. It looked impressive and exceptionally cool.

‘He can cook lasagne?’ Clem asked Chiara in disbelief. It was one thing him speaking English, out-playing Rafa at football and being an expert on a yo-yo, but he cooked too?

Chiara nodded and laughed. ‘He is very good.’ She shrugged. ‘I taught him four years ago when he was six. Family recipe. We are famous for it in the port.’

‘Seriously?’ Clem looked at him in wonder, amazed that he had done in six years what she hadn’t managed in almost thirty.

‘Only if you want.’ He gave a lackadaisical shrug and went back to his yo-yo.

‘Well . . . I suppose we could give it a go,’ she said tentatively, a smile spreading across her face as her eyes met his and she saw devilment there.

They made a great team, meeting somewhere in the middle with her Italian and his English as she chopped, he fried, she poured, he stirred, the two of them powdered white from the brief flour
fight that had ensued during the making of the roux (he’d started it!). Every second of it went into the memory bank. She would know how to make lasagne for ever now, she would never forget a
moment of this lesson; another acquired skill to knock off her resolutions list.

The timer beeped and they crouched down in front of the oven together, staring in through the glass at the golden bubbling cheese-topped dish.

‘Looks ready to me,’ Clem said, but deferring to the boss.

Luca nodded. ‘Me, too.’

They pulled it out and let it cool for a moment. Luca had set the table at the opposite end to Chiara’s paperwork, and Clem had made a salad; garlic bread lay warm, sliced and wrapped in a
cloth. The perfect family supper was ready. They were good to go.

‘
Bella
,’ Chiara beamed, pushing her books away and smiling at them both as they brought over the dish and Clem started serving. She felt giddy with triumph as the rich sauce
oozed and the smells of Parmigiana and nutmeg fragranced the steamy kitchen, the evening’s earlier upset completely forgotten, although her knees still stung.

‘
Santé
,’ Chiara smiled, raising her glass to the cooks.

Clem and Luca, who had his own small glass of red wine, echoed. ‘Or, as we say in England, bottoms up,’ Clem smiled at Luca.

Luca giggled at the mention of bottoms – his English was good enough to know that word. ‘Guests first, please,’ he said, motioning for Clem to begin.

She smiled at his extraordinary manners and took a bite. Just wait till she told her father she could cook. He’d be delighted.

There was silence as she chewed, her hosts waiting eagerly for her response. She began to chew more slowly, her eyes scanning the dish. What . . .?

‘Oh! I didn’t know lasagne was so . . . spicy, out here,’ Clem managed, waving her hand like a fan in front of her mouth and reaching for her wineglass. She downed it in one,
but it was no good, her mouth was on fire. ‘Wow! I mean it’s really . . .’ She exhaled through her puffed-out cheeks. ‘Wow! Really hot. We have it, uh, much milder in
England.’

Chiara’s eyes narrowed as she hastily took a bite. Luca was watching from over the rim of his glass.

Seconds later, Chiara’s fork clattered to her plate.

‘Luca!’ she shrieked, reaching for the water jug and splashily pouring herself a glass.

‘What’s going on?’ Clem asked, her cutlery poised above the plate in nervous trepidation.

‘He has put hot chilli powder in instead of nutmeg!’ Chiara gasped, gulping down the water and pouring some more, all the while hissing at Luca in a rapid, colloquial Italian that
Clem had no chance of keeping up with.

Her eyes met his over the rim of his glass – devilment indeed – and she began to laugh. Really laugh. So hard she had to push her chair back and put her hand against her stomach. It
was just the kind of thing she’d done as a child, making her mother tut and Tom shout.

Luca joined in, delighted that their guest’s response meant he was more likely to get away with it – even Chiara had to smile.

‘Salad, anyone?’ she asked finally, her dignified stoicism making Clem and Luca laugh so hard that they didn’t notice the visitor standing by the door, watching them all.

Chiara saw him first, addressing him in Italian as she explained what had gone on. Clem’s laughter died as Chiara took Rafa by the elbow and led him over.

‘Clem, I would like you to meet Rafa.’

Clem tried to smile. Chiara didn’t know they knew each other already. She had never known. It had been the one thing, the only thing, Clem had never told her: the final secret. ‘We .
. . we already met. At the house.’

Chiara’s hand dropped. ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She shook her head vaguely and an awkward silence followed as Rafa felt no need, as usual, to make small talk.

‘You have eaten?’ Chiara asked him, speaking in English again as a courtesy to Clem, and holding up a plate.

Rafa nodded. ‘Yes.’ His eyes fell to Clem’s bare, scraped knees and she hurriedly swung her legs beneath the table.

Clem tossed the salad and put extra heaps onto Luca’s plate. ‘Garlic bread?’ she asked in a low voice, just the two of them again.

The boy nodded, quieter now that Rafa was here, but sharing a secret, conspiratorial look with her.

‘Well, thank you for coming over,’ Chiara said, walking away with a sigh and reaching over the windowsill. ‘It is the bathroom in room fourteen. There’s a cracked tile
letting in water to the back.’ She handed him a single white square tile.

He took it from her, his features softening slightly. ‘Everything is up there?’

‘Yes. I moved the guests to room nine instead.’

‘Sea view.’

She shrugged. ‘There was no other room free.’

Rafa looked back at the others – Clem was watching Luca watching them, a heartbreaking expression on his face – and ruffled the boy’s hair roughly as he passed.

Chiara sank back against the worktop as his footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

‘Are you OK?’ Clem asked, getting up with her plate and joining her as Luca tore huge chunks off the bread and topped it with tomato from the salad.

‘Sure,’ Chiara shrugged again, but the sadness emanated from her like a radioactive glow. ‘I just . . .’ She looked at Luca. ‘I just miss him being around. It feels
so big here, just us two surrounded by all these strangers every day.’

Clem rubbed her arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Every day it becomes more normal,’ she said, and Clem could see she was trying to be brave. ‘It gets easier.’

‘It can’t be serious with this new girl, can it?’ From the looks of her earlier, she was barely twenty.

Chiara’s eyes flickered towards Luca again, her voice lower still. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care, not like that. I don’t want him back. I just . . .’

‘Don’t like him being gone?’ Clem offered. ‘That’s loneliness, its normal. You were together a long time.’