Love Falls (14 page)

‘If the food's this good at Harry's Bar . . .' Lambert looked up at Ginny as she set down a tray of mint tea, and she blushed and hurried back into the kitchen for a plate of petits fours.

‘I nearly forgot.' Caroline reached into her bag and slipped an envelope along the table. ‘Here are the tickets for tomorrow. Your train leaves at ten-thirty-two.'

‘Thank you so much.' Lambert gently touched her hand, and Lara saw the power of his gratitude, so welcome that even a woman in failing health would do what she could to earn it. ‘We're looking forward to it, aren't we, Lara?'

‘Oh, and Lara.' Caroline turned to her. ‘I don't know what time you came in' – her face was flooded with sudden disapproval – ‘but you left the porch light on.'

‘Oh.' Lara was mortified. ‘I'm so sorry.' And suddenly she was happy that they were going, could hardly wait another moment until they were gone.

 

 

The hotel in Florence was on the top-two floors of an old house. It was elegant, with chaises longues, rugs and paintings, the dining room hung with mirrors that reflected the pale green of the tablecloths, the napkins matching exactly the dark green of the walls.

A man in plum-coloured uniform showed them to their rooms. They were connecting, although the key, Lara noticed, was on Lambert's side. They looked at his room first, admiring the wide bed, the pale curtains, the bathroom, the tiles so thick they looked edible, the decoration like white icing, piped on. Lara's room was identical, except the bed was smaller, but it had an armchair, long and low, the kind that lured you down into it, made it difficult to get up. Her bathroom was the same, but more beautiful because it was hers. She wanted to run a bath immediately, squeeze in the contents of the tiny bottles, lie in it for an hour, wrap herself in the sheet-sized towels. But Lambert was checking his watch.

‘We should go,' he said, and he slid the porter a tip.

The man inclined his head and backing out he shut the door.

‘Do you want to change?' Lambert scrutinised her flowered dress, her sandals, the heels so badly chipped, and then as if thinking better of it he shook his head. ‘No, you're fine as you are.'

‘Are you sure?' She glanced back into the bathroom, ran her fingers through her hair.

‘Yes,' he insisted, and he looked again at his watch.

 

 

‘Signor Gold!' The
maître D'
at Harry's Bar welcomed Lambert with expansive arms. ‘Please come this way. Your friend' – the man sank his voice to a whisper – ‘is already here.'

Lara laughed and looked at her father to see how he would react to this mistake, but Lambert was walking ahead, sliding eagerly between the tables to where, half hidden by an overflowing vase of flowers, a woman sat alone. She had light-brown hair and almond eyes, and one hand was clasped around the stem of a champagne glass. As they approached she raised the glass and took a sip, as if taking courage before standing up.

‘Isabelle.' Lambert slipped an arm around her, and for just one moment he pulled her up against him so that her skirt rucked.

‘Hello.' Lara looked round quickly for Hugh, for Hamish or Allegra, knowing as she did so that they wouldn't be here, and then to cover herself she kissed Isabelle, once on each cheek, before they all sat down.

Lambert and Isabelle did their utmost to include her in their conversation. They helped with her order, urged her to try a Bellini – a glass of peach juice and champagne – even asked what she'd most like to see in Florence, but it was clear that for all their efforts they were having lunch alone. Lara humoured them, nodding politely, joining in occasionally, laughing at their jokes, but eventually she allowed them to give up. She turned her attention to her meal, draining her glass, ordering another, finishing up every last rich morsel, frowning with the effort of ploughing her way through it, forgetting, as she'd promised Ginny, to notice whether the food at Harry's Bar was as good as hers or not.

‘How long have you got?' Lambert leant in close to Isabelle.

‘Till tomorrow night,' she told him conspiratorially.

They grinned at each other, their faces lanterns of delight, and Lara saw her father reach under the table and rest his hand on her bare leg.

‘Do have pudding,' they both urged, indulgent, as if she were their child, and so although they were declining she ordered a marmalade sorbet and spooned her way through it, letting it numb her from the mouth down.

‘Lara?'

‘Yes?' Her mouth closed round the ice-cold spoon.

‘The Uffizi or the Pitti Palace? We can't decide.'

‘Or
David
?' Lambert suggested. ‘Did you know Michelangelo's
David
is right here in Florence?'

No, Lara thought miserably, I don't know anything, but instead she nodded knowledgeably and said she'd like to see that.

Outside in the street it was staggeringly hot. Not the harsh bright sun of Siena, but a muggy, damp and overwhelming heat that made you want to lie down. They walked along beside the River Arno, glancing into the enticing cool of the boutiques, pushing against the flow of tourists, swiping away the gnats and flies that hovered above their heads. Lambert lit a cigarette and waved the smoke around, and then, giving up, they stopped at a hotel and ordered a taxi. The Accademia was a cool white building, unusually modest, where at the end of a long corridor, flanked by rows of Michelangelo's slaves attempting to free themselves from the constraints of their still-clinging stone, they found the figure of David, waiting to be admired. Waiting, Lambert told them, since 1504.

They stood in silence, jostled occasionally by others, listening to the comments in every conceivable language as they stared up at the statue. His body was perfect, his eyes held the surprised look of one who finds he's just stood up to a giant, so why then, Lara wondered, were his genitals so small? She glanced furtively at Isabelle, at Lambert, at the pressing crowd of Germans, French and Japanese, convinced they were all thinking the same thing. It wasn't as if she had a vast experience, or any experience at all, but even a child could tell . . . And then, at the same moment, she and Isabelle yawned.

‘What next?' Lambert ushered them out. ‘We're not far from the cathedral, or we could walk back towards the river and see how long the queue is for the Uffizi.'

‘Yes,' Lara said, and then although she was sure he had despised them both for doing so, Lambert also yawned.

They stood out in the narrow street, the sun beating down, the air so thick and dense it was hard to breathe.

‘I don't mind.' Lara pressed herself back against the building, hoping to take some cool from the stone, and when she looked up it had been decided, they were going back to the hotel.

They were silent in their lift, standing as far away from each other as they could get, three perfect strangers going to their rooms. But in the hushed and polished hall they couldn't pretend. Lara turned her key, clicked open her door, and then unable to resist she turned to look across at Lambert, catching him just as he slipped his arm round Isabelle and steered her into his room.

 

 

Lara lay in her bath, the water frothing around her, thinking how different life would be if every day were divided in two by a siesta. Whoever achieved anything worthwhile in the afternoon? And she thought of those dragging college lunch hours by the end of which they were all ready to go home. It occurred to her then that she'd stopped thinking about Clive. She closed her eyes and pictured him leaning up against a wall, pulling on a roll-up, his shoulder bent to shelter the spark of his lighter from the wind. But where as before he was looming, his image fiercely black and white, now she could only summon up a pale and shadowy version. Another week and he would cease to exist at all. Lara stayed in her bath until the water was cold and the bubbles had subsided, leaving a slick blue film of oil. Would Kip have noticed that she'd gone yet, and what would he think when he did? It pleased and unsettled her to think he might imagine she was being cool. Her best friend Sorrel would be impressed, at any rate. ‘The more you like someone,' Sorrel had advised her, ‘the less you let it show!'

Slowly Lara climbed out and stood naked before the mirror. She was so brown that the slim stripes of her bikini glowed. She turned and twisted, inspecting herself from every angle, and then, with an exhilaration she'd never experienced before at the sight of her own reflection, she realised that for the first time since puberty she didn't have a single spot. She flipped her hair and bound it into a turban, rubbed her body with three kinds of lotion, and massaged her feet. She inspected the dry skin of her elbows, painted the nails of her toes pink, and lay down on her bed.

It was then that she heard them. An indistinct sound of movement and murmuring, nothing to force her imagination too strongly, but just loud enough to remind her they were there. Her father and Isabelle, together, in the room next door. Quickly Lara switched on the television and with the burbling of Italian, so light and optimistic turned up loud, she climbed under the sheet.

 

 

‘Are you ready?'

Lambert was changed, and smart enough for dinner in a pale linen suit. Isabelle was pressing the button for the lift, her hair still wet at the ends, flicking prettily against the collar of her dress.

‘Yes,' Lara said, and she slipped on her shoes.

This time they had no plan. They walked through the city, admiring buildings, traipsing across squares, until they reached the Ponte Vecchio with its ancient shops, propped up by beams, clinging to each side of the bridge.

‘Did you know,' Isabelle said shyly as they walked across, ‘that in the Second World War this bridge was due for demolition, but it was too beautiful. Even the Nazis couldn't bring themselves to blow it up.'

They both glanced at Lambert to see what he would say. ‘Well, it is too beautiful.' He looked back the way they'd come, and there was no flicker in his face of the other things, more beautiful, that they hadn't spared. Instead he cleared his throat. ‘This bridge was built in 1354,' he told them, ‘and until the sixteenth century it was lined with butchers' shops, but Ferdinando I, who had a private corridor that ran above the bridge, from the Pitti Palace to the Uffizi, couldn't stand the smell of the meat, and he evicted them. Since then the street's been full of gold- and silversmiths.'

‘Can you imagine,' Isabelle murmured, ‘that kind of power?'

They walked slowly, stopping at each window, staring in, until Isabelle gasped and put her hands up to her mouth.

‘My mother used to have something just the same.' She pointed to a brooch – a silver butterfly, made from a mesh of tiny wires. ‘When she died I looked everywhere for it, but it didn't seem to be there.'

Lara looked at her father to see what he would do. But he was gazing out through the back window of the shop at the water beyond.

They walked until it was dark, with nowhere particular in mind to eat. They crossed and re-crossed the river, meandering along each bank, listening as Lambert explained the architecture, the dates and history of each bridge, as if he'd spent his whole life in Florence, had been born and raised in Italy, had lived a thousand years and been instrumental in the city's design. Every so often they passed a restaurant, and they stopped and stared at the menu, reading it together just under their breaths. But always without discussion they'd move on. What they were after Lara didn't know, and then they saw it. The perfect place. A restaurant built into the wall. It was bathed in golden light and from it came the warm smell of cooking, and the gentle clatter of laughter, glasses, knives and forks. There were steps that led up to it, and as if drawn by magic, hardly bothering to look at the menu pasted up outside the door, only wanting to be part of that golden galleon, floating above the water, they walked in.

As soon as the starter came they knew that they'd been fooled.

‘This is tourist food!' Isabelle was distraught. ‘Everything here was made on Monday and they're dishing it out till the end of the week.'

It was true, the food was tasteless, the salad wilting, the portions mean. It wouldn't have seemed so disappointing in England where people were used to buying sandwiches reminiscent of old foam, but here, in Italy, it felt like a disgrace. The second course was no better, oily and half cold, and unable to finish it, they asked for the bill.

Lambert paid it, leaving the money on a plate, and then, just as they stood to leave, his eyes lit up. ‘
Porca Madonna
,' he hissed, just loud enough to be heard, and knocking over a glass of wine in his excitement he called to them to run.

They ran until they were down the steps, and halfway along the street, by which time they were laughing so hard they had to stop and lean against the river wall. Eventually they turned towards their hotel, feeling the heavy food disperse with each half-mile, sucking in the still-hot air, leaving the taste of the wine, the stale bread behind, still laughing occasionally, bound together by their sinfulness and bravery, not bothering to avert their eyes when they climbed into the lift, but standing huddled together as they sped up to the top floor.