A Royal Mess (46 page)

The meeting was held in the lovely downstairs courtyard. It was a large open tiled area lit by tea-lights. In the centre, there was a marble fountain with a cherub peeing in its own little puddle. The atmosphere was most un-
tranquillo,
though.

I had imagined we were convening to get to know one another. We’d all been introduced at the airport, but I had forgotten almost everyone’s names because we’d peeled off into our own little groups pretty much straightaway.

Eventually, The Commodore stood up, which was daunting in itself given his height, and then he coughed. I moved my chair away a bit in case he had a germ – I mean, I didn’t want to be sick for my first international tournament.

‘Right, well, everyone seems to be present and correct,’ he began – whatever that meant. ‘Welcome to, erm, Florence. I hope you have all settled in. The tournament
will kick off with the pools at eleven hundred hours tomorrow. I propose we go on patrol at o-six hundred hours.’

‘What do you mean by “on patrol,” exactly?’ I asked anxiously. I am not a girl born to patrol at o-six hundred hours or any other hour for that matter.

‘I agree,’ Billy added. ‘If we’re not going to the salle until eleven, why do we have to go on patrol at six?’

The Commodore pointed at Billy, which according to Sister Constance is the vilest thing you can do to another human being. Then again, Sister Constance has led a very sheltered life in the convent and doesn’t watch cable television. ‘I’ll warn you now, Pyke, I won’t tolerate insubordination in my ranks.’

‘Oh, sod off then,’ Sister Regina told him, which turned the courtyard into a gigglerama that even had Signora Santospirito joining in. That was how The Commodore’s authority began its downward slide. I sensed it would be a festival of insubordination from that point on.

I also confirmed that Sister Regina had already been tucking into her brandy stash when she brazenly pulled a few miniature bottles from her sleeve and poured them into glasses, which were miraculously produced by the Signora. She passed the miniatures to Sister Bethlehem, Bell End, Fizz Whizz and the Signora – significantly, there was no glass set down for The Commodore. I noticed a vein in The Commodore’s neck throbbing violently, but he didn’t say anything.

Bell End gallantly held up his glass to the Signora in a toast, and Signora’s eyes twinkled. She nodded approvingly and smiled. Bell End had a way with the prickliest ladies, that was for sure.

Even though everyone started complaining about how exhausted they were, Sister Regina insisted we explore the nightlife. ‘Let’s go and have a jig at one of those discotheque thingamees I read about in the travel guide to Florence,’ she suggested, nudging Sister Bethlehem to back her up. Sister Bethlehem took a sip of her brandy and smiled serenely. ‘Come on, we don’t get out much. Don’t be such sticks-in-the-mud,’ she urged. ‘Take pity on us poor nuns and take us out for a jig.’

‘But we’re underage,’ Portia said.

Sister Regina tutted. ‘Nonsense child! This is Italy; they don’t worry about details like age. Besides, I won’t tolerate ageism. We take a very dim view of that at the convent, I can tell you.’

Nuns really are in a special little
pazzo
world. And Bell End was no saner. He fully backed Sister up.

‘Champion idea,’ he agreed, nudging The Commodore in the ribs. ‘What do you say, Commodore, eh? Let’s get our dancing shoes on. Show these young ones a few steps on the dance floor, shall we? Eh? Eh? What do you say, Commodore?’

By this stage The Commodore’s neck vein looked on the verge of bursting. He spoke to Bell End through gritted teeth. ‘My name is Mr Rogers, as you well know,
Oscar. But I’m happy for you to call me Biffy if you’d prefer.’

I know, how sad and funny to know your teacher’s first name!

‘Can we call you Biffy too, sir?’ I blurted, which sent Portia, Jenny and the rest of the team into fits of giggle-dom. One of the other guys, an épéeist, I think, even stood up and shook my hand.

Biffy didn’t respond to my request, but he agreed with Sister and Bell End that a ‘bit of light entertainment’ might help the team unwind and bond. I suspect he was trying to claw back some authority.

So Bell End, Biffy, the nuns, Fizz Whiz, Portia, Jenny, Billy, myself and the rest of the team (whose names I still didn’t know) set off into the late Tuscan evening for a jig. Signora Santospirito had apparently given Sister the skinny on the happening place to go and get down.

‘Are you a betting man, Mr Biffy?’ Sister Bethlehem asked as we wandered through the cobbled lanes.

‘I like the occasional game of bridge, and I take a flutter at Ascot if I have a good tip.’

‘What about ten quid on who cut Samson’s hair?’ she asked Biffy, looking at him with her fluffy little innocent nun face.

Nuns. There’s no stopping them.

TWENTY-SEVEN
Discothèque Pazzo

I presumed the discotheque would be full of chubby old mustachioed Italian men in gold chains. I envisioned them swinging their wives around the dance floor to Tony Bennett songs while a tattered old disco ball lolled from the ceiling.

Instead, Cavern was a dark, lively, thumping, strobe-lit extravaganza of hip-hoppity music. The doormen didn’t look twice at our
pazzo
crowd of nuns, fencing masters and underage teens. He said something to us in Italian, and I worshipped Portia when she replied.

There was the odd mustachioed man decked out in gold chains on the dance floor, but he was the exception. Mostly the club was packed with fit boys and stunning girls in ooh-la-la outfits, smoking cigarettes and sipping sophisticated drinks.

Billy and the other guys asked the girls what we wanted to drink. Sister Regina asked for two limoncellos for her and the now feverishly excited Sister Bethlehem. I swear she was tapping her little wooden hobnailed shoes to the
beat. Most of us went for soft drinks, but Jenny had to show off by asking for an elaborate cocktail. Before we’d left the pensione, I’d clocked her stuffing knickers in her bra. I dreaded where this evening would end if Jenny got drunk and pulled.

I thought Biffy might object to the cocktail but he nodded agreeably and wrote down all our orders on a little pad he produced from his jacket of many pockets. Then he went off to the bar with the boys. He was soooo obviously sucking up.

‘Let’s check out the loos,’ Jenny suggested, a proposal that met with solid approval from her friends. ‘I heard they have those squat jobbies in Italy,’ she announced, as if this prospect thrilled her. If you want my opinion, I think she’d noticed what the rest of us had already discovered: one of her knickers was peeping out of her top.

‘I’ll stay here and try to grab a table,’ I told them.

There would be time enough for squat toilets later. Right now, someone had to be sensible, and it wasn’t going to be Bell End, Biffy or the nuns, that was for sure.

‘Oooh, isn’t this fun, Mr Wellend? I do hope you’ll be putting your name on my dance card,’ Sister Regina told him as I looked about for a table. Sister Bethlehem looked as awake as the next person, but I figured that was unlikely to last. When she popped off she’d need a chair at the ready.

‘If it isn’t Calypso, she who drags men from their duties,’ a voice behind me said.

I turned and there he was. Malcolm McHamish’s Italian doppelganger. He had an unlit cigarette stuck to his lower lip and a glass of something in his hand. I looked him up and I looked him down and then I looked him up and down again. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, an Italian suit over an open-necked Pucci shirt, but apart from his continental taste in clothes, he was a Malcolm clone. Then my little grey cells got to work and I wondered how this stranger knew my name.

I swear if I hadn’t been so shocked I would have fainted. It really was Malcolm!

‘As ever, you look the very epitome of style and beauty, Miss Kelly,’ he said. ‘Did you just get here? It’s the damndest thing, don’t you know. I’ve been ringing and ringing you for days. Well, that is to say all day.’ A waiter passed by and lit the cigarette dangling from Malcolm’s lips. Malcolm thanked him profusely in Italian and gave him a wad of Euros.

‘What are you doing here? How’s Freddie?’ I asked in a rush.

Malcolm took a deep drag on his fag before continuing. ‘Ah, you want the latest goss on His Royal Nibs. Sick as a cat, poor devil. Spent the night in the infirmary, which is enough to kill off the best of them.’

‘Is he going to be okay?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I mean, I’ve tried to call him. I feel awful about what happened.’

Malcolm put his hand on my arm and gave me a comforting rub. ‘Why? You’ve not been tinkering with
the cobbles at the edge of the bridge, have you? No, darling Freds is made of tougher stuff than that. They sent him home this morning while the antibiotics work their magic.’ I watched as Malcolm exhaled his smoke and blew a series of rings that wafted up to the ceiling. It was probably my feverish imagination, but he seemed bored by the conversation somehow. Which made me want to tap-dance for his attention.

‘What are
you
doing here, in Italy, though?’ I asked.

He waved his fag around. ‘Oh, you know, the usual. Immersing myself in the trough of Florence nightlife. Here, try this Disaronno, I swear it tastes like marzipan. Reminds me of Christmas,’ he urged, shoving his glass to my lips.

I took a sip and grimaced. ‘Yes, marzipan,’ I agreed, pushing the glass away. ‘But why aren’t you at Eades?’

‘Oh that. Yes, well, bit of a last-minute thing. The Film Society took a vote and the ayes had it, I’m afraid.’

‘A vote on what?’

‘Filming the British team fencing in Florence. Also we thought we might get a bit of that heady Renaissance air into our lungs, touch up our Italian language skills and buy a few trinkets for the old madres back home.’

I shook my head, still convinced he was a mirage. Then I caught Bell End swinging the nuns around the dance floor and knew that all was as it should be in my mad little world.

‘Sorry, I seem to be banging on about me,’ he said, taking hold of my hand. ‘Come and join us for a drink.’

I allowed myself to be led over to where it seemed half the Eades Film Society were sprawled out in a large roped-off VIP booth. All of them were dressed like they’d just come from a magazine shoot for Prada or Versace. They barely acknowledged me until Malcolm chucked an ice cube at Orlando.

‘You all know Calypso, the Botticelli angel of Saint Augustine’s,’ Malcolm announced.

They all smiled or raised their drinks, and then it took about a five full minutes to air-kiss them all. Even then, most of them continued chatting to one another as they brushed my cheeks with their lips. ‘Ah, and there is the beautiful Portia,’ Malcolm cried out as I was still air-kissing the troupes. He waved to her, and she peeled off from the rest of the fencing group and came over.

Another round of air-kissing commenced. Then Malcolm asked, ‘What would you like to drink, Portia? I recommend the Disaronno.’

‘I’ve ordered, thanks, Malcolm. Billy’s here with us, you know. What are you doing here?’ This last question was directed at Tarquin, but he just held his drink up in a toast and carried on an animated discussion with Orlando.