The Italian Matchmaker (33 page)

Eventually, she got up and walked back through the olive grove. She imagined her family would be back from Mass. She heard laughter before she reached the house. Panfilo’s voice rose above the others. She smiled as she thought of him. She was truly blessed. As she got nearer she saw that other members of the family had arrived – Toto’s wife, Paola, and her children and grandchildren. The little ones played in the garden with Garibaldi, while the grown-ups drank
prosecco
and nibbled on
crostini
at the table beneath the vine. Alba greeted them warmly, then settled her pale eyes on the two strangers in their midst. ‘This is Fiyona, and Nanni is Romina’s brother,’ said Rosa.

Alba made an effort not to show her displeasure. ‘Welcome,’ she said, sitting down beside Panfilo. ‘So, you’re staying up at the
palazzo
?’

‘It’s really beautiful,’ volunteered Fiyona, watching Alba as if she were there to be studied, like an insect beneath a microscope.

Alba noticed her accent immediately. ‘You’re English.’

‘So are you.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘London.’

‘I grew up in London, too. I lived on a houseboat on the Thames.’

‘Aren’t they rather damp in the winter?’

Alba could almost smell the paraffin and smiled with nostalgia. ‘I loved it.’

‘Is it still there?’

‘No. It fell apart.’ She didn’t want to explain why they had scuttled the
Valentina
.

‘What a shame. Some of them are very old.’

‘And sturdier than mine.’

‘Well, I live in Bloomsbury, in a house that’s equally damp in winter,’ said Fiyona with an affable chuckle. ‘Lucky you living here!’

‘The sun always shines in Italy,’ said Panfilo, patting his wife’s knee under the table.

‘And if it doesn’t, there’s pasta,’ Nanni added, rubbing his big tummy.

‘I don’t think you want for anything here,’ said Fiyona, gazing around appreciatively. ‘Incantellaria is paradise on earth. Have you seen what Romina and Bill have done to the
palazzo
? I gather it was a total ruin when they bought it.’

‘No,’ Alba replied shortly, not wanting to explain why.

‘
Papà
’s going to photograph it tomorrow for the
Sunday Times
magazine,’ said Rosa.

‘You won’t be disappointed,’ said Nanni to Panfilo. ‘My sister has immaculate taste. She has returned it to its former glory.’

Alba bristled. ‘And what makes you think it was ever glorious?’

‘It was clearly a masterpiece in terms of architecture,’ Nanni argued, on the point of giving them a short lecture on the neo-classical period.

‘And the decoration is incredible,’ Fiyona added. ‘You must go and see it. Surely, you knew that
palazzo
before it fell down?’

‘I have no desire to go up there,’ said Alba tightly.

‘Do you know who lived there before?’ The table fell silent. No one wanted to speak about that place and they were all aware of Alba. Fiyona, however, was undeterred. The
prosecco
had dulled her usually sharp senses. ‘I know the famous Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone lived there once. But who lived there after he died? And why was it allowed to go to ruin?’

‘We don’t like to talk about the past,’ said Panfilo, sensing his wife’s simmering anger at such intrusive questioning by a stranger.

‘But the past is so fascinating,’ said Fiyona, stumbling on drunkenly. ‘History should be made to live again. Sometimes it’s only with hindsight that mysteries can be solved.’

‘Why are you so interested in the history of the
palazzo
?’ Alba asked.

‘Because she’s a journalist, Mother.’

Alba blanched, stunned that her own daughter could betray her. ‘A journalist?’

Fiyona hadn’t expected Rosa to blow her cover. ‘I write for the
Sunday Times
magazine,’ she admitted. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’

Alba stared at Fiyona with such vitriol that the younger woman shrank. When Alba spoke she did so in English in order to make herself absolutely clear. ‘You inveigle your way into my home, take my hospitality, drink my
prosecco
and eat my
crostini
, knowing all along that my mother was Valentina Fiorelli, murdered by the
Marchese
who lived in that
palazzo
you call glorious, with the intention of finding out as much as you can so that you can lift the lid on secrets kept for over fifty years?’ She turned on her daughter. ‘Oh, Rosa, you are naïve if you think this woman courted you for your friendship. Well, don’t let me stop you all enjoying yourselves. Stay, have another drink why don’t you? But if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not socialise with someone who’s going to hurt the members of my family who were there when my mother was murdered and who, for the last fifty-six years, have tried to forget.’

She stalked into the house. Panfilo shook his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said politely, ‘but I think you should leave.’

‘Of course,’ said Fiyona, rising unsteadily to her feet. ‘Come on, Nanni.’

Nanni shook his head. ‘My sister will be mortified that we have offended you.’

‘Don’t forget that Valentina was Alba’s mother,’ said Panfilo to Fiyona. ‘And her father is still alive. If you have to write an article about the
palazzo
, write it with sensitivity for those still living.’

Fiyona swallowed hard. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ll drive you back,’ Eugenio volunteered.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll walk,’ said Nanni. ‘I know the way.’

‘Are you sure?’ Rosa was furious that her mother had humiliated her in front of everyone.

Fiyona took Rosa’s hand. Her lipstick had leaked into the lines around her mouth and bled on to her teeth. She had clearly drunk too much. ‘I’m sorry, Rosa. But don’t worry, two million people will read about
you
.’

Nanni led Fiyona up the hill. ‘What a disaster!’ he exclaimed, mortified.

‘My fault. I pushed too hard.’

‘What did you want to find out?’

‘I like to have all the facts.’

‘Don’t you already have them?’

‘I’m sure Falco wasn’t alone when he murdered the
Marchese
.’

‘So what?’

‘I bet it was Thomas, Alba’s father, who was with him.’

‘And you thought Alba would tell you that?’

‘I don’t know what I thought. I forgot where I was.’

‘You shamed us all!’

‘I’m sorry. I feel dreadful. They’re nice people.’

‘Then drop it, Fiyona. Let it go.’

‘But it would make such a good story.’

‘Not if you hurt people.’

‘I’m used to that.’

They walked through the woods. The trees towered above them, leaves shimmering in the breeze, parting to allow a luminous kaleidoscope of light to scatter on the path before them. Fiyona felt drunk and dizzy. It was very hot. ‘I have to lie down a moment.’

Nanni was irritated, but he had no choice. He certainly couldn’t carry her home.

She lay on her back and threw an arm across her eyes. ‘That’s better.’ Then she began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, lying down beside her.

‘I don’t know. Us, this, now. There’s something very funny about it.’

‘I see nothing funny at all. It’s okay for you. You will go home but we have to live in this place. My sister will kill you if Panfilo refuses to take the photographs tomorrow.’

‘Bugger. What can I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he sighed, closing his eyes.

‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?’

 

Panfilo found Alba fuming in their bedroom. ‘Don’t even try to persuade me that you photographing the
palazzo
is a good thing! What was that woman doing here anyway?’

‘Rosa invited her,’ Panfilo replied calmly.

‘Rosa’s a liability!’

‘She’s young and naïve.’

‘Those people up there are nothing but trouble.’

Panfilo sat on the bed. ‘You’re irresistible when you’re angry.’

‘Don’t try to appease me that way, I’m immune.’

‘Look, they’re going to photograph the place whether you like it or not. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.’

‘I can’t bear that bloody woman sniffing around the past like a detective. We’re talking about my mother . . . and Daddy. What if she finds out that Daddy killed the
Marchese
?’

‘She won’t,’ said Panfilo reassuringly. ‘Who’s going to tell her? No one knows but us.’

‘And Rosa.’

‘She’s naïve but she’s not stupid.’

‘She’s angry with me. You know how hot-blooded she is. She might not be stupid but she’s a bloody fool. I should never have told her. What if Cosima tells Luca and he tells his mother? That woman’s staying up at the
palazzo
, ears flapping like an elephant! I hate to think what they’re all saying!’

‘Calm down, Alba.’ He pulled her down beside him.

‘As you know, thirty years ago I discovered that Daddy murdered the
Marchese
with Falco. It was an act of revenge. “A matter of honour,” he said. We never discussed it, but we had a silent understanding. If he finds out that I’ve told people – if it comes out in a British magazine – he’ll be so disappointed in me. I can’t bear to hurt him. I can’t bear him to think less of me.’

‘Why don’t we just ask Rosa to keep quiet?’

‘No, leave it. I’ll talk to Cosima. She can find out from Luca. Unlike our daughter, Cosima can be trusted.’

‘Alba, that’s not fair,’ said Panfilo gruffly. ‘You’ve got to be more sensitive to Rosa. She’s your daughter. You know, you were once as hot to handle as she is.’

‘Rosa’s way beyond what I ever was. She worries me. You know she sneaks off in the middle of the night? God knows what she’s up to. I just hope she’s sensible enough not to have an affair.’

Panfilo laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s a great deal of temptation in Incantellaria!’

‘If she wants something badly enough, she’ll find it. She’s longing for adventure. She’s champing at the bit. She just doesn’t know how lucky she is to have Eugenio.’

‘Maybe she needs her own home . . .’ he suggested carefully.

‘That’s not the answer.’ She stood up. ‘So, you’re still determined to photograph the
palazzo
?’

‘Yes,’ he replied firmly. ‘I have a commitment.’

‘I don’t want to see what they’ve done to it.’

‘Very well.’

‘So, don’t even show me the photographs.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I don’t want to see the article when it comes out, either.’

‘Fine.’

‘Let’s not speak of it again.’

Panfilo smiled at her melodramatic exit. The trouble was that Alba felt she owned Valentina’s story and the
palazzo
. She couldn’t bear to acknowledge that Valentina belonged to Incantellaria and the
palazzo
belonged to Romina and Bill Chancellor. He knew his wife better than she knew herself. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if her curiosity eventually got the better of her.

That night Rosa could barely wait for Eugenio to fall asleep. She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to grow deep and regular. She thought of her mother, watching from her bedroom window, suspecting that she was having an affair. Well, an affair of the mind, perhaps.

At last Eugenio slept. She crept out of bed, dressed in the bathroom and sneaked out of the house. She ran all the way up the path to the folly. The moon was bright, but she could have found her way there blindfolded, using an internal map and her senses. The feeling of excitement was intoxicating, as it must have been for Valentina. She must have trodden the same path to where the
Marchese
would have been waiting for her in the folly. She had believed Incantellaria devoid of excitement and adventure but it had been there all along, right under her pretty nose.

Finally, she reached the folly. All was quiet. She was alone. Luca was busy with her cousin. They were welcome to each other. She had better fish to fry. Inside, the folly glowed with the soft, dancing light of the candles he had lit.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear. I was hoping you’d come.’

She closed the door behind her. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world,’ she replied, sinking on to the bed. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.’

When Romina laid eyes on the great Panfilo Pallavicini she was uncharacteristically speechless. He was simply the handsomest man she had ever seen, and that included Bill, as dear as he was. Instead of trying to talk, she threw her arms around him, enveloping him in Pucci and perfume, and planted loud kisses on his bristly cheeks.

‘
Madonna!
’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘I expected you to be very English.’

‘I’m Italian,’ she replied, finding her voice. ‘One hundred per cent!’

He ran his eyes over the façade of the
palazzo
, muttering compliments in the superlative. ‘You must have had a devil of an architect!’

‘My husband,’ said Romina proudly.

‘
Complimenti!
’

‘Thank you. Come on in. I’ll show you around.’

They waded through vast black pots of cut flowers, and bags and boxes belonging to the crew, into the hall. Panfilo took in everything, sweeping his eyes over the walls, ceilings and furnishings. Years of experience had taught him to home in on the important features; little details that most people would overlook. He observed the light, different in every room, and the colours Romina had chosen for the walls. He admired her taste; it was flamboyant but faultless, and wished Alba would bury her pride and come and take a look. There was a time when she had always joined him on shoots and taken pleasure from snooping around beautiful houses.