Instead, I hear a shout, and over to my right I notice a swimming pool where a man is swimming lengths. I can see the top of a golden head and a second figure, a woman, dressed in white and wearing a broad white hat, standing at the side of the pool, shouting to the swimmer and gesticulating wildly. The man’s laughter cracks through the air and for some reason I take a step back. Somehow, I know that the laugh belongs to Ben.
I retreat into my room and wash and dress as hastily as I can. Pulling on a crumpled pale pink day dress, I lean over the mirror and tackle my long, unruly hair, stabbing at it almost at random with the pins scattered across the dressing table. My face in the mirror is a little flushed, and I take several deep breaths. My life has been so small, so monotonous, so endlessly unvarying for so long, that the utter newness of the day stretching ahead of me is almost overwhelming. Almost. I grin, and the girl in the mirror grins back at me, her nose scrunching up a little under a peppering of freckles, her eyes gleaming with naked excitement.
I have no idea what time it is, but I assume it must be late. I make my way swiftly, giddily along the long hallway and down the stairs, pushing one of the doors in the entrance way open at random.
Beyond it is a huge room with a high, dark-beamed ceiling. There is a grey stone fireplace stretching across one wall that is big enough to stand in, and several hard, blue sofas and a well-stocked drinks trolley as well as a gramophone. As in my room the walls are white, and the floors tiled, spread with more rugs. This must be the living room, though it doesn’t seem particularly well lived in. I listen carefully but all I can hear is the sullen ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and a look at its face informs me that it is past midday.
Undeterred I push through another door and find myself in the kitchen, where a shrunken woman in a headscarf is bent over some dough.
“Oh, hello!” I exclaim. “Sorry, I’m a bit lost.” The woman smiles at me and bustles over to the side where she picks up a cup and saucer, pouring thick, black coffee into the cup from a silver pot on the stove.
She shuffles over to me, her footsteps tiny but brisk, like a little bird, and she holds out the saucer, which I take. “Thank you,” I say, as she regards me through eyes set deep like dark currants in her wrinkled face.
“Il giardino,” she says, gesturing to a door set into a high stone arch at the front of the room. “Filomena and Leo there,” she adds in careful, heavily accented English.
“Oh, thank you,” I say again. “I mean, grazie.”
The woman reaches up and, to my surprise, pats me softly on the cheek. “Prego,” she says and then, as I turn to leave through the door, she makes a clucking noise to stop me and pulls a cloth back from on top of a basket full of warm, golden rolls. The smell of them is enough to set my stomach growling viciously.
“You take, you take,” she insists, and I accept happily, tearing immediately into one with my teeth, chewing gratefully, the sweet dough a melting taste of sugar and vanilla. The woman nods approvingly as my greedy fingers close around another to take with me. “Bella regazza grande,” she beams, and my rudimentary Italian allows me to translate this as “beautiful big girl”.
When I open the door, I find myself standing in front of the formal gardens, underneath a pergola covered in a riotous cloud of red bougainvillea and yellow jasmine; the tiny star-like flowers nodding below the sun, the scent heavy and intoxicating.
“Bea!” Leo and Filomena are sitting at the long, rough pine table stretched beneath the pergola with cups of coffee and a plate of figs between them. Leo gets to his feet and kisses me on each cheek. Filomena stays seated, smiling up at me from beneath the brim of a large straw hat.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks as I sit down and take a tentative sip of the coffee, the black, bitter taste a shock to my system. I’m not sure if I like it or not.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply. “A bit too well. Sorry I’m so late.”
Filomena shrugs, slowly, luxuriantly. “Late for what?” she asks.
“Time runs rather differently around here,” Leo says, leaning back and winking at me over the top of his cup. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”
“But you have missed the others,” Filomena puts in. “They tend to have breakfast together before they go out to work.”
“What others?” I ask, puzzled. “What work?”
“No one has told you?” Filomena asks.
“Told me what?” I’m starting to feel a little silly.
“About the artists, of course.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The artists?” I repeat, startled.
“Didn’t you know?” Hero appears, throwing herself into the seat beside me and reaching out for one of the figs.
“It’s my fault,” Leo says, his expression not quite contrite. “I didn’t mention it to your parents because I thought they might not like it, exactly.”
Filomena scoffs. “What is there to like or not like? It is not their business.”
“Well, it is if they’re sending their daughter here to our care, love,” Leo points out mildly. Filomena rolls her eyes.
“So,” I say, “you have artists staying with you?”
“We do,” Filomena agrees, taking another sip of her coffee.
“Filomena is a very talented sculptress,” Leo says proudly, his gaze lingering on her lovely face. “We opened up the house to some of her friends. It seems the environment is conducive to producing work.”
“How many artists are staying here at the moment?” I ask.
“Hmmm?” Leo looks up from his rapt contemplation of Filomena’s profile. “Oh, it changes. We have Klaus, a talented painter, and Ursula, a playwright, and Ben, of course, who have all been here for a few weeks, and then the others tend to come and go. Filomena is throwing a big party at the end of the summer to exhibit their work. It will be quite the occasion.”
“I didn’t know you were artistic, Uncle.” I pull the roll apart with my fingers and dip it in my coffee. Hero snorts.
“As my daughter will be quick to point out, I am not in the least artistic.” Leo raises an eyebrow at Hero, his eyes dancing. “I just happen to be in love with an artist, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep her happy so that she won’t leave me.”
“Oh, Leo.” Filomena raps his hand playfully. “What nonsense.”
“And most of these arty types haven’t got two pennies to rub together,” Leo continues cheerfully, “so while I am no artist, I like to think of myself as a sort of sponsor, in the grand old tradition.”
“Well, I love it,” Hero says firmly. “It’s much more exciting since Filomena came here. We have all sorts of interesting people to stay.”
“Yes, it was dull for you before with only your poor old father.” Leo sighs, levering himself out of his chair. “And now, I must get back to the boring world of business and leave you ladies to it.” He turns to Filomena. “I will try and finish in time for drinks before dinner, my love.”
“I will be working, I think, anyway,” Filomena says. She barely glances at him, while his expression is one of dog-like devotion. I feel a pang for my uncle.