Scarlett was at Athens airport with two hours to kill and realised she had nothing to read. The news kiosk yielded (not surprisingly) a lot of Greek books and newspapers, but she did finally manage to find one out-of-date copy of the English news magazine
Time and Tide
. She ordered herself a coffee and sat down in the departure lounge, and was flicking through the magazine when she saw quite a long article on Venice. Venice, which she knew and loved so well …
She started to read the piece and found herself instantly and extraordinarily there, and not just in the spectacular set pieces of St Mark’s Square and the Grand Canal, but exploring the narrow back streets, wandering from one
bacari
– the small bars that are Venice’s speciality – to the next, growing slowly tipsier, discovering the lesser known churches, like the lyrical marble San Giorgio Maggiore best viewed by moonlight, and combing the flea market in the Campo San Maurizio. It was an extraordinary piece of writing.
She looked for the writer’s name, thinking she must find more of his – or her – work and saw the article listed at the front of the magazine: by one Mark Frost.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Scarlett aloud, and she would have dismissed it as an absurd coincidence, but gazing at her intently from the title page, there he was, complete with wire-framed spectacles, floppy dark hair and an extremely solemn expression. ‘Mark Frost,’ it said, ‘one of the finest travel writers around today, and author of
The World’s Loveliest Train Rides
, gives his unique and vivid take on one of his favourite cities, Venice.’
Geographical research indeed! Well, she supposed it was in a way.
‘Now look, Eliza, and don’t start cutting up rough, please, but I’m going to have to cancel our trip.’
‘You what! Oh, Matt, no. Please, please no. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long.’
‘I know, I know, and so have I. But we’re having trouble with this second development, the one out Swindon way, and I just can’t be away at the moment.’
‘What about Jimbo?’
‘He’s up to his eyes in it too.’
‘Louise?’
‘Eliza, if you think I’d leave this in Louise’s hands, you’re living in fantasy land.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s – she’s—’
‘A woman?’ Eliza’s voice dripped venom.
‘No. Course not. Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. I could go mid-November.’
‘Oh, that’s a really good idea. Be away for Emmie’s birthday. Fuck you, Matt Shaw. Just – fuck you.’
She went out of the room slamming the door, her eyes full of tears. Tears of anger and disappointment. She had done so much these two years, tried so hard to be good, and this was his way of thanking her, with this great ton of shit. A fortnight in the sun, he had promised her – well, a week in the sun, in Bermuda straddled by a few days either side in New York; she couldn’t remember when she had looked forward to anything so much. Or even looked forward to anything at all.
She went to bed in the spare room that night; when Matt knocked on the door tentatively some time after midnight, saying he was sorry, and he loved her, more than more than, and please to come to bed and let him prove it, she told him to fuck off.
She was still fuming in the morning when Mariella phoned, and so she poured out her story, tearful and angry still. Mariella’s reaction was predictable.
‘You can come and have a holiday with me,
cara
. I would love it, Giovanni would love it, it is beautiful here in September, and we can do some shopping, I can show you my beloved Milan—’
‘Oh, God, Mariella, it sounds wonderful. But I’d have to bring Emmie.’ She knew Matt would never agree to leaving her with Sandra for such a reason. Besides, she suddenly didn’t want to.
‘But of course you must bring her. That would be lovely for me too. There are plenty of people here to help, and we can buy her a new chic wardrobe from Milan.’
‘Oh, it sounds so tempting. Are you really really sure?’
‘But of course I am sure. Tell me when, and I will be ready for you. And we can teach the bambina to speak Italian.
Ciao, bella
.’
‘
Ciao
, Mariella. Love to Giovanni.’
‘No,’ said Matt when she phoned him, ‘no, that is not acceptable.’
‘I’m sorry, Matt, but it’s acceptable to me and I’m going.’
‘I don’t want my child left in the care of a lot of wops.’
‘What makes you think I’m leaving her in the care of anyone? And don’t use that disgusting word.’
‘And who is going to look after me while you’re away?’
‘You can look after your fucking self, Matt. I’m going.’
‘My goodness, they were using the most terrible language this morning, Miss Mullan, Mr and Mrs Shaw. She’s going away without him and—’
‘Good,’ said Louise, ‘first sign of common sense I’ve seen from her in ages.’
Eliza had stayed in a great many beautiful houses in her life, and done photographic shoots in many more, but in nothing quite as splendid as the Villa d’Arice. Set in incredible gardens right on the shores of Lake Como, it was actually a small palace, built in 1600, in a style that could only be described as fantasy-classical. As Mariella’s (surprisingly modest) Fiat 600 – ‘Italian ladies don’t drive big smart cars on their own’ – drew up in front of it, Eliza let out a yelp of pleasure.
A great white edifice, it was four storeys high, pillared and columned and balconied, with the lake shining before it and the mountains brooding beyond: the sloping lawns leading down to the lake were set with huge trees, only just turning into their autumn colours, and on either side of the house were curving colonnades and wide white terraces.
Mariella had met them at the airport and chattered the entire way to the villa. Giovanni was standing on the steps to greet them, immaculately dressed in slacks and a blazer, his handsome old face smiling. A beige standard poodle sat on either side of him; Mariella’s small white poodle Pucci was running to the car. It would have made, Eliza thought, a wonderful fashion shot.
‘Eliza,
cara
. Welcome to our home. And this is the
bambina
! Oh, she is so beautiful.’ He reached out a thin brown hand to stroke Emmie’s cheek, murmuring to her in Italian; Emmie smiled at him, enchanted.
The entrance hall was immense, marbled and chandeliered, with a staircase of great grace and grandeur rising from it; Giovanni led them down an arched corridor, opening on one side onto formal gardens, and into a smaller, but exquisite,
salone
, with a low table set with tea and a display of sandwiches and pastries that would not have disgraced the Ritz. Emmie made for the food, her large blue eyes shining.
‘Emmie! No,’ said Eliza, but a smiling girl in a black dress and white apron moved forward, took Emmie’s other hand and led her to a chair where she took her on her knee, swathed her in a large napkin and fed her the cake in bite-size pieces, tenderly wiping her face free of chocolate between each one.
‘This is Anna-Maria,’ Mariella said, ‘she will be helping you with Emmie all the time you are here. She comes with very good – good reviews.’
‘References?’ said Eliza.
‘Yes, perhaps. I hope that will be all right. Of course if you would rather not…’
Eliza, feeling she had suddenly come home, said it was very much all right.
Her room was on the first floor, another scene from fantasy land, with silk wallpaper, brocade curtains, a very fine four-poster bed, a gilt and marble desk, a balcony overlooking the lake, and a small room leading from it, furnished with a cot, a highchair, a playpen and a mountain of soft toys. Another door opened to reveal a bathroom with an immense clawfooted bath and enough snowy towels piled up on a low table for a month’s stay.
They dined, the three of them, in a room overlooking the lake, dark now, shot with thousands of lights, and the clear sky with millions of stars. Mariella had popped her head into Eliza’s room as she was getting ready and told her that although Anna-Maria would sit with Emmie during the evening, if Eliza preferred, she could be with them. Eliza said she would much prefer it if Emmie was not with them and that she was already fast asleep.
‘
Bene
. Then we can all have a very lovely dinner. Very, very informal,
cara
, do not dress up.’
Eliza knew what very informal would mean: not black tie. She wore a black silk dress and high-heeled sandals, Mariella was in palazzo pyjamas, Giovanni in an exquisitely cut smoking jacket.
It was an absurdly relaxed evening, given the setting and the constant attendance of staff. They chatted throughout, there were no awkward silences. Giovanni spoke perfect English; Eliza, who spoke no Italian at all, felt embarrassed, and even said so, but he smiled at her and said it was good for both of them to speak English.
Giovanni clearly enjoyed gossip; Mariella chattered away about mutual friends, about clothes and shops, about their summer on their yacht, moored at Portofino.
‘Everyone leaves Milan in the summer months,’ she said, ‘you cannot buy so much as a loaf of bread. It is deserted. The families have to leave, the city is so hot, unbearable even, out here.’
‘And the mosquitoes are terrible, you are eaten alive,’ Giovanni said. ‘Milan is built on a swamp, you see, surrounded by the mountains. People go to the seaside, the country, a few to chalets in the mountains. We have a place there, in Cervinia, but we usually only use that in the winter.’
‘And – do you ski?’
‘A little. Mostly we just eat lunch.’ Giovanni smiled at her, refilled her glass. ‘You must think we are very idle. I don’t suppose Mariella has told you about her charity work. That redeems us both, I hope.’
‘She hasn’t, no,’ said Eliza, intrigued. ‘What charity work, Mariella?’
‘Oh – I help other ladies raise money for the poor children of Milan. And once a year, I go to Lourdes.’
‘To Lourdes!’
‘Yes. I go with some of the Sisters from the convent here, and other volunteers, we accompany the poor pilgrims on their journey. It is a long journey on the train, or sometimes for the very worst cases by ambulance and coaches. They need much help, and some have no families. It is very, very sad at times. But wonderful, nonetheless.’
‘Tomorrow, we have a more interesting evening for you,’ Giovanni said, clearly in need of a change of subject, ‘a few friends, two of them English.’
‘English!’
‘Yes, there are many English working in Milan. It is an industrial city and an international one. I try to support our motor industry,’ he added with a smile. ‘Mariella has her Fiat and I have a Lancia. But then in the garage, we have an English Rolls-Royce.’
The next morning, Mariella said they would drive into Milan.
‘I have a lot to do, and I think it will be interesting for you. Emmie can come if you wish, we will take Anna-Maria too, and then if the little one gets bored, they can go for a walk.’
Eliza had been to Milan in her work but, moving from hotel to fashion show to photographic studio, had simply seen it as a plain, if stylish, sister to Florence and Rome. Now, she was able to appreciate it so much more, to see it above all as a working, lived-in, sleekly fashionable city: large avenues, lined with balconied houses, with smaller charming ones, little more than lanes, turning abruptly off them, the chic streaks of colour that were the fashion streets, the treasure troves of Via della Spiga, Corso Venezia, Via St Andrea; the sudden glimpses of tranquil, tree-filled private courtyards, opening off the busy streets; the orange trams with their blazing headlights, carving their way through the city; the palazzos, great and small, set so casually among the streets and squares, the wide piazzas, the vast open space occupied by the Duomo, the elaborate wedding-cakewhite cathedral, topped by
La Madonnina
– and the great curving colonnade of the most famous shopping street of all, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, leading from it, for another kind of worship altogether. And all of it bathed in the brilliant clear light of autumnal Milan.
And the Milanese women: so chic, so perfectly presented, with their strong features and wonderful hair, a little flashier than their Paris counterparts perhaps, in their exquisitely cut jackets, brilliantly coloured scarves and their high leather boots. It was a visual gluttony; Eliza found herself constantly sighing with pleasure.
Mariella’s main preoccupation, it appeared, was preparing for the Milan social season.
‘It starts on 7 December, every year, the day of St Ambroeus, the patron saint of Milan. Everyone goes to La Scala, that is the great social event of the year. Always Verdi, although just very occasionally Rossini. Heads of state attend, and very often monarchs from other countries. Certainly from France and Austria, and I think sometimes your Queen? There are pre-Scala parties, the night before, very, very grand, and of course many, many afterwards. So, you see, one needs so many dresses. Today we will visit my dressmaker. And also I have an appointment with Mila Schön, my favourite Milanese couturier. I thought you would be interested in that. But before we start, we will go to Cova for coffee. You will like it.’