Cova was a coffee shop on the Via Montenapoleone, a glut of gilt and pink and marble, with pastel-painted friezes festooned with golden cherubs, and piles of picture-perfect pastries and chocolates. Emmie took one look at the pastries, reached out a chubby hand and said ‘for me’. It had been her first sentence, learnt, Eliza said, from her father.
‘Everybody comes here,’ said Mariella. ‘In the morning early you order your coffee and a croissant and stand at the bar. If you have a little time, you sit in the café. We will sit.’
Anna-Maria settled Emmie on her lap and did the napkin routine again; Eliza sat thankfully back and ate two pastries in swift succession and drank a large hot chocolate and then even finished a slice of panettone. Mariella watched her, smiling.
‘I was suspicious that your brioche was not enough for you this morning,’ she said.
‘No, no, it was wonderful,’ said Eliza, ‘it’s just that everything is better than the thing before.’
The day went on. Anna-Maria took Emmie for a series of little walks; they visited Mariella’s dressmaker, where she had fittings for six long dresses, three silk, three satin; then to Mila Schön, where she ordered two cocktail suits; then to Sebastian in Via Montenapoleone for some shoes.
‘Nothing for you?’ Mariella asked.
‘No, honestly. I really mustn’t. I’ve spent all next year’s dress allowance already.’
‘Then I will buy you a little present. Some gloves? Perhaps a handbag? Yes, we will go to Prada. We must walk through the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, it is very, very important.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ said Eliza, suddenly anxious not to appear a fashion bumpkin.
‘Yes, yes, of course you do, but also it moves between Milan’s two great landmarks, La Scala and the Duomo. Come. Look, the little one is asleep in her chairpush. Now there is Rinascente, our great department store. Look at the windows, Eliza, are they not wonderful? They have a brilliant young man dressing them, Giorgio Armani. I think he will go far. Come, to Prada.’
Mariella marched towards Prada, through the great vaulted arcade of the Galleria and ushered Eliza inside. Anna-Maria sank into a chair in one of the cafés nearby.
They knew Mariella in Prada. A great deal of greeting and fast-fire Italian went on; five handbags appeared on the counter with great speed.
‘There. You choose,
cara
. You need a bag. The one you have is not worthy of you.’
‘Oh,’ said Eliza, enchanted by the notion of being worthy of a bag, protested a little longer and then gave up and decided it would be rude not to accept.
The one she chose was a glorious soft pouch of a thing. ‘That will hold the kitchen cupboard, I think,’ Mariella said. ‘Why not something a little more chic?’
‘No, this is what I want, please,’ Eliza said, ‘and I often have to take the kitchen cupboard when I go out these days. So—’
‘
Bene
,’ said Mariella. ‘Then have it, with my love.’
They left, no money apparently having changed hands.
‘And now,’ said Mariella, ‘shall we have lunch?’
‘I couldn’t eat lunch,’ said Eliza, laughing, ‘and I think Emmie has had several lunches already.’
‘Then we will have an early tea and go home. And prepare for our dinner party.’
The dinner party was fun, conducted for the most part in English, as a clear courtesy to Eliza: the guests included a delightful Italian couple, a fashion editor on Italian
Vogue
called Alessandra, and her banker husband; an Italian woman friend of Mariella’s who had once been a dancer, Mariella told Eliza as they waited for her to arrive – ‘she married a count and pretends she has forgotten her start’ – who was very grand until a few glasses of wine had gone down and then became rather bawdy and even sang a Billie Holiday number at one point, rather well and unaccompanied; and an Englishman called Timothy Fordyce, who worked, it transpired, in advertising. And not only in advertising, but for KPD in Milan.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Eliza, laughing, ‘I had no idea they had a branch in Milan.’
‘Oh, they do,’ said Fordyce, ‘KPD is everywhere. You know the one in London of course.’
‘Of course. A – a friend of mine, a great friend actually, worked there, Jeremy Northcott. He’s in New York now—’
‘Oh, Jeremy. Yes, I’ve met him a few times. What a charmer. He’s running the office there now, meant to stay six months and they won’t let him go. Tell me, has he married yet? I heard some English beauty broke his heart, is that true?’
‘Um – it could be,’ said Eliza.
‘The English beauty, Timothy,’ Mariella said, ‘she is sitting next to you.’
‘No! Good lord. Is that right, was it really you?’
‘There could have been another one since,’ said Eliza feebly, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, small world,’ said Timothy Fordyce. ‘Wait till I see him. I’m off to New York in a few weeks, big agency conference.’
‘Well, give him my – my regards.’
‘I will. And you’re married, are you?’
‘Oh – yes. But he’s not here.’
She felt confused and rather foolish; it was patently obvious that her husband wasn’t there.
‘So, what do you do at KPD?’ she asked. ‘Are you on the account side?’
‘Yes. We service all the international clients. There are several English agencies in Milan, as a matter of fact, McCann’s, JWT. The art directors are all English too, they despise graphic design at the art schools here, only teach them the classical stuff. And you, what do you do?’
‘Eliza and I, we met in Paris,’ said Mariella, ‘she is a very famous fashion editor.’
‘On?’
‘A magazine called
Charisma
.’
‘
Charisma
! No! Marvellous magazine. Absolutely marvellous. Fashion pages are incredible. Well – clever old you.’
Eliza felt very sad suddenly, rather like Cinderella at the ball, only less fortunate, for where was the prince who could save her and keep her in this enchanted kingdom? Then she told herself she was being ridiculous, and that she wasn’t here to mope, but to be amusing and earn her keep.
She fell asleep with the curtains open, a full moon streaming onto her bed. Emmie slept sweetly and peacefully; a note on Eliza’s pillow said that if she wanted to stay in bed late, she had only to ring for Anna-Maria when Emmie awoke.
The thought came to her, swift and unbidden, that if she had married Jeremy, her life would be at least a little like this one.
Quietly, gently, Adrian died. He drifted away from the sad travesty of a thing that his life had become by way of first a minor stroke and then a major one, followed by a heart attack, none of which he was properly aware of.
He had been listening to the news, and heard about the shooting of Bobby Kennedy, and had called Sarah to join him.
‘Who could have imagined anything so dreadful,’ he said, ‘only five years after his brother. What a dreadful thing. And how hard for the family to bear. We’ve been lucky,’ he said, taking her hand, his voice faint, but quite cheerful, ‘we’ve been spared that kind of grief, we still have each other and our – our …’
‘Children,’ Sarah said, into the silence, for he often lost his place in sentences these days, but then turning to smile at him, got nothing in reply but a blank stare; and watched as his head lolled sideways, and his body slumped heavily away from her, still holding her hand.
She sat for a short while, listening quite carefully to the details of the events in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, recognising the much greater importance of what had just happened in her own kitchen, but not quite yet able to face it and all the procedures that must follow.
And so Eliza heard the news, not as she had always feared by way of a panicked phone call in the middle of the night, but by an almost unnaturally calm one, halfway through the morning; a small, sad voice that was almost unrecognisable as Sarah’s, telling her that her father was in hospital and was not expected to last the day.
She and Charles arrived too late to say goodbye to him, and stood staring down at the white empty shell they knew to be, but could scarcely recognise as, the handsome, caring, charming father they had all loved so much.
Sarah was calm, clearly shocked and relieved in equal measure; they spent the rest of the day talking, the three of them, remembering, laughing, crying, reliving what had been the happiest of childhoods and family life, and Adrian’s greatest gift to them all.
Matt and Juliet came too, later in the day, but stayed uneasily together on the perimeter of the group; Matt had left Emmie with Sandra.
The funeral, a week later, was wonderful. The little church was full, people standing at the back and even in the porch, the flowers done with particular care by the ladies of the parish, the choir especially well rehearsed, the vicar at full throttle, his rather fruity voice extolling Adrian’s courage through his long illness, and his outstanding virtues as church warden, his generosity both with his time and Summercourt’s produce (eggs and strawberries) at the village fête, his diplomatic skills as a parish councillor.
Charles, pale and very nervous, spoke of childhood and adult memories of his father and said how greatly his life had been shaped by both Adrian himself and life with him at Summercourt; Eliza spoke briefly but tenderly of her parents’ long and happy marriage, and of their wedding in the same church, almost forty years earlier.
‘Too short, of course,’ she said, glancing briefly at her mother and smiling, ‘but they were lucky that it was nonetheless longer than many.’
Sandra and Pete had come, Pete genuinely sad at the loss of his new friend; Sandra had wanted to sit at the back of the church, but Matt ushered them forward. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum, you’re part of this family.’
Anna and Piers Marchant were there, Anna surprisingly subdued, although she came over to embrace Matt and Eliza, telling Matt how marvellous it was to see him and berating Eliza for not bringing him over for dinner, and Piers pumped his hand and said he hoped the whole family realised what a lot Matt had done for Sarah.
‘Lucky to have you, dear boy, that’s the fact of the matter. See you later up at the house. Share a few jars, eh? Like to know what you think of this Roy Jenkins chappie. Five bob on a bottle of Scotch indeed! Daylight robbery.’
Emmie had not gone to the service; it was felt she was too young and that it would be distressing for her. Eliza had been terrified she would throw a tantrum and demand to be allowed to go, but she seemed to have picked up on the general subdued atmosphere, and was behaving beautifully. She had been left in the care of Charles and Eliza’s old nanny, who was, with her little problem, she said, unable to attend long ceremonies. ‘Incontinence,’ whispered Eliza to Matt, ‘but Emmie will be fine with her, they’re going to play snakes and ladders and the catering lady has promised to keep an eye on them both.’
But as they walked up the hill, Emmie was standing by the big gates, with large tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘I was too sad to play,’ she said.
It was perhaps a most fitting tribute to Adrian the family man.
Sarah had wept quite a lot at the service, but afterwards at the party at Summercourt – the drawing room cleaned and tidied by volunteers from the village – she seemed surprisingly cheerful, sparkling her way round the room, thanking everyone for their help and generosity.
‘Poor Mummy,’ said Eliza to Matt, standing and looking at her, as people began to leave, ‘she’s still in shock. She’ll have to leave now, of course, she can’t stay here. And Charles certainly can’t afford to keep it, so it really will have to go.’
‘But I thought it couldn’t be sold. Because of this trust.’
‘It can’t. Not in Mummy’s lifetime. She has this power of appointment thing which means she can appoint it out – that is, say who is to have it – but there still won’t be any money to do it up. I know you’ve been wonderful and done the roof, but it still needs so much more spent on it. I think there are some cousins in Canada somewhere, who could afford to spend money on it. Of course the trustees would have to agree to that. Bit of a poisoned chalice, you could say. And – who is to say they’d do it properly? How we’d want?’
‘Now, hang on a bit,’ said Matt, ‘I may be a bit thick and not used to all this, but if someone else has got the house and they’re pouring money into it, why should it be the way you want?’
‘Because it’s Summercourt,’ said Eliza. ‘Because it’s ours.’
‘But it wouldn’t be yours.’
‘Matt,’ said Eliza, ‘Summercourt will always be ours. It’s part of us.’ The emotion of the day and anxiety and grief about the future were beginning to get the better of her. ‘Even if someone else was living here. I mean, suppose they decided to – oh, I don’t know, put in modern windows so it was warmer. It would be unbearable. And wrong. You don’t understand.’
‘Too right I don’t understand,’ said Matt. ‘If it was mine, I tell you, I’d put in any sort of windows I liked, and paint the door sky-blue pink if I wanted to. You people really are something else. Eliza, if my dad sold our house, do you think he’d have the right to hang about outside telling the new owner not to paint the front door green just because he liked it red? Course not. I tell you, Eliza, if you think having grown up in a house that you can’t afford any more gives you the right to lord it over anyone who can, you got real problems. Now I’m going to get myself a drink and find someone I can have a reasonable conversation with. Where’s Emmie anyway?’