Cesca took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her racing thoughts. ‘How could I forget? And stop changing the subject: I’m not leaving. I’ve been employed to do a job and I’m going to bloody well do it. So you need to go back to Hollywood and leave me alone.’
‘I’m not going back to Hollywood.’
‘And I’m not going back to London.’
Sam stared at her silently for a moment. His hand was opening and closing around his car keys, the rental company key ring lying in his palm. ‘Then we’re at an impasse. And if I’m being perfectly frank, I can’t be bothered to argue with you any more. I’m going to bed. Perhaps in the morning you’ll see some sense.’
With that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to pick up his bags.
The stupid, insufferable, handsome actor had managed to completely ruin her day. Sticking her tongue out at his retreating form, she decided to head to bed herself.
Tomorrow she’d work out what the hell she was going to do.
7
The better part of valour is discretion
– Henry IV Part I
Cesca looked up as the waiter brought a cup full of steaming coffee, laying it gently on the table next to the computer. She smiled her thanks, then lifted the china to her lips, taking a moment to inhale the sweet, milky aroma. On her first day in Varenna, Gabi had explained that a cappuccino was only a breakfast drink in Italy. The natives would laugh at tourists who ordered the frothy drink later in the day.
Swallowing a mouthful, she thanked God she’d ordered an extra shot of espresso. It had been a long, wakeful night, and her sleeplessness was taking its toll now morning had arrived. She’d climbed out of bed just before seven, being careful to be quiet, not wanting to wake Sam up. As far as she was concerned she wanted to be out of the house before he even got out of bed. She wasn’t sure she could take another confrontation like last night.
The café computer finally sprang to life. Cesca took another sip of her coffee, looking through the window at the main piazza. Laid with a series of circular stones, the square was surrounded on all sides by tall Italian buildings, their façades beautifully painted in pastels, and their black iron balconies filled with flowering plants. On the far end of the square, past the huge, knobbled trees planted in rows, was the impressive church of San Giovanni Battista. The sun was rising over its roof, finally filling the square with light. It bounced off the bricks where they’d been washed by the café workers that morning.
Grabbing the mouse, she clicked on her email account. The unread messages loaded; the usual marketing emails from shops and services, plus a few strange spams that had evaded detection. In the middle of them all was a message from her sister Juliet, asking how she was enjoying her time in Varenna. Cesca scanned the words quickly. Juliet was living in Maryland with her husband, Thomas, and their daughter, Poppy. Cesca wrinkled her nose – none of the Shakespeare sisters had really taken to their brother-in-law, in spite of the whirlwind romance between him and Juliet.
Her sister’s description of Poppy’s latest escapades made Cesca smile, though. At six years old, she was the spitting image of Juliet and was always getting into scrapes. This time she’d managed to fly over the handlebars of her bike as she was learning to ride it. Luckily she’d managed to sustain only a few scrapes and scabs.
A wave of homesickness passed over her. Though her sisters were scattered far and wide, there was something about living in London that made her feel close to them. Growing up, the four of them had been a team, taking care of each other. It was the Shakespeare sisters against the world.
Now, though, she was the only one left in London. And though they kept in contact, it wasn’t the same. All three of her sisters seemed to have their lives sorted. Kitty was settled in LA, and Juliet was setting up her own business – a flower shop. As for Lucy, she was the most secure of them all, a high-flying solicitor living in the beautiful city of Edinburgh.
Cesca opened up a new window, intending to write an email to her godfather. She had considered calling him, but the likelihood was she’d either scream at him and make him upset, or he’d talk her around with his sugar-coated tongue, making her wonder why she thought she had a problem in the first place. Neither option seemed very palatable right now. Instead she typed his name into the recipient box, then moved her cursor down to the main body of the email, hesitating as she tried to work out what she wanted to say.
Should she ask him to buy her a ticket home? Cesca wrinkled her nose, remembering that she had nowhere to live when she went back. Giving up her flat share with Susie had seemed like a good idea at the time. So that would mean moving back in with her father – at least for a while – and that thought didn’t feel very acceptable at all. Not that her father wasn’t lovely, in his absent-minded way, but even he would notice there was something wrong with her, that she couldn’t actually hold down a job or find money for little things like food and rent. No, there was no way she wanted to go home to that.
What were the alternatives, though? She knew her sisters or Hugh would take her in, but she wasn’t a child any more. She had to stand on her own two feet. It was either go back to London, or stay here. She couldn’t afford to move out of Villa Palladino; she didn’t have enough money to pay the exorbitant rates charged by hotels here by Lake Como.
Ugh, what a choice. Cesca felt as though she was bobbing somewhere in between the devil and the deep blue sea, desperately trying not to drown. Either she returned to London with her tail between her legs, or she s
tayed here in Varenna and put up with the existence of her nemesis, all while attempting to write a play for the first time in six years.
The café was starting to fill up, the rickety tables in front of the window becoming populated by a combination of tourists and locals. Not that Varenna contained the regular sort of tourist. Lake Como was well known for its rich visitors; a mixture of the wealthy and famous rented or owned the lakeside villas, and descended upon the village in the summer. Prosperity reigned here, the visitors wearing expensive clothes and designer sunglasses, their burnished skins revealing the effects of years of sun worshipping.
‘Is this seat taken?’ Cesca looked up to see a tall man standing next to the table. For a moment, with his dark hair and chiselled jaw, she thought it was Sam. She opened her mouth to tell him where to go before realising it was simply another stranger.
‘No, please feel free.’ Cesca gestured at the chair opposite. She switched off the computer screen and moved her notepad, attempting to make some space on the table for the man.
‘Don’t clear up on my account.’ He shot her a smile. ‘I’m only stopping for a quick coffee.’
Ah, he was a local. She could tell from the hint of an accent in his words, although his pronunciation was almost perfect. She let her eyes meet his, taking in the tanned skin covered with a hint of a beard, framing his full red lips and sharp cheekbones.
‘I was leaving anyway,’ Cesca replied, flustered at her reaction. ‘I just need to get the bill.’
‘Please don’t go. Let me buy you another coffee, keep me company.’
His manners were as sophisticated as the rest of him. He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a smattering of hair across the very top of his chest.