‘You wouldn’t . . . ’ He could feel his cheeks heating up. ‘Why would you threaten that?’
She leaned forward, her voice almost a hiss. ‘Because if you can stick to your side of the bargain and not bother me, then I’ll pretend you don’t exist. Maybe that way we can live together without wanting to kill each other.’
Sam wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to do that. ‘Maybe we both have something to lose. I’ve got leverage over you, too. If you tell anybody I’m here, then I’ll call my parents and ask them to get rid of you, which will leave you with no money and no job.’
Her face paled, in spite of the tan of her skin. ‘You wouldn’t.’
He smiled. ‘Try me.’
She shook her head, swallowing hard as she stared out into space. Finally she brought her eyes over to meet his. ‘OK, it’s a deal.’
‘There’s one more thing.’
‘There is?’ She looked surprised.
‘If I give you some money, I’d like you to keep this refrigerator supplied.’
She stared at him, as if mulling his words over. As if to show some sort of concession Sam picked up the empty juice carton and put it into the recycling bin, taking care to collapse it first. Cesca watched him carefully, her face placid and still. This time she wasn’t giving anything away.
‘Please?’ He used his sweetest tone, wanting this conversation to be over for once and all.
She swallowed, her delicate neck bobbing. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. ‘OK.’
8
How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
– The Comedy of Errors
Sam was everywhere she looked. Not the real-life, smooth-tongued person, oh no, he was wise enough to hide his face. But his likeness smiled out of every wall, with photographs documenting his growth from a grinning, messy-haired boy into awkward teenager. Then there was the man himself, complete with sharp jaw and white teeth, his hair flopping across his forehead artfully. How had she not noticed them before? All these photographs on side tables and affixed to the wall had been in the villa all along, but it was only since Sam had arrived in Varenna that they had made themselves known.
And now it felt as though they were taunting her. Reminding her that this was his home, and he could throw her out whenever he wanted. The arrogant bastard.
He’d been here for almost a week and she still couldn’t stand the sight of him. Every time they talked it seemed to turn into an argument, heated and angry, leaving both of them breathless. It was exhausting.
Sighing, she picked up her notebook and her sunhat, deciding that a morning spent on the villa’s private beach was preferable to being cooped up with Sam. It was just past eleven; Cesca’s shadow was short as it followed her across the patio, her sandals clipping the old paving stones as she walked down towards the footpath. Around the corner she could hear the gardeners talking to each other in fast Italian, their voices loud as it pierced the relative silence of the garden. She smiled as she listened, not able to discern any words, but impressed nonetheless at just how beautiful they sounded. No doubt the gardeners would be old and rotund when she saw them, but their voices were anything but. They were deep and throaty, their sentences rising and falling like music, and Cesca let it wash over her as she approached.
‘Buona mattina, signorina,’ the eldest gardener called across to her. He was wearing long, dark trousers and a grey T-shirt, his belt so tight his stomach bulged over the top. His face was deeply tanned from a lifetime exposed to the sun, his cheeks speckled with smudges of dirt where he’d been digging in the soil. Cesca lifted her hand and gave him a wave, aware she should know his name, but not able to remember it. Sandro had introduced them on her second day there, explaining that the gardeners came to the house three times a week. Like locusts they arrived in a swarm, descending on the greenery, able to tidy the whole estate up in a matter of hours.
‘Where are you off to?’ It was only when the second man spoke that she realised it was Sam. Without waiting for an answer he turned and began to talk to the gardener again, Italian words dancing from his mouth as though it was his native tongue. He sounded so different, his voice even deeper, almost guttural. And though every part of her screamed not to acknowledge it, she couldn’t help but admit it made him even more attractive than he already was.
‘I’m going down to the beach. Then later I might go into town again. Because I can.’ She wrinkled her nose at him. Once again, he made her feel like a twelve-year-old girl.
‘Maybe you can pick up a few things for me?’ he asked smoothly. ‘I’ve nearly run out again.’
Her lips tightened. She wanted to tell him where to stick his things, and refuse to help him at all. Every time she saw him she acted like a child.
‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘Make a list and leave it in the kitchen, I’ll pick it up on my way out.’ There, she was keeping her end of the agreement, even if it made her want to stab her own eyes with toothpicks.
She walked through the formal gardens and out into the wilder, shrub-filled landscape beyond, reaching the steps that led down to the beach. The sun reflected off the lake and straight into her eyes, making her squint as she covered her forehead with her hand. The beach was small but beautiful, with a covering of tiny shale that disappeared into the water. The Carltons had erected a small covered deck here, with sun loungers and tables to sit at while marvelling at the view offered by the lake. It was here that Cesca decided to spend her day sketching out her play. And though she hadn’t begun to write the scenes yet, it still felt like a huge achievement. Over the last week she’d somehow managed to come up with the skeleton of a story – only an outline and barely fleshed out at all – but it was more than she’d managed for the past six years.
Leaning back, she tried to imagine what it must have been like to grow up here, spending sunburned summers splashing in the water, surrounded by family and friends. From what she’d seen in the photographs, Sam had two younger sisters, who tended to stare up at him adoringly in nearly every portrait. She expected they had followed him around the villa in much the same way, running down to the beach with their swimsuits on,
trailing buckets and spades behind them, demanding that Sam threw them into the water one more time.
He seemed to have that effect on women. Most of them, anyway.
Her throat tightened. She’d never been abroad in her life until now. She and her sisters had spent their school holidays in their Hampstead home, bouncing like pinballs between the library and the garden, sometimes taking picnics up to the heath. Even if he could have afforded to take them away, her father would have almost certainly baulked at the idea of taking four young children abroad with him. Cesca couldn’t blame him, really, they’d each been a handful in their own way.