‘I’ll do it. Please go back to bed.’
She would have narrowed her eyes, but it hurt too much. ‘Why are you being so kind?’
Sam sighed. ‘Look, I know we got off to the worst start, and I know we’re never going to get along, but the fact of the matter is, for at least the next few weeks we have to find a way to live together. You’re not well, and I’m here with nothing much to do, and it makes sense for me to take over. So please go back to bed and sleep it off.’
‘I owe you one,’ she replied. ‘If I ever feel better I’ll try and make it up to you.’
That made the corner of his lip twitch, but he ignored her offer anyway. ‘Go on, get off with you. If you’re not up by this evening I’ll come in and check on you. Otherwise, get some sleep, have a shower, and smarten yourself up.’
‘Yes, sir.’ If she had more than a basic control of her muscles she would have curtsied. Instead she used the small amount of energy she had to climb up the stairs to her bedroom.
Maybe when she was feeling better she’d try to work out Sam’s motivations, why he’d been so accommodating to her. For now, though, she’d just be grateful for them, wherever they came from.
It was early afternoon when Cesca made it out of bed the second time. She stepped under the rainfall shower, letting the stream of water soothe her aching muscles. Though a trace of her headache remained, the incessant nausea had disappeared, replaced by a nagging hunger that demanded to be fed. She ignored it, instead concentrating on getting dressed, styling her hair and putting on a dash of make-up. Scrutinising herself in the mirror, she was surprised at how healthy she looked after what she’d managed to put her body through the previous night.
She’d let herself down. Again. That’s what it all came down to in the end. As with her life in London, she’d let herself be carried away, not bothering to take control of her own decisions. It had to stop. She’d thought it already had. That was what coming here was about, after all. And even if things at the villa had been slightly set awry by the arrival of Sam Carlton, that didn’t mean she needed to deviate from her plans.
That’s how she found herself sitting in the silent library that afternoon, in front of the old computer there, staring at the blank screen. The cursor was winking at her from behind the glass, taunting, or maybe hoping.
Writing used to be so easy. The pads of her fingers would move almost instinctively from key to key, forming words without her having to really think them. Like a pianist playing by ear, she would let her movements do the talking.
But now, it was as if she was tone deaf.
She looked at the handwritten notes beside her. Character sketches and plot ideas. They were all there, waiting as patiently as the cursor. She had the bones, she just needed to add the flesh.
‘What if it’s no good?’ she whispered to herself. But no, that wasn’t it at all. Her biggest fear was the opposite. What if it was too good? What if it was the best thing she’d ever write? Could she bear to lose it again, to see all her hard work turn to nothing, like it did six years ago?
Glancing up, she saw a photograph of Sam on the library wall. He was laughing with two young girls – his sisters – looking as gloriously handsome as ever. She waited for the familiar anger to hit, but nothing came. Instead all she felt was peace.
It had never been Sam’s fault, not really. Deep down she’d always known that. Plays folded all the time, it was the chance everybody took when they gave their heart to the theatre. The only person stopping Cesca writing was herself. And she’d been doing it for six years.
She closed her eyes to take a deep breath in. Her heart was speeding in her chest. And with her eyes still firmly shut, she let her fingers drift across the keyboard, pressing down in a rhythm only she seemed to know. Then, still holding her breath, she slowly opened her eyes to see the words written on the screen before her.
ACT 1
SCENE 1
Opens on the interior of a run-down but wealthy house. Four sisters are sitting in a kitchen, all wearing mourning clothes.
Cesca’s breathing was laboured as she added in the first lines. Through their dialogue, the four sisters slowly came to li
fe, each word like a breath, inflating their lungs. And then her fingers were flying, like a musician approaching the crescendo, as the long-dormant part of her brain took over.
Though she was hungry, and still a little weak from the morning’s hangover, she found herself typing furiously, stopping occasionally to scribble down ideas on the pad beside the computer. When the ideas refused to surface, she carried on typing anyway, putting in nonsense that no doubt she’d need to cut out when she did her first run of edits. But the process of writing, of actually placing the pads of her fingers on the keys and tapping them, of watching the words form in front of her eyes, it was enticing. Addictive even.
Cesca was exhilarated. It was as though she had been transported from that pretty villa in Varenna back to London, to an old, dusty theatre, with huge red stage curtains and threadbare velvet seats. She was watching her characters interact, jibe, fall in love, and it was beautiful.
As the day wore out its welcome, and the evening slipped its backdrop down over the sky, she carried on typing, breathless and inspired. If she’d stopped to think, maybe she’d have marvelled at how things had changed so much in a few hours. How a day that had started out so badly had turned into something quite wonderful. But she was far too absorbed for that.
Sam waved the cleaners off at lunchtime. They were supremely efficient, removing every piece of dust from the floors and furniture. A couple of them recognised him, two young girls who stood in the corner, unashamedly gossiping until their boss shouted at them to get back to work. Sam tried to ignore it; he was used to interested speculation after all, but this time he felt a tug in his gut as he wondered whether they’d heard about him and Serena Sloane. Thank God Cesca couldn’t speak Italian; the last thing he needed was for her to discover the sordid details of his affair. She wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.
While the cleaners buffed and polished the inside of the villa, and the gardeners cut and tidied the grounds, Sam grabbed his copy of E. M. Forster and headed out into the gardens, lying in the beautiful Italian sun while he read about early-twentieth-century lives.
Naturally, his mind drifted to Cesca, and to her reaction to him. He and Cesca were both in Italy for different reasons, yet they’d been thrown together in the same house, coming into contact with each other again and again. Wary housemates, tiptoeing around until the summer ended.
And then what? Sam wasn’t really sure. There was no doubt about it, he was hiding here, and had no real game plan after that. All he could hope was that after the summer he would have disappeared from the headlines, and he could get on with acting, instead of dodging paparazzi. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? To just be left alone to get on with his job. He tried to ignore the voice in his head – the one that sounded suspiciously like his recently fired agent – telling him that wasn’t how the movie industry worked. Deep inside he knew the truth of that. Good acting didn’t sell movies, as much as he’d like to believe it, but publicity did. People would only swarm to see a movie if they’d heard of it, and having his face out there was guaranteed to ensure people came to see Sam.
It was a game he was tired of playing, though, especially since he’d been burned.