Chapter Twenty-Eight Tuscany Wednesday 5 August 2015 #2
‘Hello, everyone!’ Leo said, as he approached the table on the terrace.
Henrietta set down her martini; Olivia resisted the urge to pick it up.
‘This is the writers’ retreat? Villa Margo?
’ He stopped by the table, whipped out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and mopped his brow under his hat.
‘Blimey, it’s hot,’ he said beguilingly, ‘and that pool looks very inviting – are we allowed in it?’
‘Of course we are!’ Henrietta cried. ‘But wouldn’t you want to take all your clothes off first?’ She grinned at him above her expansive bosom. ‘And yes, this is the Villa Margo. But we’ve all been here for four days. There’s only one day left. You’re late.’
He shrugged. Everyone except Olivia – who was frozen in the bright sunshine – smiled or giggled.
‘Two days is enough,’ said Leo. He placed his hanky back in his pocket. ‘I’ve only got an epilogue to write, and I’m late because they’ve been shooting the movie of Midnight Preys in Perugia. I went along to see how it was all going.’
‘How is it all going?’ asked Martin.
‘Really well, thanks.’ Leo looked proud, as well he might.
Midnight Preys had been a huge bestseller two years ago and was now being made into a movie starring Ryan Gosling and Cate Blanchett.
Not that Olivia was following Leo’s career with interest. Not that she was always following Leo Greene with interest, and from a more than respectable distance.
‘How did you hear about this retreat?’ Clemmie asked. She surreptitiously rolled on some lip balm.
‘My agent told me about it. Ears to the ground and all that.’ Leo looked directly at the frozen woman. ‘It’s been a while, Olivia,’ he said. ‘How did you hear about it?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t think you’d be the writers’ retreat type.’
‘I’m not,’ said Olivia, and the other writers looked at her. ‘But it’s been fabulous.’
‘Great! Well, I’m dying of thirst.’ Leo took off his jacket to reveal a rather crumpled white shirt, unbuttoned way too far. ‘What do I need to do to get a cold drink around here?’
The others were only too willing to oblige, pulling out a chair for him, rustling him up a glass of cold sparkling water, and some pastries from the kitchen.
Samantha even said, ‘Ooh, you used to be a food critic – I hope this is good enough for you, sir,’ when she plonked a bowl of segmented Seville oranges in front of him, causing Leo to laugh, his hazel eyes lighting up in mirth; his mouth, that warm surprise, as ever.
‘I’m going back to my room,’ Olivia said, standing up. ‘I think I’ll start early today, I’m on a tricky chapter. See you all at the usual time.’
They watched her leave, but she was only aware of Leo, his eyes fixed on her, suddenly serious.
In her quiet room, she set up for the day: flinging open her window to bring in the woody scent of the vineyards below the villa and the sound of the tractor bumping once again over the distant fields.
A glass of chilled water on her desk, an open laptop and a notepad and pencil were her only companions.
She would write until lunch, but not sit with the others, instead sneaking out some bread and cheese from the kitchen.
She would work on until supper, rising to shower and to dress determinedly in what she had planned to wear for tonight.
She would not think about the last time she and Leo had spoken, five years ago, at the London Library.
Her words of bitterness; his of exasperation and anger.
She would not think about the last time she had seen him, when their taxis had passed in Knightsbridge traffic one summer evening last year.
How his profile had made her want to cry.
At 7.30 p.m. she stepped on to the terrace, apprehensive in a navy-blue cotton tiered maxi dress. Leo was in the pool, doing lengths. Before she had time to walk away, he was at the coping.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘you look nice.’ He slapped his elbows on the side of the pool and glanced up at her. Wet hair, a droplet of water hesitating on his bottom lip, two smooth brown shoulders.
‘Thanks.’ She didn’t know what else to say. She barely wanted to look at him, he looked so good.
‘It’s been a long time,’ he said.
‘Five years,’ she replied, then instantly regretted having that number to hand. ‘More or less.’
‘It’s good to see you.’
Was he expecting her to say, ‘You, too?’ She didn’t say anything.
‘Are you OK with me being here?’
‘I’m not sure why you’re here, to be honest.’
‘I told you, I was nearby for the movie. My agent suggested I come. How do you want to play this, me being around?’
She stared at him. The droplet of water left his lip and slipped down his chin. ‘I don’t want to “play” anything. I just want to get back to yesterday when you weren’t here.’
He grinned. Then he bit at his bottom lip. ‘Congratulations on all your success,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting to say that to you for a long while.’
‘Congratulations on the continuation of yours.’
He nodded. ‘I almost sent an email a couple of times.’
‘That would have been very generous of you.’
He placed his palms flat on the edge of the pool and lifted himself out, water dripping from his sleek seal-body on to the slabs. He walked to fetch his towel, slung over the back of a wrought-iron pool chair, and started rubbing at his tanned shoulders with it.
‘So, really I—’ he started.
‘I’ve forgotten something,’ Olivia muttered.
‘I just need to . . .’ She flapped her hand in the direction of the villa and hurried inside.
Back in her room, she sat down on the bed in relief and horror.
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t exist in the same space as Leo Greene.
Why was he so unbothered about doing the same? Why was he here?
She sat on the bed for twenty-five minutes until there was a knock at the door. It was Clemmie, in a startling orange dress and far more make-up than usual.
‘We’re all going out,’ she said, her lips a glossy coral. ‘To that restaurant down the valley. We’re giving poor Margo the night off from cooking. Are you coming?’
‘Who’s going?’ Olivia asked.
‘Well, all of us . . .’
‘Is Leo Greene going?’
‘Yes. Do you want to come?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry. I’m going to stay at the villa. But thanks for knocking for me.’
She closed the door, lay down on the bed. She lay there for a long time, until, through her open window, she could hear faint strains of music, staccato hoots of laughter and the plink-plink of cutlery against china.
She got up and leaned through the window, twisting her head to spy the restaurant down the small hill to the right of the villa.
She could only see its trellised roof, entwined with summer roses and fairy lights.
She could only detect the delicious notes of wild garlic and rosemary and chargrilled vegetables.
She didn’t want to go to a beautiful restaurant with Clemmie and Sam, and Henrietta and Martin, and Leo bloody Greene.
She didn’t want to change out of the dull navy dress and put on the one she had added to her case, last minute – the one with the 1950s shape, the full skirt, in baby pink.
The dress she felt like a ballerina in. She didn’t want to refresh her make-up, using that new nude lipstick she had bought on a whim at the airport and shoved in her travel bag.
She didn’t want to brush her hair and curl it into a pretty chignon at the nape of her neck . . .
But the perfect evening can change the most hardened, the most obstinate of minds. The perfect evening can entice with a wink of candlelight and the beckoning finger of fun and laughter. And a man you wanted to forget, but never could, can turn your life upside down once again . . .