Alice
Chapter Eleven
“So you are alive?” Her words carry a familiar chastisement.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, curious at the remark.
“I was worried sick you might be sleeping rough. At first, you weren’t answering any of my calls or text messages. Then your number was disconnected.”
I know Alice well enough to know when she is holding something back.
“My phone died on me,” I answer, not untruthfully. “Then I lost the damn thing before I had a chance to back anything up. But I picked up a local pay-as-you-go replacement.”
“And you didn’t think to call me?”
“You know I don’t keep a diary. My phone is my memory where phone numbers are concerned.”
“Fair point. Anyway, I’m here. And it’s good to see you looking well. This is the place, right?” she says, accepting my response as her gaze appraises the villa. “The one Albert left you in his will?”
“Eagle House.”
“But Edward’s solicitor told him—”
“Everybody assumed the place was in ruins,” I say. “Including me. Until I got here. Why are you here, Alice?”
“Nobody knew where you were, Gabriel. Not your work colleagues, nor any of your friends. Or if they did, they were keeping tight-lipped. I told Edward somebody ought to find out. Grief can be a horrible thing to deal with alone. But you know what he’s like and how busy he gets.
And I’d run out of options. Coleman inadvertently helped me in the end.
When I told him I was worried about you, he said if he were in your shoes, he’d head for the farthest place on the planet.
Fiji or Chile. Somewhere the Callico poison had yet to infect.
Then I remembered Edward mentioning the wasteland Albert left you in Monticiano.
Anyway, I got the address from Hammond-Clyde and told Edward I had a work trip to Italy—which is true—and that I planned to pop along and check on you.
He told me to let sleeping dogs lie, but I came anyway. Do I get a hug, or what?”
I relax and step forward to embrace her, inhaling her trademark floral perfume. Despite her poor timing, I’m pleased to see her, a familiar and friendly face from a less hospitable past.
“Alice, welcome to—” I begin.
“Wonderland?” says Alice, as I step back, and we both laugh.
“You’d better come in. Don’t you have luggage with you?”
I lead her up the steps to the open front door, which now stands empty. Behind me, Alice keeps talking.
“Of course not. I thought this would be a building site. And as I say, I have legitimate business in Florence. I’m booked into the Four Seasons downtown.
Very exclusive. The driver they loaned me drove me here in the hotel Bentley, can you believe?
But this lane is a little narrow and dusty.
A nice man in the inn down the road pointed us in this direction, asked if Mrs Somebody-Or-Other—Italian name—was expecting me.
I told him I was looking for you, and he seemed to understand.
Anyway, when we reached a wider part of the lane, and I could see the house, I told the driver to let me out, said I’d walk the rest of the way.
He’ll return to pick me up at five. Earlier, if I call him. ”
We move into the shade of the hallway, and Alice slows to take in the space with evident approval. I notice Lorenzo through the glass door leading out to the veranda, setting the table with a jug of something orange that looks like Negroni.
“The Mrs Somebody-or-another you mentioned is Mrs Bellacci, the housekeeper. She’s out shopping right now, getting supplies in town. There’s also Lorenzo, the groundsman. You’ll probably meet him. The house is staffed by the two of them and managed by a local doctor.”
“And Albert arranged all of this?”
“He did.”
“Tell me honestly. Did you know?”
“Alice. I had no idea. His local contact, Dr Romano, said he was going to surprise me later in the year. I think we’re having cocktails on the veranda. Do you want to freshen up? There’s a downstairs cloakroom.”
Alice does, and once I show her the room and the door is closed behind her, I hurry to the library.
The book by A. R. Luria sits on the desk still.
I close the pages, lock the volume into a desk drawer, and pop the key into my pocket.
Once Alice has left, I plan to recheck the contents, although I feel confident this is not the book Albert meant, a medical journal, not a biography.
I’m already seated at the patio table when Alice reappears. She stands in the doorway for a moment, her eyes wide, appraising the view from the veranda.
“Albert Callico truly was a man of mystery. What an incredible place. I thought I’d lucked out at the hotel, but this is simply stunning. What is it? Eighteenth century?”
“Originally seventeenth. But extensively renovated and modernised over the years.”
“Lovingly so, I’d say,” she says, lowering herself demurely into a seat. “And now it’s all yours. Best all round if nobody mentions this to Edward.”
I finish pouring generous measures of the cocktail and push a glass across the table to her. She does not move but stares me straight in the eye.
“Come on,” she says. “Get me up to speed? What’s been happening?”
I exhale and recline against the rigid spine of the metal chair, quickly assessing how much I can tell her.
I detail the trip to the solicitor, assuming she will know that much from Edward.
She knows I stayed with friends and I embellish more when I talk about my journey, especially about being met with a finished villa rather than a bomb site.
She nods her understanding as I speak, repeatedly sipping from the glass.
“Enough about me. What’s been happening back in England?”
In true Alice style, she rolls her eyes heavenwards.
“Edward’s insisting we move into that bloody family crypt. Apparently, it’s expected of us. I agreed on the basis that I’m not giving up our place in Marylebone. The bastard will have a fight on his hands if he tries to sell that.”
Hearing her badmouth Edward, I decide to ask something that has bothered me for years.
“Now that we’re far from London, Alice,” I say, clinking my glass with hers. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“When did you ever ask permission?”
“Edward and you. I don’t get it. You’re nothing like each other. You do everything for him. What does he ever do for you?”
Alice sighs deeply. During my time in Callico House, we discussed many things, but never the one I find most intriguing.
“He gets things done, Gabriel. And we make a good partnership. He’s wildly ambitious but, as you know from first-hand experience, he rarely thinks things through before he acts and has no scruples about pushing people who disagree with him out of windows.
My job is to manage him. I advise on the implications before he makes rash decisions, especially those I foresee as bad.
And if he still decides to hurtle downhill, I ensure something happens very quickly afterwards to make him sit up and take notice, to reevaluate and, hopefully, revoke his decision.
Do you remember the so-called financial whizz he took on as his director of finance?
Son of Lord Ponsonby-Poshnose—or some equally ridiculous double-barrelled surname.
Father’s one of those entitled pricks who sleeps in the House of Lords. ”
“Lord Porter-Dunholme.”
“If you say so. I advised Edward not to employ him. Said not only did the brat lack relevant experience, but his credentials did not stack up. More importantly, there had been rumours from very credible sources about his dubious business activities, which could have tarnished our company’s reputation. Naturally, Edward ignored me.”
“You were right in the end. Didn’t Edward let him go after one of the Sunday tabloids did an exposé on his involvement with alleged human traffickers?”
“Amazing what one can achieve when one knows the right people, isn’t it? So you see, the more times Edward fucks up and I have to clear up his mess, the more he seeks out my advice.”
“You manipulate him.”
“I prefer the word manage.”
“And he never suspects?”
“Amazing how overinflated egos can blind powerful men, isn’t it?”
Am I surprised? I’m not sure I am, even though I had no idea she had such a devious streak. I am mildly impressed and happier than ever that she has my back.
“You’re married to him so you can manage him? That can’t be all. What do you get out of the relationship, Alice?”
“Security. Companionship. The usual. He also has a talented tongue and a sizeable penis that he knows how to use. The man is an animal in bed.”
“Alice!” I say before laughing. She is not a prude but has never been as frank with me. She stares out across the lawns, a wistful expression in her gaze and a sadness in her voice.
“We both wanted children. I thought having them might ground us both, but that hasn’t been possible. Despite everything we have, we don’t have the one thing we really desire.”
As she is speaking, I notice Lorenzo approaching. He stops a few paces from the table until Alice stops talking, and we both turn in his direction.
“Good afternoon, signora. Would you like something to eat?”
I feel uncomfortable hearing Lorenzo adopt a subservient role. I still have memories of him tackling adversaries in the lush gardens behind him that look so beautiful and innocent in the afternoon light. And of course, images of him straddling my groin.
“Lorenzo, I can get Alice food from the kitchen if she wants anything. I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“But it is my pleasure. And la signora is our guest,” he says, and he winks with a barely discernible grin. I interpret the gesture as meaning I can make things up to him later.
“The Negroni is utter perfection, by the way,” says Alice, holding up the glass. “But something to nibble on would be wonderful. Maybe some slivers of cheese?”
Lorenzo nods and leaves while Alice’s gaze lingers on his backside as he moves away.
“And the view just keeps getting better.”
“Alice, stop. It’s disrespectful.”
“Oh, please. Tell me you haven’t noticed?”