Prologue #2
“But why’s it so run-down?” I ask. “Why haven’t the bathrooms been modernized? Did my uncle have no money?”
Signor Mancini throws up his hands. “I’m afraid I know very little about Mr. Treadwell. But he did not leave any savings—just a few hundred euros in a regular bank account.”
I’m desperate to know more but there’s no point in persisting. “Do you know how he died?”
“Yes: Mr. Treadwell died in his sleep. His neighbors found him—Signor and Signora Fiore. I understand they helped him with jobs on the house and land.”
“Well, it’s the perfect way to die,” Theo remarks. “Isn’t that how we all want to go?”
I smile but feel a tug of sadness. I would like to die in my sleep but not on my own.
“Which was his room?” I ask the lawyer. “Do you know?”
Signor Mancini nods and guides us downstairs.
On the right he opens a creaky door into a square room that has plastered white walls, a large wooden wardrobe and chest of drawers, and a wrought-iron bed on which lies a bare mattress.
Standing next to it I spot a framed photo of two men.
It looks like it was taken in the 1970s, as one of them is wearing flared jeans and a paisley shirt with a wide collar.
This man’s probably around my age—in his mid-forties—but still has a boyish face and caramel-colored hair.
“Is this him?” I ask, picking up the photo. “Is this Wilfred?”
Signor Mancini peers at it. “I believe so, yes.”
“Let’s have a look,” says Theo.
I hand it to him.
“You can see the family resemblance,” Theo comments. “He’s got the same dimples in his cheeks!”
I lean in to examine it. “Oh, yeah.”
“Although he isn’t as cute as you, Ads,” Theo says, handing back the frame.
I smile my thanks.
“And who’s the other bloke?” I ask Signor Mancini.
The second man is quite a bit older than Wilfred, with a bald head and five-o’clock shadow, and is dressed more traditionally, in a crisp white shirt with beige chinos and brown leather shoes.
The two men look stiff and uncomfortable next to each other.
I wonder if they might have had some kind of business relationship.
Except it looks like the picture was taken outside the house.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” confesses Signor Mancini. “There was no mention of this man in the will.”
I put the photo back on the nightstand and sit down on the mattress. The old coils squeak.
“I must also show you the wine store,” says Signor Mancini, exiting the room and trotting downstairs. “It occupies most of the ground floor.”
As Theo follows him, I remain sitting on the mattress and run my hands over its surface. So Wilfred died right here on this bed. I wonder what he was thinking before he went to sleep. Did he still think about his family?
I jog downstairs and follow the sound of Signor Mancini’s voice—and the smell of his strong aftershave—outside, then back into the house through another big door, entering a cavernous ground-floor chamber that looks like it hasn’t been used as a wine store for some time.
Although there are a few empty kegs and barrels, it’s clearly been repurposed as a dumping ground for all kinds of domestic items, such as broken tables and stools, tins of dried-up paint and varnish, and a storage heater that looks like it hasn’t worked for years.
There’s also an enormous old mustard-yellow boiler, a washing machine that—thankfully—seems to be in working order, and various dustbins for rubbish and recycling. It smells damp, musty and a bit rank.
The lawyer’s phone pings and he lifts it out of his briefcase to read a message. “I am sorry,” he states, “I must return to Lucca. But I think you have seen most of the important things.”
I try not to look disappointed. “But what about the castle?”
Signor Mancini leads us outside and around the wall of the chapel, where he points towards a crude path that zigzags up the side of the hill. “That is the way. But I am afraid the castle is only a pile of stones.”
“I’d still like to see it,” I say. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. But it is difficult to climb and I cannot do it like this.” He gestures to his smart suit and black leather shoes. “If you like, I can leave you the keys and you two can enjoy more time here?”
We accept his offer and he takes us back to the house and shows us how to lock up.
“Please return the keys to my office in the morning,” he says. “And we must start the process to get a codice fiscale—that is an Italian social security number. We must also deal with the issue of inheritance tax.”
Shit, I didn’t think of that. I’ve never inherited anything before—I’m not from that kind of family, nor are any of my friends.
“What do you mean, inheritance tax?” I ask, aware that the pitch of my voice is rising. “I’m not going to have to pay any money, am I?”
Signor Mancini rakes his fingers through his hair. “Yes: in Italy everyone who inherits property over a certain value has to pay tax.”
“But how much?”
He runs his hand up and down the strap of his briefcase. “I do not know for sure but I have done a very rough calculation.” He tells me what it is.
I give a yelp. “Where am I supposed to find that kind of money?”
He raises his shoulders. “Most people who do not have the money choose to sell the property.”
“Sell it? But I haven’t even finished looking at it!”
Theo puts his arm around me. “Ads, let’s not worry about that for now. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do before you have to pay.”
He thanks Signor Mancini and we shake hands. Once his car has driven up the graveled lane and disappeared around the corner into the olive grove, Theo suggests opening a bottle of wine. “Come on, I spotted some in the larder.”
“But can we just take it?” I ask, following him through the turquoise doors. “None of this belongs to me yet. And I don’t think I can afford to keep it!”
Theo reassures me it’ll be fine, finds a bottle opener in a drawer he has to yank open, and rinses a couple of glasses under a tap that splutters out water. We fetch some chairs and sit on the patio, looking out over the valley.
As it’s only April and the trees aren’t yet in full leaf, the landscape contains patches of brown as well as green.
And there are various grays in the stone of houses, farm buildings and churches, plus splashes of blue in the smattering of swimming pools.
The blue of the sky is much lighter and broken up by a strip of little clouds, like puffs of smoke released from a stuttering engine.
It’s quiet, apart from the odd snatch of birdsong and the sound of the occasional car or motorbike driving through the valley.
“Cheers,” I say.
“Wait, how do you say that in Italian?” asks Theo. “Is it salute?”
“Something like that.” I tap my glass against his. “Salute!”
“To the Castello Montemagno!”
“Prego! Certo! Buonasera!” I say, affecting an over-the-top Italian accent. “Do we know any other Italian?”
“Mamma mia!” joins in Theo.
“Mamma mia!” I warble, even louder.
We both laugh.
I gaze out at the sea, which is nestled in the V between two mountains, the diminishing foothills of a third stretching behind it, as if wrapping it in an embrace. The sunlight is reflected on the sea’s surface, so it shimmers, almost winking at us.
“It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” Theo says, rubbing stubble on his chin that—even though he’s about to turn forty-seven—is only just flecked with gray.
“I know.” I turn to face him. “And it’s got so much potential.”
“Yeah, but there are loads of jobs that need doing,” he points out. “I’ve already spotted a few rotten window frames and missing roof tiles.”
I take a swig of my wine. “And there’s the damp.”
“And a couple of leaks.”
I let out a long sigh.
The sun has started slipping down the sky.
Soon it’ll be setting. When I was little—and the weather was half-decent, which wasn’t guaranteed in Manchester—I used to watch the sunset with my mum.
She used to say it was our way of saying goodbye to the day.
The two of us would sit on a wooden bench in our back garden and look out over the playing fields.
But these have since been turned into a housing estate and Mum’s been dead for over thirty years.
Thirty-four to be exact: I was eleven at the time.
I stand up. “You know what, if we’re going to see the castle, we should probably get up there—it’ll be dark soon.”
Theo tips back what’s left of his wine. “Yeah, come on.”
We walk around the chapel, find the path and begin our climb.
Well, Signor Mancini called it a climb but if he’d known the word scramble, I’m sure he’d have used that.
The hill’s steep and there’s been no attempt to flatten the earth, so we have to cling onto stones, trunks and tree roots to haul ourselves up.
When we finally reach the top, we stop to dust ourselves down, then push through the thick overgrowth, taking care not to prick ourselves on the brambles.
I’m glad my legs are covered with jeans but wish I was wearing long sleeves.
By the time we emerge in a clearing, I’ve picked up several scratches on my arms.
The land in front of me is stepped and there are thin strips of wall visible between the different levels.
But that seems to be all that remains of the castle—which is strange as looking up from below, the walls were several meters high.
I realize that the rooms of the castle must have been filled in with earth, which would explain why they have so many bushes and trees growing out of them.
I wonder if it would be possible to dig the earth out again and restore the castle’s basic structure.
We find a spot on a stone wall, only half of which is intact: the other has fallen away.
We sit down and go back to enjoying the view over the valley.
It’s pretty much the same as it was from outside the house but the higher vantage point makes it even more breathtaking.
It’s also much quieter up here, with none of the sounds of cars or motorbikes.
And there’s less birdsong—only the odd tweet.
The sun’s about to disappear behind the mountain and is spilling out rays of pumpkin, apricot and peach.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere as beautiful,” I tell Theo.
“I know. And it’s so romantic.” He takes hold of my hand. “It makes me realize how much I love you, Adam.”
He moves in to kiss me on the lips.
“I love you too, Theo.” I snuggle up and rest my head on his shoulder.
Even though we’ve only been going out for eighteen months, I’ve already decided I want to spend the rest of my life with him. He’s all I’ve ever wanted.
But I’ve always worried that the turmoil around Theo’s divorce—plus the hostility from his kids—might one day get in the way, that it might lead him to the conclusion that the relationship is more trouble than it’s worth, that all the negativity weighing down on him might overwhelm the love he says he feels.
I tell myself that we could come here to get away from the stress and negativity. This could be our happy place.
There must be some way of keeping it. …
I sit up. “I just thought, I could apply for voluntary redundancy. I’m sure they’d give it to me: if I went they could hire someone younger and cheaper. And you know the job doesn’t make me happy. I’ve been bored of it for years.”
Theo blows out his cheeks. “I’ve always said you’re wasted in it. You could do with a change.”
“Well, now I’ve got one—or the chance of one.
” I feel excitement taking hold. “I’ve been in the job for more than ten years so I’m pretty sure I’d get a year’s salary.
If I threw in my savings I’d probably have enough to pay the inheritance tax and do some basic renovations.
Although we might have to chip in and do some of the work ourselves. ”
Theo inches forward. “That’s OK. But what would happen afterwards? How would you earn a living?”
“I’d put it on the market as a holiday let.”
“Is there a demand for that?”
“I don’t know but I imagine so—loads of people come here on holiday. And I think it’s mainly posh people with money.”
Theo tilts his head so it catches the sun’s rays, taking on a tinge of apricot. “Would you manage it yourself?”
“I guess so.” I run my hands along the rough stone. “But we wouldn’t rent it out all the time: we’d keep a few weeks free so me and you could come here too.”
Theo waggles his eyebrows. “I must admit, that does sound appealing.”
My heart’s thumping. “Why don’t we come here in the summer and just get on with it? You’ve got the school holidays—we won’t get that opportunity for another year.”
He frowns. “Yeah, but I’d still have work to do.”
“Well, I could get Wi-Fi installed and you could do it from here.” I slap out a rhythm on his thigh. “What do you reckon?”
Theo chuckles. “It does sound superb. But what about the kids?”
I feel a clutch of fear. “Didn’t you say Kate’s taking them to the States?”
“Yeah, she’s taking them to her sister Shona’s. So I’ll probably only have them for a week anyway.”
I release a breath. “Well, you could always fly home for that week.”
“Or I could bring them here. …”
Shit.
I suddenly realize my plan could backfire.
What if Theo finds out how much his kids hate me?
I wouldn’t be able to cover it up if we were together all the time.
And then he might get scared. He might realize how difficult the relationship’s going to be, long-term.
He might look to the future and decide the relationship’s impossible.
“But do you think they’d like it?” I attempt, meekly.
“Ads, how could anyone not like this?” His forehead puckers. “Alright, they might moan a bit at first but I’m sure they’d fall in love with it in the end.”
I pause and watch the sun disappear behind the mountain.
I smile back at him. “Go on, let’s do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It’s only a week. What could possibly go wrong?”