Chapter Five
Marco immediately headed for reception where he booked an eight o’clock breakfast delivery for the young lady in number twenty-three. He checked her credentials while he was at it. It seemed that she was indeed a legitimate tourist — although if she was a local hooker, she would have been a pretty bad one. He smiled at her gaucheness and naivety. He’d been played by the very best in the business — women trying to seduce him, all after a rich husband — she was not even close to their league.
A sharp pain cut through his reverie as he thought of his soon-to-be-ex-wife, the only woman he had ever loved. Instead of loving him in return she had almost broken him, emotionally and physically. He’d known her since he was a teenager and had believed that she loved him for who he was, not what he’d achieved. His mouth twisted wryly. How wrong could he have been? Ah, Simona, why did you do such a thing ? He shook his head to banish the memories of her treachery. No more. He needed to concentrate on the prospective business partner he’d be meeting any minute now in the bar.
A tall, elderly man entered the receptio n , wandered over to the lounge and hovered uncertainly around the bar area. His cut-glass English accent was clear and strong as he asked for a malt whisky and the whereabouts of Mr Cavarelli. He smoothed down his hair, which stuck out at odd angles, making Marco think he’d just got out of bed. His attire made him look more like a hobo than a man in possession of an airline — the brown, tweed jacket, with patches at the elbows, hanging off his shoulders and clashing with the baggy, green tartan trousers. He looked like a weathered scarecrow that had escaped from a field, Marco thought, watching as the man patted his pockets and pulled out a handful of crumpled euros and a pipe. Marco half expected him to be clutching straw. The man gazed regretfully at the pipe, slid it back into his pocket, and dumped the wad of notes on the bar.
Marco straightened his tie as he headed towards the man, his hand outstretched, clearing his mind of all thoughts of beautiful young women and passionate kisses. ‘Ah, Mr Clarke, I trust your journey was uneventful?’ He shook the Englishman’s hand and led him smoothly to the best table, which had been reserved earlier.
‘Yes, it was perfectly fine. We flew over from the UK on my little de Havilland 125, but sadly I dozed off and missed most of the flight. Lovely little aircraft, the de Havilland.’ He looked up expectantly, his eyes shining. ‘Are you an aircraft enthusiast?’
‘No, sir, I’m afraid I am not.’
‘Ah.’ The momentary light went out of his eyes and Marco was saddened that he couldn’t entertain the elderly gentleman with Biggles-like shenanigans of loop-the-loops and dive bombs.
‘I have taken the liberty of ordering a good Italian wine,’ he said, hoping it might be a small compensation for his lack of flying derring-do. The vintage Barolo had been opened an hour ago to breathe and he hoped his guest would appreciate the gesture. He was going to win this deal at any cost and intended to present his proposals with the aplomb of an accomplished lover.
Marco had always been good at evaluating people, pressing the right buttons and wooing with flattery and encouragement, and his fleeting character assessment of Mr Clarke already gave him a gut feeling that the takeover was a done deal — but he was a fair man and wouldn’t take advantage.
They talked pleasantries, which turned into business, until the subject was concluded to their mutual satisfaction. Marco confirmed, ‘So, if we shake hands on this deal, you will be happy for me to be a majority shareholder.’ It wasn’t a question, just an assurance that Mr Clarke knew exactly where he stood.
‘Mr Cavarelli, I need to take a back seat because of my wife’s health and, as you can see, I’m not the young buck I once was.’ He looked down at his body and chuckled wheezily. ‘My wife and I wish to spend more time in our country home with our grandchildren. It is with a heavy heart that I am offloading my small airline, but I’m aware that owning a private airline is no longer a viable option for me, although I am hoping to keep my little de Havilland, which has a special place in my heart.’ He sighed and his eyes went misty.
Marco made a note to ensure that particular aircraft stayed with Mr Clarke when the deal was done.
‘You have the business acumen and finance to keep us afloat,’ Mr Clarke continued. ‘My airline brings with it an excellent team of staff and I would hate to let them down.’
Marco nodded. While relieved that Mr Clarke was being so affable, he had expected nothing less — the Cavarelli name was usually enough to seal a deal with little more than a gentleman’s handshake. He didn’t like to tell the benign Mr Clarke that, more than anything, he simply wanted access to the flight slots to enable his new venture to run smoothly. Mr Clarke’s other beloved aircraft would be sold, and newer, more efficient ones purchased. He stood up. The deal was as good as done.
‘Thank you for your confidence in me, Mr Clarke. I am sure that, with my backing, Hot Air Aviation will become profitable sooner rather than later.’ Marco winced as he repeated the name of the airline. Who in God’s name would call an airline Hot Air Aviation? ‘You do understand, though, there will be changes that not everyone will appreciate — but I have a very hands-on approach, so you can be assured that I will be fully engaged with every aspect of the airline.’
‘Of course. We will work together to make it a better business. I am aware that time and money are needed and I no longer have either of those things.’ His smile was rueful as he stood up, patting his pockets once again. ‘As an aside, my nephew works at Hot Air Aviation. Indeed, it was he who came up with the name of the airline and the catchphrase. Great fun, I thought. I’d hate to see him sidelined in any way.’
‘And the catchphrase is?’ Marco repeated faintly, already dreading the reply.
‘We go all the way.’ Mr Clarke’s smile was uncertain, as if he was unsure himself of the meaning behind the words.
‘Very . . . ah, creative. So, I shall get my solicitor to start on the paperwork immediately.’ His smile was stiff. He was aware that Mr Clarke had just slipped in a caveat that his nephew wasn’t to be messed with. He didn’t like being told what to do — but one nephew would be easy to handle, he was sure.
He shook Mr Clarke’s hand as he led him to a waiting car. ‘One of my drivers will see you safely to your hotel.’
Marco waited until the car had disappeared from view before sighing in relief. Giving the man good wine was one thing but he was glad he wasn’t staying at his hotel when he would be obliged to entertain him on a grand scale. He was too tired for that. He glanced up at the rooms he now called home on the top floor of the hotel. He was loath to return to the silent emptiness, and an image of the drunken woman flickered briefly across his thoughts. Sighing that such a sweet young woman had allowed herself to get into that condition. He swallowed down the memory of the sensations she’d aroused in him. The urge to check on her surfaced, but he pushed that away too. She was none of his business.
He took the private stairs to his suite of rooms, feeling jaded as he unlocked the door. The sense of homecoming tinged with the loneliness of his single status hit him, along with the familiar smell of lavender polish, mingled with Chanel perfume that still lingered and reminded him so much of his wife. He could not think of her as his ex-wife yet, but soon he would have to face up to the fact that she wasn’t coming back to him. He could — he would — force himself to bear the agony of her betrayal and the physical hurt of missing her so badly.
He prowled around the sitting room, running his hand over the burnished wood of his bureau and absent-mindedly picking up one of his mother’s Royal Copenhagen figurines, which made him smile at her sentimentality. He hefted the weight of a crystal tumbler in his hand as he peered inside the antique decanter containing his father’s favourite whisky. It reminded him of carefree days when family get-togethers were easy to engineer. Simona was always there to share a private joke, letting him know she was there for him with a gentle touch to his arm or a special smile. His mother, too, was never far away in the winter months, the waft of a delicious focaccia greeting him after his day’s work was done, the smell of fresh bread and rosemary seeming to follow her around.
He placed the crystal tumbler back on the table — unlike the lady he’d escorted to her room, he didn’t think that the answer was at the bottom of a glass.
Shaking his head to clear his morose thoughts, he headed for the bathroom. He threw his tie and jacket onto a chair with relief, closely followed by the rest of his clothes. He turned the shower on to the pummel setting and stood under it for as long as he could bear, his shoulders and back tingling under the hot needles of water.
Refreshed, he headed for the balcony, tightening the belt of his dressing gown to keep out the chill night air. Still restless, his thoughts turned, once again, to the young woman now presumably sleeping off the effects of too much alcohol. He didn’t even know why she was so drunk. She had been wronged — that much was obvious — but was it enough of a reason to be so wasted? Maybe she was an alcoholic? He fought down the urge to send a bellboy to check on her and sighed. No, everyone has a story to tell — he’d found that out in his years of dealing with customers. But it didn’t mean he had to listen to them all, or act on them.
He determined to put her out of his mind and focus on his new business venture . . . But she was so damn defenceless — and what if she vomited in her sleep? No. Enough. He wouldn’t let her get under his skin. He changed his mind about having a drink and poured out a large whisky, savouring it with pleasure, enjoying the burn in his throat. He took another large gulp as if trying to drown out the image of the woman’s slight frame quivering with nerves — or desire — or whatever the hell it was. Her eyes, huge and confused as she fought back tears, seared in to his mind and it seemed that the whisky burn wasn’t enough to eradicate the image branded there.