Chapter 3 Cosimo #2
‘I don’t know, just different! It’s not one thing. God, you’re such a male.’ She glanced at him. ‘… I thought you were a bit mean to her, actually.’
‘No I wasn’t.’
‘You weren’t exactly nice about her boyfriend.’
‘Am I supposed to lie? I don’t like the guy, never have. And his brother’s even worse.’
‘I know, but here’s a thought – be her friend? If Fon makes her happy, be happy for her! I know we’re hopeless cynics, but some people do actually get to live happily ever after. Apparently.’
The sound of a car coming up the drive made her sit up and look down, past the campana urn. ‘Huh. Talk of the devil.’
‘What …?’ He twisted to follow her gaze.
‘What the hell …?’ he murmured as he caught sight of their mother’s Alfa Romeo drawing to a halt, dozens upon dozens of long-stemmed flowers spilling from the open windows of the back seat and yet more wrapped in newspaper and trussed to the roof like sheaves of wheat.
He caught sight of the two faces in the front seats.
‘… Is that the Giannellis? What are they doing in Mamma’s car? ’
Romola threw her head back laughing as the two brothers tried to extricate themselves from the floral tomb. ‘Ugh! This is going to be so much fun.’
Rossanna Franchetti didn’t look up from the dining-room table, which was serving as the party HQ, when Cosimo walked through.
‘Good afternoon, my carino,’ she murmured, not breaking from writing a letter on their headed paper as he kissed her on the cheek. Her skin was rose-scented, as ever, and the breeze from the ceiling fan made her dark hair flutter around her temples.
‘Is Papa back?’
‘On his way. He was delayed getting away. Another meeting with the prime minister.’ She glanced at him.
He had showered and changed into shorts and a linen shirt, the soles of his pale suede shoes slapping on the tiled floor.
He always wore them with the backs pushed down when he came here; it was one of the signifiers that he had arrived in port and summer proper had begun.
A faint smile creased the right corner of her mouth.
It was no secret Cosimo had always been her favourite child – so like her in both looks and manner – and she knew how he loved coming back here.
Though he was no longer racing out to build castles in the sand, something of the little boy still lingered in the young man’s body.
‘Where are the others?’ he asked, perching on the edge of the table.
‘Fede is studying … obviously,’ she smiled, still writing. ‘And Romy’s taken the little ones to the lido.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he enquired.
His mother stopped writing at last. ‘You?’ she asked with a bemused smile. ‘Help?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely useless, am I?’
Some of the village women bustled in carrying bundles of linen tablecloths, candles and crockery.
‘… Signoras,’ he smiled as they passed, nodding at him with twinkling eyes, wordlessly taking in the changes in him from another year spent growing up in Rome.
For all his monied, urban sophistication, their warm fussing around him always made him feel like the prodigal son returned.
He knew he would be inundated with questions as soon as they caught up with him, out of earshot of his mother.
‘Well, actually, yes, you could be helpful,’ his mother replied, surprising him.
‘You can take the chandeliers there,’ she said, indicating two cherry-red Murano glass-drop light fittings positioned on pillows beside the table legs.
‘They’re too heavy for Giuseppe to carry, though that won’t stop him, and the very last thing I need is him pulling his back again. ’
Cosimo wrapped the chain of one around his fist and lifted it easily. He grabbed the other too, liking how his biceps bulged with the faint effort. ‘Where do you want them?’
‘Take them to the Apollo garden. The gardeners have set up some hanging hooks in the trees there,’ his mother said distractedly, back to her letter again. ‘Oh, and Cosi! Tell Giuseppe the urn in the middle arch is loose. He needs to …’ She twirled her wrist vaguely. ‘Fix it, somehow.’
‘Fix it. Right,’ he said, stepping out of the villa’s cool, shaded embrace and down the steps, feeling the blistering heat on his skin as he walked through the sunspots between the trees.
Everything was always heady sensation here, colours, smells and sounds all rich and deep – the smell of pane di Altamura wafting from the kitchen, the grass tickling his bare ankles as he crossed the lawn, the faint salty tang of the seaside air, the babble and cry of dozens of conversations and orders being issued as the villagers and villa labourers worked together against the tight deadline.
He thought of the woman in whose honour they were all striving – though she would never know it herself.
Everyone, from his mother down to the cleaning lady, would maintain to their dying breath that this was all entirely usual.
But even by the Franchettis’ standards, the preparations were above and beyond.
His mother might look down upon Hollywood glamour, but she’d be damned if she wouldn’t still outdo it.
The formal garden sat largely forward of the villa and was bisected by the long drive, each section on either side subdivided again into quarters.
The giant statue of Apollo stood centrally between two ancient stone-pine trees and was flanked on the far side by a thick wall of flowering jasmine, into which a niche had been cut and a stone bench set.
It was his mother’s favourite place and he had fond memories of growing up eating lunches on blankets on the grass there, as if in repudiation of the gold cutlery and white-tablecloth formality of Rome.
Judging by the number of dressed tables set around the space, this was where food would be served tonight, but he wasn’t sure whether it would be eaten or simply admired.
The local women had organized themselves into platoons – some were dressing serving plates with thick bunches of grapes worthy of Caesar entertaining Cleopatra, while others were doing intricate work with fruit: cutting lemons and oranges in half and fashioning the edges into zigzags for reasons beyond his comprehension.
He saw Gina crouched down by one of the tables, the tip of her tongue peeking through her teeth as she tried to balance a pomegranate on top of a fruit tower.
He instinctively smiled at the sight of her and felt the itch to topple it and get a rise from her.
Growing up, they had scrapped over every small thing, more like brother and sister than friends, never willing to give an inch.
‘Need some help with that?’ he called as he sauntered over the grass.
Gina looked up at the familiar voice – and familiar teasing tone. She grinned. ‘Do you? Looks like you’re straining a little there. Need some muscle, pretty boy? We all know you can’t do any heavy lifting.’
‘So I’m pretty now, am I? Yesterday you said I got ugly,’ Cosimo grinned as he walked over to the first pine tree and set the chandeliers down. He waited as she came over too, five feet and one inch of sassy attitude, stopping in front of him with a hand on her hip as she looked him up and down.
‘Yes, I was right the first time. Definitely ugly.’
He grinned again. ‘Where’s Rafa?’
‘She’s getting some more ice with her mother. She’ll be back any moment.’
‘Ah.’ His gaze rose to the hook strapped to the tree branch high above them. Four metres high.
‘Seriously – will you be OK putting that up?’ she asked as he walked over and retrieved the orchard ladder that had been left ready, propped against the tree trunk. ‘You never did have a head for heights.’
‘So I’m not only ugly and physically feeble, I’m fearful too? You think so highly of me,’ he said, tipping the ladder open.
‘Well, someone’s got to keep you humble, given how highly you think of yourself,’ she quipped as she steadied it for him.
He picked up the chandelier and climbed the rungs, securing it easily by looping the chain over the hook.
‘Not so fast,’ Gina said as he made to come back down, and he saw she was pulling out some taper candles from her apron pocket. He bit his lip. It was true he had never liked heights, but he would rather fall from one than admit it to her.
She watched as he reached over, carefully inserting the candles into the holders all the way round the chandelier. ‘So, your new girlfriend. Tell me everything.’
‘There’s not much to tell. I’ve only met her once.’
‘And yet you’ve mobilized an army for her.’
He shrugged. ‘We always throw an opening-up party.’
‘Not like this, you don’t. It must be a big deal if even your mamma is in a flap.’
He stopped what he was doing and pinned her with a look. ‘My mother has never flapped in her life. She’s a duchessa, not a pigeon.’
Gina grinned as he descended the ladder. ‘Still, Valentina’s a big deal. What did you do to trick her into liking you? Wear a mask? Adopt an entirely new personality?’
Cosimo jumped to the ground and looped an arm around her, pulling her playfully into a headlock as he had done when they were children. ‘What was that? … I can’t hear you.’
She tapped out, laughing as he lifted the ladder and they walked over to the other tree. ‘Is she going to stay here in the port afterwards?’
He climbed up with the second chandelier. ‘I’ve no idea. We may find we have nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh, so you’ve got talking on your mind, have you? Interesting.’
He chuckled. ‘It also depends on her filming schedule in Gallipoli … It’s all very loose. I was surprised she said yes to coming here at all, to be honest.’
‘Do you like her?’
‘She’s Valentina Fabiani! Of course I like her! Find me a male with a pulse who doesn’t!’ He hung the chandelier on the hook and looked down at her, a hand outstretched for the candles. ‘You? Do you have a boyfriend yet? Please don’t tell me you’re still in love with Dante Giannelli.’