3 Rosie – Day 1
The taxi cuts through the narrow mediaeval lanes, which are punctuated every few metres by tall, elegant cypress trees.
Rosie wasn’t prepared for the wall of oven-like heat that hit them the moment they stepped off the plane and hasn’t eased off since.
The last thing she wanted was to arrive with sweat patches under her armpits, but it’s too late now.
They’ve swapped a grey strip of motorway for winding roads through terracotta-tiled villages, steep hills, and vast farmers’ fields filled with drooping sunflowers.
They venture further into the countryside, past a derelict old farmhouse with spindly trees poking from holes where the roof once was.
The Mediterranean sunlight hits the weathered stone buildings so they glow.
It’s a world away from her life in a market town in North Yorkshire, where summer has been a total washout.
She pictures the grey, rain-drenched streets, the familiar smell of boiled vegetables at the primary school where she works, and the early-morning alarm that forces her to start the day with her class of seven and eight-year-olds.
‘Are you nervous?’ she asks, looking at Theo’s handsome face, his earnest brown eyes, those long blonde lashes.
He’s grown quieter as the journey from the airport has gone on.
‘Me? No.’
‘Really?’ She nudges him.
‘Really! Why would I be? I know they’re going to love you.’ He grins.
She crosses her fingers.
‘You didn’t tell me how gorgeous it is here.’ She nods at a hand-painted road sign, yellowed from the sun, with an arrow pointing left. ‘What’s Lago Parrocchetto?’
‘It’s a lake not far from here. It used to be a nesting place for green parakeets, hundreds of them, but they’ve all vanished. Like the tourists. Back in the day this town was different, it’s not that popular now . . .’
She’s about to ask what made them disappear when there’s a sound from the front of the car.
The driver mumbles something.
‘What’s that, mate?’ Theo asks.
There’s no response. The driver shakes his head, flicking his attention back to the road.
‘Is he listening to our conversation?’ Theo drops his voice to a whisper. His breath tickles her ear.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she lies. She’s been aware of him watching them with a furrowed brow since he picked them up at the airport and Theo gave him the address of where they wanted to go.
‘Could you turn up the music, mate?’ Theo asks loudly.
The driver doesn’t say a word but he must understand the request as a pop song fills the car.
Shortly after, the taxi turns a corner and sweeps down a long gravel driveway towards a farmhouse made with apricot-hued bricks.
Neat flower boxes sit under every one of the second-floor windows, a splash of pink petals and trailing vines against the worn, wooden shutters.
The sun bounces off the terracotta roof.
Lush, glossy green ivy spreads itself across the faded facade.
Clay urns and pots hold bushy fat olive trees and spiky herbs.
It’s almost like a child’s drawing has come to life. The wide-open door in the centre, the same number of windows on either side, a neat chimney sticking up from the middle.
Villa Speranza has been in Theo’s family for thirty-plus years. For him, being here is like coming home. However, to Rosie’s eyes, this place looks like something you’d see in a film.
‘We’re here.’ Theo glances up from his phone, quickly silencing it. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s not exactly how you described it,’ she says, her pulse quickening.
Most of her childhood holidays were on the west coast of England in a budget holiday park, playing solitaire as rain pounded the roof of their mobile home and her parents bickered in the cramped master bedroom.
In later years, she was dragged away by girlfriends to cheap sunny resorts full of lairy men and lurid shots of booze. She’s never been anywhere like this.
Theo’s brief description of where they would be staying rushes to her mind. It’s like a hundred years old. Not exactly modern. But it’s homely.
Homely is not a word she would use to describe this enormous farmhouse.
The driveway alone would fit ten cars, easily.
There is another building further to the right, of a similar age but half the size.
Well-maintained gardens hug the main house from all sides, the lush green grass stretching as far as she can see. There’s not a neighbour in sight.
‘There must be like twenty bedrooms.’
Theo laughs. ‘No, there’s only six. The rooms are large to keep it cool; there’s no air-con but there are loads of fans. Like I said, it needs updating.’
A short, pear-shaped woman in her early sixties bustles out of the open door. She waves her arms at the driver as if guiding a jet to land.
‘There’s Mum.’ Theo smiles, raising a hand. ‘Park anywhere near those big planters, mate.’
Rosie takes in the bright, welcoming smile of Marianne, his mother, and the spike in anxiety simmers a little. She looks approachable and friendly.
Marianne turns, calling something to someone inside the house. A tall, rakish man with a neat white beard stoops slightly through the dark doorway and emerges into the sunlight.
‘Gerry, my stepdad.’ Theo shifts in his seat. ‘Let’s hope he’s in holiday mode.’
Gerry Fraser. A retired photographer, and, according to Theo, ‘a bit of an arse’.
‘No sign of Luke yet . . .’ Theo peers around.
It’s not just Theo’s mum and stepdad to impress.
She needs to get his brother and his sister-in-law on her side this fortnight, too.
No pressure. It will be good to meet the mysterious Luke.
Theo rarely talked about him, despite her attempts to find out more about his older brother.
At least she’s more confident about winning their children over. The gifts she bought them should help.
The taxi stops and the driver jabs at the electronic display showing the cost of the fare.
Theo leans forward to pull the right euro notes out of his wallet. ‘Keep the change.’
The driver’s face doesn’t break from the permanent scowl he’s worn all journey.
There’s a knock on the car window next to Theo, making Rosie jump. Marianne waves from the other side of the glass and Rosie plasters on her brightest, widest smile.
‘Here we go. Good luck.’ Theo leans to give Rosie a reassuring kiss on the cheek before opening his door. High-pitched shrieks fill the space he’s left behind.
Rosie swallows and wipes her sweaty palms against her thighs. She steps out into the dry heat before she can overthink those final words.
The taxi driver pops open the boot and throws their cases to the ground. He clears his throat and steps closer. The smell of stale nicotine hits her.
‘Stai attento.’ His voice is raspy. His weathered brow is knotted in concern.
‘Sorry, I don’t speak Itali—’ she starts to explain before realising that he’s gesturing to something.
He’s glaring at the high brick walls that edge around the house. Or, more precisely, at the many CCTV cameras dotted about. A shiver rolls across her.
‘Stai attento,’ he repeats, quieter this time.
Before she can ask him what he means he burrows his head out of view and leaps into the front seat. He races up the driveway, skidding over the gravel, churning up a cloud of dust in his wake.
What the hell?
Rosie tucks her hair behind her ears and presses her crumpled sun hat further down on her head, praying that her cheeks aren’t too flushed.
‘Ah, and this vision in pink must be the famous Rosa. Ciao bella!’ Marianne wraps her arms around Rosie. She smells of lemons and something sweet and buttery. Rosie is aware of her own less-than-fresh smell and the clammy, recycled air of the aeroplane coating her skin.
‘Rosie,’ she politely corrects her, unsure if that ‘vision in pink’ was a compliment or not.
A hand flies to Marianne’s mouth at her error. ‘Sorry, Rosie.’
Theo shakes his head at his mother but there is a broad smile on his face.
Rosie can instantly see the similarities between the pair of them.
They both have the same big, expressive brown eyes and neat chin.
At first glance, she thought Theo’s mum was more of a homebody but closer up Rosie can sense the money.
Marianne’s shoulder-length blonde hair looks like it’s had an expensive blow-dry and her polished nails suggest a recent manicure.
Delicate gold bracelets studded with clear diamonds dance on her tanned wrists as she waves her arms, punctuating every sentence with a soft chime.
The oatmeal linen shift dress hugs her curves, the neckline open to reveal a chunky gold necklace with two gold stars; one is engraved with an ‘L’ and the other with a ‘T’.
‘How was your flight? Have you eaten? Was the traffic ok?’ Rosie tries to follow Marianne’s continuous barrage of questions.
She doesn’t take a breath. Is she also nervous?
The thought makes her feel a little better.
‘Luke and Fenna and the babies haven’t arrived yet.
They should be here soon. Luke’s my big boy,’ she says for Rosie’s benefit.
‘His wife, Fenna, is half Italian, so you never know when they’ll turn up.
She follows her own schedule.’ She gives a slight eye roll and claps her hands.
‘I can’t wait to have my boys back together. We’re going to have the best time.’
During this conversation, Gerry has joined them.
Rosie glances over to see Theo saying hello.
Gerry looks like a tourist in knee-length khaki shorts, a shirt covered with lime green pineapples and a camera with a worn leather strap draped around his neck.
His dark, square sunglasses hide his eyes.
The older man jerks out a stiff, robotic arm and vigorously shakes Theo’s hand for a painfully long couple of seconds. Neither meets the other’s gaze.
‘You’ve lost too much weight.’ Marianne clasps a hand against Theo’s face. ‘I’ll be getting Julietta to fatten you up, mark my words.’ She steers Theo into the house, leaving Rosie and Gerry alone.
‘I’m Gerry.’ He offers a hand. It’s cool and bony with a firm, authoritative grip. ‘Welcome to the family.’