Married Under The Italian Sun

There was a tinkling sound as his wine glass broke in his hand, crushed by the cruel pressure of his fingers. He seemed unaware of it. His eyes were fixed on the screen, and the beautiful, provocative woman laughing as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

The journey began with a flight to Naples. It would have been easy to call the villa and ask for someone to collect her from the airport, but getting there under her own steam seemed a good way to start her new, low-profile life. Besides, Angel liked the idea of arriving unexpectedly and seeing the house as it was naturally.

It was an impulse she soon regretted. Being independent was fine if you had only a few bags. But if you were carrying all your worldly goods it was a pain in the neck to have to load them into a taxi at Naples airport, unload them again at the railway station, then onto the train to Sorrento, followed by a bus to Amalfi. By the time she was in the last taxi, to the villa, she was frazzled.

But she forgot the feeling as she gained her first glimpse of the dramatic Amalfi coast. She’d heard of it, and studied pictures, but nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling reality of the cliffs swooping down, down, down into the sea.

‘They’re so high,’ she said in wonder. ‘And those little villages clinging to the sides—how come they don’t slide down into the water?’

‘They are protected by a great hero,’ the driver announced proudly. ‘The legend says that Hercules loved a beautiful nymph, called Amalfi. When she died, he buried her here, and placed huge cliffs all around to safeguard her peace. But then the fishermen protested that they would starve because now they couldn’t get to the sea, so he built them villages on his cliffs, and vowed that he would always keep them safe. And he always has.’

Looking down, Angel found the pretty tale easy to believe. What else could explain how the little towns clung on to the steep sides, rising almost vertically, white walls blazing in the sun?

‘Is the Tazzini estate up there?’ she asked.

‘Right on top, although the lemon orchard stretches down the cliff face, in tiers, to catch as much sun as possible.’

‘Are the lemons good?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

‘The best. The makers of limoncello always compete to buy Tazzini lemons.’

‘Whatever is limoncello?’

‘It is a liqueur, made with lemons and vodka, straight out of heaven.’

So she had a ready market for her produce, she thought, with a surge of relief.

‘There they are,’ the driver said suddenly, pointing as they rounded a bend. ‘Those are lemon flowers.’

Angel gasped and sat totally still, riveted by the sight that met her eyes. It was as though someone had tossed a basket of white blooms from the top of the cliff so that they cascaded down, shimmering, gleaming, dazzling in the sun, awesome in their beauty.

On the last stretch she took out a mirror and checked her appearance. She’d resolved that those days were behind her, and in future she would worry less about her appearance. But she simply couldn’t let her first entrance be less than perfect, and so she checked her mascara and refreshed her lipstick. Now she was ready for the fray.

They were approaching a large pair of wrought-iron gates which were closed but not locked, so the driver was able to open them and go through. Another few minutes and she could see the villa.

As she’d told Nina, it wasn’t a palace but a large country house, although built on impressive lines. Made of pale grey coloured stone, it reared up three floors, with a flight of stairs running up to the second floor from the outside, where a covered balcony ran the length of the building. Down below there was a riot of decorations. Little half-fountains appeared out of the walls, watched over by stone animals carved to incredible perfection. Angel found herself smiling.

Three broad steps led up to the double doors that formed the entrance, and which stood open. She went right in, followed by the driver, who was hauling her many bags. Looking around, she saw a hall that was spacious yet strangely domestic, even cosy. Warm red tiles stretched away across the floor, leading to archways that seemed to invite her in. Incredibly, she felt welcome.

She tried to be sensible. This feeling of having come home to the place where she belonged was the merest sentimentality, sugar coated with wishful thinking. Yet the sensation pervaded her, despite her efforts to resist it. It was almost like being happy.

She paid the driver, refusing his offer to carry the bags further. She wanted to be alone to enjoy her first minutes in this lovely place.

From the hall a flight of stone stairs with wrought-iron banisters streamed upwards, beckoning her. Angel began to climb it slowly, feeling as though she were moving in a dream. Halfway up she stopped to look out of a window, and realised that the house was close to the edge of the cliff, directly overlooking the sea. From here she could see the water stretching into the distance, incredibly blue, shining serenely under the clear sky. The window was open and she stood there a moment, breathing in the clear air, listening to the silence.

When had she last heard silence? When, in her rackety life, had there been such peace, such potential for tranquil joy? If she hadn’t come here, how much longer would she have survived?

Soon she began to climb again. After the heat outside, the house was blessedly cool, protected by the thick stone walls. She emerged onto a large landing, leading to a corridor with several doors. One in particular attracted her attention, because it was the only double door. No doubt this would be the master bedroom, and the one she would take as her own.

Eager to see it, she pushed open both doors and walked in.

For a moment she could discern nothing, as the wooden shutters at the three windows were mostly closed. Then the gloom cleared slightly and she saw that one of them was open a few inches, and a man was standing there, looking out through the narrow gap.

At first Angel could make out little of him, except that he was tall and lean. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that he was dressed in old jeans and a frayed denim shirt, with scuffed shoes to complete the picture. Probably the gardener, she thought. But what was he doing here?

‘Hello?’ she said.

He turned quickly.

‘Who are you?’ they both said together, in Italian.

Angel gave a brief laugh, realising that her indignation was a tad illogical.

‘I’m sorry, this is my fault,’ she said, ‘for not letting anyone know I was coming today.’

He pushed the shutters further open so that light streamed into the room, falling directly onto her like a spotlight as she moved towards him. She saw him grow suddenly tense, his face harden, but he didn’t speak.

‘I’m the new owner of the estate,’ she said.

‘The Signora Clannan.’

Angel had reverted to her maiden name, but she let it go for the moment.

‘That’s right. Obviously you’ve been expecting me.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve all known you were coming, although not exactly when. You kept that detail to yourself, so that you could catch us unawares. Very shrewd. Who knows what discoveries you might have made?’

She could see him better now, and thought she’d never come across any man who looked so hard and unyielding. There was a gaunt wariness about him, not just in his face, but in his tall, angular shape, the way he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, telling the world to keep its distance.

He might as well have warded her off with a sword, she thought.

‘I wasn’t trying to catch anyone out,’ she said, trying to remain good-tempered. ‘It was an impulse decision.’

‘And you couldn’t even have made a phone call from the airport to give Berta a chance to be ready for you? She’s your housekeeper, and a more faithful, hard-working soul never lived. She deserves better.’

Angel had a faint sense of remorse, but it was quashed in the rush of indignation. What the hell did he think gave him the right to talk to her like this?

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I presume you’re one of my staff, so let me make it clear right now that you don’t speak to me like that. Not if you want to go on working for me.’

‘Is that so? Then how fortunate that I don’t work for you, or I’d be shaking in my shoes now.’

‘Don’t be impertinent. If you’re not one of my employees, what are you doing in this room, where you most decidedly have no right to be?’

She thought he grew a little paler, the twist to his mouth a little more sardonic.

‘True,’ he said. ‘I have no right. Not any more.’

‘What do you mean?’