Summer At Villa Rosa Collection. Kate Hardy

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      She wondered if the house was listed. Did they even have a system of listing buildings of special importance in L’Isola dei Fiori or would whoever eventually bought it simply pull it down and start again?

      She opened the doors and stepped out onto a terrace where they’d sat out in evenings watching the fishing boats return to the safety of the village harbour, the lights coming on along the coast.

      Last year’s weeds that had grown through the cracks were tall and dry, but bright new leaves were pushing through and if nothing was done they would soon dislodge the stones.

      She put the tray on the long wooden table where they’d so often had breakfast and crossed to the wall built along the edge of the cliff. The villa might be a bit of a mess but the location was spectacular. Below them, the beach was only accessible from the villa or the sea—and even from the sea you had to know it was there to find your way in—but from here the entire Baia di Rose and the village climbing up from the harbour into the hill behind was laid out in front of her.

      She didn’t turn as Cleve joined her.

      ‘I saw a promising café when I was down in the village,’ he said after a moment. ‘Right on the harbour.’

      ‘Was it painted blue, with lobster pots outside?’ She sensed rather than saw him nod. ‘We used to walk down there for lunch sometimes. Just us girls. Sofia would give us some money and tell us not to spend it all on wine...’ No doubt when she was expecting a visit from the King.

      ‘What did you eat?’

      ‘Whatever the cook had bought in the market. Deep-fried squid if we were lucky. Swordfish steaks. Pasta alla vongole.’ Sweet, sweet memories. ‘Was that my stomach rumbling or yours?’

      ‘I think it was a duet. So? Shall we try it later?’ he suggested. ‘Only I’m not sure if the cooker survived the double whammy of the kettle and the fire extinguisher.’

      ‘I don’t know about the food but I’d enjoy the walk.’

      He leaned forward to look at her face. ‘Are you okay?’

      ‘Fine.’ She dashed away a tear that had spilled down her cheek. ‘I was just remembering...’

      ‘So long as it’s not the thought of marrying me.’

      ‘No.’ She put out a hand and he took it, held it and for a moment they just stood there, staring at the view, neither of them knowing what to say. ‘As you said, we’ve known one another a long time.’ Reclaiming her hand, she tucked away a strand of hair that had escaped her plait. ‘We’ll be fine.’

      ‘When are you going to tell your family?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh...’ She gave a little shrug. ‘Do we have to? Mum and Dad are having a whale of a time travelling across India. Portia’s in the States. Posy is desperate to become a soloist and daren’t miss a performance—’

      ‘And Immi is up to her eyes organising something to rival the royal wedding.’

      ‘That’s about it. One wedding at a time in the family is more than enough to cope with, don’t you think?’

      ‘So you’re going for Option A?’

      ‘Option A?’ She finally turned to look at him and saw the ceiling debris whitening his hair, his shirt.

      ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ she asked, as if she didn’t know.

      He looked down, attempted to brush the mess from his shirt but it was damp and it smeared into the cloth.

      ‘Leave it. I’ll put it to soak.’

      ‘I’ll see to it.’

      ‘Right answer.’ He glanced up and when he saw that she was laughing, he smiled back and without warning her heart did a somersault. This was going to be so hard...

      ‘Tell me about the scullery ceiling,’ she said, quickly.

      ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

      ‘There’s good news?’

      ‘The back door is now open and there’s a good draught clearing away the smell of smoke.’

      ‘And the bad news is that the scullery ceiling came down on your head.’ That must have been the curse she’d heard.

      ‘Not all of it. Just the bit in the corner near the door. Fortunately, it was wet so there wasn’t a lot of dust.’

      ‘More good news.’ Although what state the bedroom above would be in was another matter. ‘Can it be fixed?’

      ‘There’s no point until the roof is repaired. I noticed a builders’ merchant on the outskirts of the village. We can call in on the way down and order some tiles.’ She must have looked as horrified as she felt at the thought of him on the roof attempting to fix tiles. ‘I used to work for a local builder in the holidays to earn money for flying lessons.’

      ‘Tiling roofs?’

      ‘Carrying them up the scaffold to the tiler and, because no skill is ever wasted, I asked him to teach me how to do it.’

      ‘In case the flying didn’t work out?’

      ‘The alternative was following my father into medicine. He had dreams of me one day taking over his practice. Heaven knows why. He’s always complaining about the hours, the money, the paperwork,’ he said, but he was smiling. ‘The old fraud loves it.’

      ‘Which is why he wanted it for you.’ Andie had met Cleve’s father. He was the kind of family doctor that they used to make heart-warming television dramas about.

      ‘He hoped that if I had to pay for flying lessons I’d quickly get over my obsession with my great-grandfather’s heroics in a Spitfire and fall into line.’

      ‘Two stubborn men.’

      ‘I’m better with machines than people.’ He looked across to the table. ‘Do you feel up to a glass of orange juice and a banana?’

      ‘I think so.’

      He poured orange juice into a couple of glasses. Cut thick slices of bread and took out a pack of butter.

      ‘No butter for me.’ She peeled the banana and squashed it over the bread, picked up a jar of marmalade. ‘It appears to have survived.’

      ‘That’s not the jar I bought. Matt must have replaced it with one from his cupboard.’

      ‘I imagine we’ll need a witness,’ she said, as she dolloped marmalade on top of the banana, ‘and he’s been a total brick. Shall we ask him?’

      ‘You’re sure about not telling your family?’

      ‘Quite sure.’ She looked up. Cleve was piling thinly cut ham onto thickly buttered bread. Damn, it looked good. Maybe after the banana... ‘I’m sorry, I’m СКАЧАТЬ