Debbie spent the rest of that evening thinking about what she had heard. She kept telling herself that it was probably just a coincidence that Claudia’s husband was a doctor and that they had been on holiday in Santorini. Surely lots of doctors went to Greece for their holidays. She even checked on the internet, which confirmed that there were a good number of villas to rent on the island, complete with their own private swimming pools. But all the while an annoying little voice in the back of her head kept repeating the name: Pierluigi.
The following morning, as she did most Sundays, Debbie started by doing the ironing, tidying the flat and thinking about preparing food for the week. Today she deliberately chose something complicated, so as to occupy her mind with something other than the prospect of receiving confirmation that she had, in fact, spent most of one week last August in bed with Flora’s future son-in-law.
It didn’t bear thinking about. If this turned out to be the case, what should she do? Should she seek Claudia out and break the news that her fiancé had been cheating on her, or should she say nothing and have to live with her conscience for the rest of her life? And what if she ever met the happy couple? It was an appalling choice to have to make.
For now, as a displacement activity, she chose to prepare something she had never tried before – something she really felt anybody living in Italy should be capable of doing. In one of the kitchen cupboards she had found a box, and inside it was a shiny, little-used pasta maker. Daunted, but not deterred, she set out to make her own fresh pasta.
After spending a long time on the internet, checking and comparing advice on how to do it, and an even longer time trying to read and attempt to digest the instructions in the 24-page booklet that accompanied the hand-cranked machine, she set about the task.
Making the initial mix was ridiculously easy and, before long, she had two impressive-looking rolls of pasta ready to go. That was when hubris struck and it all suddenly started to fall apart. Either her mix was too dry and hard, so that she couldn’t turn the handle, or it was too wet, and rapidly assumed the proportions of a highly effective glue, or possibly mortar. Either way, the machine was soon bunged up good and proper.
She had to make a complete fresh start on two separate occasions, after spending ages cleaning out the machine that she was rapidly coming to hate, loathe and detest, before she finally managed to get it more or less right.
This took her most of the morning and definitely fulfilled her objective of stopping her from agonising over the identity of Claudia’s husband-to-be. Midday was just sounding on the church bells outside her window as she finally finished, and she had two nests of soft pasta, now sliced into imperfect ribbons, on the table before her.
It was at that moment that she heard the doorbell. She glanced down. It looked as if a flour bomb had gone off in the kitchen. Her hands were sticky with dough and she was covered in flour and bits, all the way up to her elbows. The floor at her feet was little better and she could feel things attached to her face where she had scratched or rubbed herself without thinking. Grabbing a cloth from the sink, she wiped her fingers sufficiently so she could turn the door handle, but had no illusions as to the impression she would present to any visitor.
‘Wow, you look as though you’ve been busy.’
It was a very suntanned Dario. He looked clean, tidy and very handsome. She flicked her eyes downwards and noticed a spot of dough on the end of her nose. However, as soon as she wiped it off with the back of her hand, she saw that she now had a white nose. She nodded weakly.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve been busy all right. I thought I’d try something new.’
‘You’ve been trying your hand with the pasta machine, at a guess.’ His face split into a grin. ‘Not easy, is it?’
‘It’s bloody near impossible.’ She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Two hours to make the pasta, and it’ll need another two hours to clean up the mess.’
Still smiling, he glanced at his watch. ‘So, if I call at, say, four o’clock, would you feel like coming with me for a short walk?’
Debbie looked out of the window. It was dry outside, but it looked chilly. The wind was blowing and she could see little vortices of dust dancing in the corners of the roof terrace like tiny tornadoes. Still, it would be good to get out, even though she felt pretty sure they would end up in a museum. Relegating any thoughts of Alice and dinosaurs to the back of her mind, she nodded.
‘I’d like that. Do you have anywhere special in mind?’
‘See if you can guess.’
‘Seeing as it’s your speciality, I presume it’s got something to do with history of art?’
He nodded.
‘Is it a gallery?’
He shook his head.
‘A museum?’
He shook his head again. ‘Not really, but you’re on the right track. I’ll put you out of your misery. It’s just a couple of blocks away in Via Cavour, not far from the Duomo. It’s a fabulous Renaissance palazzo, built fifty years before Columbus set off for America. There’s a fresco in there I’d like you to see.’
‘Terrific. I promise I’ll be a bit cleaner next time you see me. And you can tell me all about your ski trip. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s a train wreck behind me to be sorted out.’
At bang on four o’clock, she heard the doorbell. Picking up her winter jacket and her gloves, she went over to open the door.
‘Hi, all clean again?’ He was wearing a thick anorak.
‘Yes, but that’s the last time I try my hand at making pasta for a good long while. Talk about tricky.’
Dario led her out into the street and from there into the Piazza del Duomo. The huge bulk of the cathedral loomed over them as they walked round the back of it. The tables and chairs outside the restaurants were stacked up and the people they met were all huddled into their warmest clothes as a bitter wind cut into them. Debbie was very glad of her wonderful cosy jacket and her gloves.
As they walked, Dario told her about the previous day’s skiing in Cervinia. Although the weather down on the plain of the river Po had been grey and misty, they had risen above the clouds and had a perfect day, skiing in the shadow of the Matterhorn. He glanced across at her.
‘Ever been skiing?’
Debbie shook her head. ‘Only once, on a dry ski slope. It frightened the life out of me. It was when I was still at school and we went as a group. One of the boys almost ripped his thumb off and I vowed I’d never go near a pair of skis again.’
‘That’s a shame. With the new skis these days, or snowboards, it’s got a lot easier. Any time you feel like trying it, just say the word. I’d be happy to give you some lessons.’
Just then they turned off the square and found themselves heading straight into the full force of the wind. Debbie screwed up her eyes and hunched her shoulders, pulling the collar of the jacket up to cover her ears, rather regretting having left her woolly hat behind. Fortunately, it was only a matter of minutes until they reached their destination: a massive fortress of a building, situated on a corner, the bottom part of the walls made up of imposing blocks of rough stone.
‘Welcome to the Medici Palace. Or as it’s called now – the Medici Riccardi Palace.’ Dario led her through the huge entranceway into a dark courtyard and through it to another, this time open to the sky high above. It was freezing cold there, but at least they were now sheltered from the wind. She was relieved when he carried on across the open courtyard and through doors to a stone stairway leading upwards. He flashed a pass of some kind to the lady on duty who waved them through. Here, at last, it was warm again and Debbie unzipped her jacket and pulled off her gloves.
‘So, Dario, this was where the famous Medici family lived?’ She knew the name well. ‘They were one of the most powerful families in Italy in the, what, fifteenth century?’
‘That’s right, the Medici were very definitely among the movers and the shakers in the 1400s.’
They were walking along a corridor and Debbie looked around. It was nice, but not stunning. ‘So why have you brought me here?’
‘I thought you might enjoy looking at a bit of historical propaganda. The Medici were really good at self-promotion and they were just about the first people to invent “fake news” to hide their dirtier deeds.’
Just then they reached an unimportant-looking door and he pointed. ‘This way, please, signorina.’
‘Grazie, signore.’ She smiled at his mock formality.
Debbie found herself in an unexpectedly small room. The ceilings were high, but the room itself was no bigger than the living room in her apartment. What was striking, however, was the fact that the walls of this room had been completely covered by frescoes. By the look of them, they had been restored fairly recently, as the colours were rich and vibrant.
‘What you’re looking at is the fifteenth-century equivalent of having a big photo on your wall of yourself, standing alongside the Queen. Or Elvis. Or both.’
Debbie studied the huge, brightly coloured frescoes with interest. A large group of men, some on horses, most on foot, were walking along a rocky path, with a backdrop of hills and fields. The men on horseback, and the horses themselves, were dressed in the finest silks and satins, and gold sparkled everywhere. Clearly these were men of substance.
‘So which one’s Elvis?’
She looked across at Dario and couldn’t miss the expression of awe on his face as he stared up at the images. He turned his face towards her and smiled.
‘Take your pick. The fresco’s called The Procession of the Magi, but it actually depicts the Emperor and the Patriarch of Constantinople on their way to Florence, invited by the Medici. If you know what to look for, you’ll see that the painter, Gozzoli, has included the faces of most of the major players of the day, including, naturally, the Medici themselves.’
‘Sort of like a huge medieval selfie.’
‘Exactly. And everybody who visited the Medici was brought here to this little chapel to “pray” – but in reality, it was so that they could see just how powerful their hosts were.’
‘And this is important for you and your book?’
‘Very much so. And, by the way, it wasn’t just the Medici who were good at self-promotion. Just in case you were in any doubt as to who painted it, Gozzoli’s written his own name on his hat. That’s him over there.’
As her eyes strayed across the fresco, Debbie noticed something strange. So strange, in fact, that she leant across the rope cordon so as to get as close as possible to it. There was no doubt about it. One of the men looked exactly like Dario. The likeness was quite uncanny. She turned back towards him.
‘Am I seeing things?’
He stepped forward, his shoulder brushing against hers as he did so.
‘What’re you looking at?’
She pointed with her finger. ‘There, just to the right of the guy on the white horse, the man with the red plant-pot hat on. He’s you.’
‘Me?’ Dario stretched towards the fresco to see for himself. ‘I see the guy you mean. I suppose there is a bit of a resemblance. Who knows?’
‘A bit of a resemblance? He’s your spitting image.’
Dario turned back towards her. ‘I’ll take your word for it. You might be right, you know. I’ve read that one of my distant ancestors, Lodovico Dellatorre, was a close associate of the Medici. Maybe that’s him there.’
Debbie shook her head in wonder. Here she was, Debbie Waterson from Schooner Street, Bristol, in the company of a Florentine aristocrat, whose relatives had kept the same company as the Medici. She glanced across at him while his attention was once more on the fresco. She didn’t need her father to tell her there was an abyss between the two of them. Just like each time she stepped into the big Mercedes, she felt like the fraud she was. Who did she think she was to be rubbing shoulders with people so far out of her league?
They spent half an hour in the palace, admiring these and other paintings, including some amazing frescoed ceilings, before heading back out into the cold again.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Dario stopped as they came out of the main gate into the full force of the wind. It was quite dark now and, if anything, even colder than earlier.
The sensation of being a fish out of water that the fresco had aroused in her was still strong, but she couldn’t deny the fact that she was enjoying his company. And she was freezing cold.
‘I’d kill for a hot chocolate.’
He nodded approvingly. Crossing the road, he led her into a narrow side street where the bulk of the surrounding buildings provided a degree of shelter from the wind, but Debbie wasn’t sorry when they reached a café and went inside. It was an old-fashioned café on two levels, with smart waiters and waitresses dressed in black and white, and it had a cosy feel to it. In here it was very warm, crowded, and quite stuffy. They found a table and she stripped off her jacket. Her hot chocolate, when it arrived, was exactly what she needed – thick, syrupy and so hot it nearly burned the roof of her mouth. As she cradled the hot cup in her hands and sipped at it, she listened as he told her more about his book.
‘The book’s about power in the late medieval period, especially here in Italy. In particular the way the big players managed to massage the truth to make it mean whatever suited them. And whatever helped them to stay in power.’
‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.’
‘Absolutely. Of course, the Catholic Church has to take most of the credit. They were the original experts in faking it.’
Debbie listened with interest to what he had to say. Clearly, he knew his stuff and enjoyed talking about it. She was still having trouble with the idea that she was in the company of a descendent of one of the noble families he described as “big players”, but she did her best to repress that same sensation of being a phoney. Above all, it was just nice to spend time with a handsome man with whom she felt completely safe. He talked at length about his subject and in the end she had to remind him to drink his cappuccino before it went completely cold. As he did so, she responded.
‘Fascinating, Dario, and look – my eyes haven’t glazed over even a tiny bit.’ She gave him a grin. ‘So, how come you know so much about that period?’
‘That’s my job. I work in the history of art department at the University of Florence. My speciality is the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance.’
‘No shortage of raw material here in Florence for you to study.’
They spent the best part of an hour in the café and she felt a pang of what could have been regret when the time came for them to leave.
‘I was thinking – I don’t know what your plans for tonight are, but I’ve got a load of fresh pasta that needs eating. If you feel brave, would you like to help me eat it?’
‘That would be brilliant, but only if it’s no trouble. You’ve had a hard week and I daresay next week’ll be tough as well.’
‘I’ve got to eat, and cooking for two’s no harder than cooking for one.’
‘Well, yes, thank you then. I’ve got some ham I can bring if you like.’
‘I never say no to some good Tuscan ham.’
They decided to eat at seven o’clock so she would be able to get to bed early for a good night’s sleep. When he arrived at her door, he was carrying a plate of ham and olives as well as two bottles of red wine. As he came in, he sniffed the air.
‘Pesto? Is that what I can smell?’
Debbie nodded. ‘I’ve got a basil plant I bought back before Christmas and somehow it’s managed to survive, so I’ve just made the pesto now. I’ve been meaning to do it for ages and I’d already got a packet of pine nuts. I hope you like it. At least it’ll be fresh.’
‘Well it certainly smells great. Shall I open one of these bottles or would you like something else? I’m afraid I’ve only got a few bottles of fairly ordinary white left in my flat, because all the good stuff got drunk by my beloved cousin and his noisy friends. I bought these a couple of days ago as a stop-gap until I can persuade my dad to let me have the keys to the cellar up at the villa. He’s got some amazing stuff in there.’
‘Some red’ll be great, thanks. There’s a corkscrew in the top drawer.’ She busied herself with the pasta. ‘Your parents’ villa’s the most amazing house I’ve ever been in. Don’t you miss it, living here in a flat? I know it’s a lovely historic flat in a gorgeous location, but it’s not quite in the same league, is it?’
‘This place is just so convenient for work. I’m actually in the process of renovating an old farmhouse in the hills outside Florence, but it’s a real labour of love and it’s taking forever – especially with me having just been away for three months.’
‘You’re doing it yourself?’ Debbie was impressed. She would have imagined that with all his family wealth, he would have had a team of architects and builders on the case.
He nodded as he opened the wine. ‘As much as possible by myself, yes. I love doing it, to tell the truth.’ His eyes caught hers for a moment. ‘I suppose I’m a bit of a hermit, really. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a quiet day in the country knocking down walls or whatever.’
‘Knocking down walls doesn’t sound very quiet. But what about the technical stuff? Do you do all that yourself, as well?’
‘I don’t touch electrics or plumbing, but most of the rest of it’s been down to me.’ He gave her a grin. ‘Not that I’m showing off or anything, but I’m a pretty good plasterer now.’
‘Complimenti.’
To Debbie’s considerable relief, the pasta and the pesto turned out to be really rather good. She wasn’t too sure how long it would take to cook, so she kept on checking it every few seconds and realised it was ready after just a couple of minutes. As a result, they ate the pasta first and his wonderful ham afterwards, with some pecorino cheese. The wine – a Chianti Classico with the gallo nero, the black cockerel, on the neck of the bottle – was excellent, although Debbie limited herself to just one glass as she knew, as he had predicted, that she would probably have a busy week coming up and she wanted to start it with a clear head.
At the end of the meal, she found a packet of cantuccini and a bottle of Vin Santo that one of her students had given her for Christmas and they sat dipping the biscuits in the sweet wine and nibbling them as they continued to chat. She toyed with the idea of asking him about his sister and the identity of her fiancé, but the opportunity never really arose, and she didn’t want to appear too nosey. Besides, she felt sure she would be able to get the information the following weekend when she would meet up with Flora again. Claudia and her forthcoming wedding were topics that were bound to come up and she would find a way of wheedling his name out of her.
What she would then do with the information remained to be seen.
What she did discover about Dario was that he was four years older then her, recently turned thirty-three, that his hobbies were squash and skiing and, apart from his old farmhouse renovation project, his main passion in life was art history. At no stage did he mention a girlfriend, fiancée or wife and Debbie told herself firmly that she wasn’t interested.
What she did find, however, was that she got on very well with him, aristocrat or not, and she had already added him to her list of friends – very high up the list as well.