In spite of the news she had received about Pierluigi and his fiancée, Debbie managed to get a pretty good night’s sleep, although she was woken around two o’clock in the morning by the sound of female voices in the corridor outside her room. No doubt Virginia and Claire had returned from their weekend away. As the noise diminished and doors closed, she drifted off to sleep again.
She got up early and breakfasted alone. There were no signs of life from the other rooms and she realised that the three teachers were probably having a long lie-in, as they wouldn’t be on duty until the afternoon or early evening, so she tried not to disturb them.
She left the house at eight-fifteen and walked to work. Today the sky was grey and a cool wind was blowing, but at least it was dry. As she walked past the station and up the main street towards the cathedral, she found herself predominantly in the company of other working people, recognisable by their smarter clothes and faster pace than the slower tourists.
She glanced in the shop windows as she walked along, marvelling at the choice of items on display and the astronomical prices on some of the clothes and shoes. Some shops didn’t even show any indication of price, which she thought was decidedly sinister, and she resolved to stay away from these. She might be getting paid a bit more than before, but she wasn’t in the plutocrat bracket by a long way.
The school occupied the second floor of a magnificent Renaissance palazzo in a narrow street directly behind the Duomo. The massive wooden gates that had been closed when she and Alice had done their brief reconnaissance back in the summer were now open. A stone-flagged passage led into a courtyard, which would once have welcomed the horse-drawn coaches of Florentine notables. Doubtless, with her humble background, she would have been lucky to get a job here as a serving wench back in those days. Now the only carriage on display was a Smart car parked in one corner. A door on her left was open and, as she walked past, a head appeared from within.
‘Buongiorno signorina.’ The owner of the head emerged to reveal a man, maybe in his fifties, with meticulously combed grey hair. He was wearing a dark green apron on top of a freshly-ironed white shirt and impeccable black trousers.
‘Good morning.’ Debbie glanced at her watch. It was still only twenty to nine, so she paused to chat. ‘My name’s Debbie Waterson and I’m starting work today up at the school.’
The porter smiled in recognition. ‘My name’s Nando. I’m the porter here. I’m very pleased to meet you. Signor Burrage told me you’d be coming. You’re going to be the new Director, I believe.’
‘Director of Studies, yes.’
‘Angela was a very nice girl.’ He caught her eye and explained. ‘Your predecessor. I liked her.’
‘Was she here long?’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. She only started around this time last year and she left this Easter. All very sudden, her departure.’
Debbie wondered what had caused the previous DoS to leave in a hurry and resolved to check with Steven next time she saw him. After a short chat about everyday things, she gave Nando a cheery wave and walked across to the stairs. There was a small, fairly antiquated-looking lift alongside, but she decided to walk up. The stairs themselves were wide enough and tall enough for a rider on horseback to have ridden up them and, for a moment, she found herself wondering if this had ever happened in the dim and distant past. Certainly, she reflected as she climbed steadily upwards, this place was very different from the little terrace house where she had grown up.
As she reached the second-floor landing, she found a pair of arched wooden doors set in the wall in front of her, emblazoned with a highly-polished brass plate bearing the name Florence Institute of English Studies. Alongside the doors was an equally shiny brass doorbell. She walked over and pressed it, hearing a dim echo of the bell on the other side of the door. There was no answer so, after a decent wait, she pressed it again. This time, she got a response. There was a jingling of keys and the right hand half of the door opened a crack. A woman’s face appeared.
‘The school’s closed, I’m afraid. The secretary will be here at nine.’ The lady’s Italian was fluent, but her accent was definitely foreign. She had black hair, dark brown eyes and she was wearing yellow rubber gloves.
‘Hello, my name’s Debbie Waterson. I’m the new Director of Studies. I wonder if I could come in.’
The woman looked a bit dubious, so Debbie was quick to list her credentials.
‘I’ve been employed by Mr Burrage and I’m here to see Giancarla.’
An expression of comprehension and relief crossed the cleaner’s face. She stepped back and ushered Debbie in, first through the wooden door, and then through an internal glass door.
‘Of course, Professoressa, do come in. I’m Bella.’ As Debbie walked in, Bella pushed the door closed behind her. ‘I’m just finishing doing the classrooms. Is it all right to leave you here?’
‘Of course, do carry on, please.’
As the cleaner disappeared through a doorway in the left corner, Debbie took a good look around. Her first impression was very positive. The reception area was enormous, with a long counter running along the right-hand side. The ceiling was immensely high, with a massive chandelier suspended in the centre of the room, but the star of the show was an obviously ancient fresco on the wall opposite the entrance. This depicted a group of men on horseback, some carrying hawks on their gloved hands, with a gaggle of servants on foot around them, all clearly engaged in a hunt. A pair of unfortunate rabbits could be seen hanging from the hands of one of the servants while another little grey bunny was running for its life, chased by massive hounds. It was quite stunning and Debbie stood in silent contemplation, knowing she was going to enjoy working in such a historic setting.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock and she turned to see the door open. A woman around the same age as the porter downstairs appeared through the door and stopped dead in surprise.
‘Buongiorno.’ Her tone was deeply suspicious. ‘And you are?’ She was a stern-looking woman with grey hair tied tightly into a bun, and her expression was as wary as her tone.
Debbie launched into a major charm offensive. ‘Good morning. My name’s Debbie Waterson. I’m the new Director of Studies. You must be Giancarla.’
‘Must I?’ The woman’s tone was glacial.
Debbie hesitated. ‘Aren’t you Giancarla? Steven told me you run the place.’
The woman’s stern expression softened fractionally. ‘Yes, my name is Giancarla and yes, I run the school.’ With an effort, the secretary walked across, set her handbag and today’s post down on the counter and held out her hand, somewhat reluctantly, towards Debbie. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. What did you say your name was? I was told it was Deborah.’
‘Yes, it is, but my friends call me Debbie, or Debs.’ She shook hands, realising as she did so that, daunting as the other woman was, she was quite tiny, her head barely reaching up to Debbie’s shoulder. However, clearly she compensated for her lack of physical stature by having the coiled aggression of a cobra.
‘I shall call you Deborah.’
‘As you wish.’ Debbie registered the put-down and felt her hackles begin to rise. Nevertheless, swallowing hard, she plastered a broad smile across her face. ‘So, Giancarla, Steven told me you would show me round.’ Steven hadn’t said any such thing, but Debbie was keen to see what effect their boss’s name would have. It didn’t take long to discover.
‘He can show you round himself. I’ve got far too much to do.’ To reinforce the message, Giancarla marched round the end of the counter and back to her desk, where she began to sift through the letters she had brought in with her. A few moments later, as Debbie was leafing through a pile of textbooks on display, an old grandfather clock against the end wall struck nine and Giancarla strutted across and unlocked the main entrance doors. She pushed them open, back against the outside wall, leaving just the internal glass door. Debbie noticed that this had FIES etched on it in red, white and blue.
‘Is it all right if I take a look round, Giancarla?’
‘Help yourself, but stay away from my desk. I don’t want my things messed up.’
‘Of course.’ Debbie repeated her friendly smile, albeit while gritting her teeth, and went over to a door alongside the fresco, marked Principal. She glanced inside, but immediately heard a disapproving tut-tutting sound from Giancarla behind her and decided to leave Steven’s office for another time.
She followed the route taken by Bella the cleaner though the doorway to the left and found herself in another charming, huge room, with doors leading off on all sides. She wandered round, counting six classrooms, all well-equipped, a little leisure area with a coffee machine and water fountain, and a door with Staffroom on it. Inside, there was a pretty comprehensive library of books and teaching manuals, as well as audio materials. There was also an electric kettle and mugs on a tray, freshly washed by Bella, from the look of them.
She stopped for a brief chat with Bella at the staffroom door, and learnt that she was Romanian. Like so many of her compatriots, she spoke very good Italian and Debbie remembered that Romanian was, of course, a Latin-based language and a close cousin of Italian. As Bella seemed happy to chat, Debbie took the opportunity to ask what had happened to the previous DoS. She saw Bella’s eyes dart anxiously towards the reception area.
‘She had a problem with another member of staff.’ She kept her voice low and rolled her eyes in the direction of the front door. Debbie wasn’t surprised.
‘She and Giancarla didn’t get on?’
Bella nodded. ‘Ask Signor Stefano. He will tell you better.’
Debbie nodded. ‘Thank you, Bella. I will ask him.’ Sensing Bella’s discomfort, she changed the subject and saw relief on the cleaner’s face.
‘And have you worked here long?’
‘Four years. Signor Stefano is a very nice boss.’
‘Well, you keep the place looking very good. Congratulations.’
Beyond the staffroom, at the end of the corridor, there was a door with Director of Studies written on it. Debbie opened it and went in. It was smaller than the staffroom, but pleasantly light. Inside stood a desk, three chairs and a bookcase filled with reference books. She walked over to the window and looked out. There, towering right in front, was the massive domed roof of the cathedral, and she took a deep breath. Not many offices could boast a close-up view of the Duomo, and she found herself smiling. However much of a cow Giancarla might turn out to be, this was a pretty amazing place to work. She pulled out her phone and took a photo to send to her mother and Alice.
She was disturbed by a ringing sound. On the desk was a grey-blue phone, bristling with a battery of buttons. One of these was blinking as the phone rang so she picked the receiver up and pressed the lighted button.
‘Deborah, there’s a lady here who needs a grading test. Please come and collect her.’ Giancarla’s voice hadn’t become any friendlier.
‘Of course, Giancarla. I’ll be right there.’ Steven had spoken to her about these tests. Basically, any potential students who came in had to be tested to establish their level of English, so that those who were advanced didn’t end up in a beginners’ class or vice versa. Over the course of the next three hours, Debbie carried out four of these brief tests, after which she returned the students to Giancarla in the front office to complete the enrolment formalities and to pay their fees.
At just before noon, Steven arrived and sat down with Debbie to go through the timetable with her. Debbie was interested to see that Giancarla’s attitude towards him was even colder than it was with her. The school secretary was clearly an unhappy person and her boss was most definitely not in her good books. At least, Debbie was happy to note, Giancarla’s attitude towards the students, while not gushing, was polite and even welcoming. Maybe she just had a problem with authority. Debbie tried to broach the subject of the previous DoS, Angela, but Steven added little to what Bella had told her.
‘She got very stressed out and decided to leave at Easter. I’ve been filling in since then. That’s why I’m so glad you’re here now.’
Debbie decided there wasn’t much point trying to probe any further. It certainly sounded as though Giancarla’s prickly personality had been responsible for the DoS’s departure. For now, Debbie resolved to treat Giancarla with severe caution. The fact was that she liked the feel of this job, and she had every intention of making it work.
The rest of the day passed quickly. At half past twelve on the dot Giancarla picked up her handbag and left, closing the door behind her without a word, and didn’t reappear until three o’clock. Debbie and Steven worked through the lunch break, stopping only for a quick sandwich in a café downstairs in the street. Debbie drank mineral water, but couldn’t help noticing that Steven put away three glasses of red wine in the twenty minutes they were down there. Even though he appeared unaffected, Debbie wondered what all this alcohol might be doing to his vital organs.
A few hours later, Rory arrived to start work, accompanied by the two girls – Virginia and Claire. They were both a few years younger than her and it was clear that these two, between them, were the owners and users of the mountain of toiletries back at the flat. Dolled up to the nines as they were, Debbie began to wonder whether they shared man-eating DNA with Alice. Time would tell.
The girls were pleasant enough, although Debbie detected a hint of apprehension, maybe even antagonism, in their attitude towards her. She could understand this. She was, after all, their new boss. She did her best to be friendly and supportive and by the end of the day, she sensed a thaw beginning to take place – which was more than could be said for Giancarla, who remained po-faced all day. Two other teachers also appeared, both were female and both married to Florentine men. They had worked at the school for a number of years and clearly had experienced a number of Directors of Studies, and they accepted her presence without a murmur.
That week and the weeks that followed were some of the busiest, and most exhausting, of Debbie’s life. She made a point of getting into work before nine every morning – she now had her own key – and often didn’t leave until ten o’clock at night. She started teaching, enjoying meeting the students, and gradually managed to wheedle snippets of closely guarded information out of Giancarla’s jealous hands. As she learnt more and settled in, she soon started to see ways in which things could be improved. Needless to say, change was not on Giancarla’s agenda.
Her first idea came to her one rainy day when, instead of walking, she took the bus to work. Looking round the crowded interior, she saw that there were lots of older people sitting there. This reminded her of the courses her old school ran for so-called Third Age students. When Steven came into work that day, she suggested trying to promote courses for older people and, in spite of a stony wall of non-cooperation from Giancarla, she managed to launch an advertising campaign in the local newspaper, La Nazione. The results were impressive. By the end of October, three new afternoon classes had been formed, populated entirely by senior citizens.
The downside to this success was that she ended up doing the teaching herself as all the other teachers were fully occupied. Before long she realised that they could do with another teacher and, with Steven’s blessing, she placed an advertisement on the same website she had consulted back in Cambridge. Steven flew over to London in early November to conduct the interviews – and no doubt eat another curry or two – and a new teacher was duly appointed. This meant that the hunt for accommodation had to start – not easy in this crowded city.
While Steven was in the UK, Debbie invited all the staff out for a pizza after work on Friday night. Everybody came except two. One was Bella, who thanked her profusely for the invitation, but declined because she had to be up at six o’clock the next morning. The other person who didn’t come along was Giancarla. This didn’t come as a surprise to Debbie. On the one hand, she was relieved that they would be spared her prickly company, but at the same time she rather regretted not being able to have the opportunity of trying to bond with the hostile secretary outside the work environment.
Lessons finished at ten o’clock, so the meal was a late-night affair but, by now, Debbie was getting used to the long hours. Virginia and Claire appeared to be of vampire stock as they quite evidently came alive as the night progressed. When things broke up at around one o’clock, the girls informed her they were going on to a party elsewhere. Claire even asked Debbie if she felt like coming with them and Debbie definitely sensed that she had scored a little victory – even though she declined the invitation and walked home with Rory.
She liked Rory and she often chatted to him around the flat as well as at work. It turned out he had only arrived a couple of weeks before her and he was still feeling his way. Although Debbie had never felt threatened at any time here in Florence, it was reassuring to have his big muscular presence alongside her as they walked through the dark streets.
‘Rugby tomorrow?’
‘Yes, it’ll be my first game in the first fifteen. I hope I don’t screw up.’
‘You won’t screw up, I’m sure. And that tendon trouble you were having? Has that all cleared up?’
‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine.’
‘So is the big game the reason why you didn’t go partying with Claire and Virginia?’
She sensed a moment’s hesitation from him.
‘That, and a few other things.’ He definitely sounded more tentative than normal.
‘Such as?’
There was another, longer, pause before he answered.
‘Such as the fact that I’m gay, principally.’
‘Well, surely there would have been men at the party as well as women?’ Debbie had a number of gay friends and most of them were the life and soul of any party. Rory, on the other hand, was obviously made of shyer stuff.
‘To be totally honest, Debbie, you’re just about the first person I’ve told.’
‘What, the first person over here in Florence?’ She glanced across at him and saw him shake his head in the orange glow of the streetlights.
‘The first person anywhere.’
This was a surprise. ‘Why’s that? Surely the days of closets and coming out have well and truly passed, haven’t they?’
‘Not where I come from. I’m from a little Scottish fishing village, right up north, above Aberdeen. Everybody knows everybody and homosexuality isn’t a thing there. I haven’t even told my mum. She’d be devastated.’
‘Surely not? She’ll love you for what you are, I’m sure. You should say something. And your dad?’
‘My dad’s dead. He was a fisherman and his boat went down one stormy night when I was just ten.’
Debbie could hear the grief still present in his voice and reached across and took hold of his arm.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks, Debbie. There’s only ever been me and my mum since then. I sort of knew for years, but I only really admitted my sexuality to myself a few years ago when I got to university. This is part of the reason I thought I’d get right away and find a job abroad.’
Debbie gave his brawny arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘Times have changed, Rory. I think you should tell your mum. And I’m sure a big handsome chap like you will be able to find himself a special someone over here very easily. There are some very good-looking Italian men around, you know.’ As she spoke, she remembered what Alice had said about good-looking men being the least trustworthy, not to mention her own experience so far. ‘Just make sure you pick a good one.’
Rory nodded. ‘I’ll try. And what about you, Debbie? You just seem to work all the time. You mustn’t overdo it, you know. Surely you must have a man stashed away somewhere. You’re terribly attractive… well, beautiful, really.’
‘Thanks, Rory. You do wonders for my self-confidence. But no, I’m footloose and fancy free these days and loving it. I’ve had it with men for the foreseeable future.’
In Debbie’s advanced class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, there was a very striking and elegant lady called Flora, who was always happy to stay and chat after lessons. Flora was probably in her late fifties, but her skin was as smooth as a baby’s, and her hair and clothes were always impeccable. Clearly, there was no shortage of money in her family. However, in spite of her privileged background, she and Debbie got on very well and often went for a coffee together after lessons. After a few weeks, Flora invited Debbie to come to her house for tea one Saturday afternoon. As she lived a little way out of town, she promised to send a car.
The car, when it appeared, turned out to be a very swish chauffeur-driven silver Mercedes with tinted windows and the most comfortable leather seats Debbie had ever experienced. She stepped in, feeling like the impostor she was. This was definitely a car for the rich and famous, not for an ordinary person like herself. She resisted the invitation to take a seat in the back and climbed into the front passenger seat alongside the driver, counting this at least a token attempt to appear unpretentious.
The car was driven by a young man called Giacomo, who described himself as the autista, or chauffeur. He even had a chauffeur’s peaked cap, but he told her with a smile that he never wore it. He and Debbie chatted as he steered the big car expertly through the traffic away from the centre. As they reached the outskirts, Debbie spotted a sign pointing towards Fiesole, where she and Alice had had the lovely birthday meal back in August.
‘Does Flora live in Fiesole?’
‘The Conte and Contessa’s villa is on the hillside just below Fiesole.’
Debbie was stunned. She’d had no idea that Flora was a countess. At the school, everybody used first names and now she had to struggle to remember Flora’s surname. It came to her shortly after the car reached the sign marked Fiesole. As the chauffeur turned off onto a tortuous, narrow lane that led to an imposing gateway, she remembered – Flora Dellatorre. They stopped briefly while electric gates hummed open, then the car swept along a gravelled drive, flanked by centennial cypress trees, leading to one of the most wonderful houses Debbie had ever seen.
It wasn’t enormous, but it certainly wasn’t small either. It was a real Tuscan villa, complete with a tower in the middle of the roof. The walls were a deep ochre colour, the windows hung with the same green shutters found elsewhere in Florence. It sat on a flat terrace on the hillside, and it was ringed by trees. The garden, filled with roses, oleander and numerous other flowering shrubs, sloped down from there towards Florence. The view as Debbie stepped out of the car was spectacular and she felt immensely privileged to have been invited to such an amazing place. She also felt more than a little nervous. Just how, she wondered, did one address a count? Should she carry on calling Flora by her first name? She felt her palms begin to sweat as they drew up at the bottom of a short flight of marble steps.
‘Deborah, thank you so much for coming. No, Byron, don’t jump all over her.’ Flora was waiting at the front door as, from behind her, a very enthusiastic black Labrador came charging out to greet Debbie, tail wagging furiously. ‘Just push him down if he tries to jump up at you. He’s still young and he’s always delighted to meet new people.’
Debbie knelt down to greet the dog and made a fuss of him as he whined happily, finally slumping down onto his side and then his back, all four legs waving in the air as she scratched his tummy. Debbie looked up at Flora.
‘He’s a beauty. And your house, Flora, it’s unbelievable.’
Flora came down the steps to take Debbie’s hand in both of hers. ‘It’s been in my husband’s family for centuries. We’re just the most recent custodians of it. Byron, enough, now. Basta!’
‘Byron, vieni qui.’ All three of them looked up at the sound of the voice and Byron leapt to his feet and charged obediently back to the front door where a distinguished-looking gentleman had appeared.
‘Deborah, come and let me introduce you to my husband.’
Debbie followed Flora up the steps to the front door. By this time the Labrador had taken up position alongside his master, doing his best to sit still, while his tail was still wagging furiously.
‘Enzo, this is Deborah. She’s the Director of Studies of the English school.’
Flora’s husband gave Debbie a smile and a formal nod of the head and held out his hand. He was probably quite a few years older than his wife, still very well preserved, with impeccably styled silver hair.
‘Welcome to our home, Deborah.’
Debbie shook hands and did her best to reply appropriately. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.’ Should that have been Your Lordship?
‘And you’ve already met Byron.’ Count Enzo glanced downwards with a little smile. ‘I think you can tell from his reaction that he’s also pleased to see you. Do come in.’
The inside of the house was as remarkable as the exterior and Debbie’s sensation of being a fish out of water only increased. The floor was made of slabs of white and grey marble, the walls hung with venerable old paintings, and stunning glass chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. Everywhere Debbie looked, there seemed to be priceless furniture, objets d’art and an overwhelming sense of history. It was stunning and terrifying at the same time. Her feeling of discomfort grew and she wondered what her dad, a lifelong trade union member, would have to say about somewhere like this and the people who lived in it.
They walked through a vast living room to a smaller lounge with floor-to-ceiling French windows, offering a breathtaking view of Florence below. Flora and Debbie sat down side by side on an immaculate, tapestry-covered sofa while the count, after a few minutes exchanging pleasantries, excused himself and left. The dog hesitated before deciding to stay with the ladies, plonking himself on the floor between the two of them. A few minutes later he stretched out and closed his eyes with a sigh.
Debbie and Flora chatted a little, mainly about the house and its history – its origins went back to the sixteenth century. She learnt that the trademark tower in the middle of the roof was originally a dovecot that would have produced a regular supply of eggs for the household. Now, like so many others, this one had been converted into a room with magnificent views, currently used by the count as his study. As they talked, Debbie began to relax a bit. The fact was that Flora was a very nice lady and Debbie had grown to like her long before learning of her spectacular wealth or her aristocratic background.
There was a tap on the door and a housekeeper appeared with a trolley. To Debbie’s amazement, this was loaded with what she recognized as all the ingredients of a traditional English high tea, even if this was something she had never experienced in her life. From the porcelain teapot, cups, saucers and milk jug to the plates of cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches, the selection of biscuits and the impeccable sponge cake, it looked like something the queen might order at Buckingham Palace. Debbie wondered idly how this would compare to the cakes Rory made at the weekends when he wasn’t playing rugby.
Flora served Debbie with tea and told her to help herself to food. Debbie was very happy to do as instructed and found that it was excellent – the cake every bit as good as Rory’s. Gradually her sense of unease diminished as she did her best to ignore the sumptuous surroundings and concentrate on talking to the person behind the façade. By this time, however, she had firmly resolved not to recount this episode to her dad. Some things were best left unsaid. The conversation continued and flowed.
‘And are you married, Deborah?’
Debbie shook her head, maybe a touch too vehemently, as Flora caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. Debbie decided to make no mention of Pierluigi. Since sending him her terse text message from Piazza Signoria, there had been no further contact between them and that suited her just fine. She did, however, provide a brief summary of her abortive relationship with Paul, and Flora was very sympathetic.
‘How terrible for you. So, now you’re here on your own?’
‘Yes, sort of. I share a flat with three of the teachers. In fact, I’m looking for somewhere for our new teacher, arriving next week, but it’s not easy to find accommodation here in Florence.’
Flora looked reflective. ‘Do you enjoy sharing with other people?’
Debbie smiled weakly. ‘It’s not ideal, to be honest. I had my own flat in Cambridge and I really miss that. Rory’s a sweetie, but Virginia and Claire do tend to monopolise the bathroom, and they come and go at all hours of the day and night. I suppose it’s because they don’t need to get up in the mornings, but I do. Anyway, I’ll manage.’
‘I don’t think I’d enjoy that very much.’ Flora played with the piece of cake on her plate for a few moments, before appearing to come to a decision. ‘I might have a solution, if you’re interested, Deborah. We’ve got an apartment in the centre of Florence that we don’t use. Why don’t you give your room to the new teacher and move into our apartment? It’s empty.’
Debbie’s hopes soared for a moment before she gave herself a reality check. A flat in the centre of Florence would be bound to be out of her financial league. She was about to refuse the offer as politely as possible, when Flora carried on.
‘The flat’s been used by my daughter until recently, but she and her fiancé have just moved in together. They’re getting married next spring, but young people don’t wait for things like that any longer – and we were wondering what to do with it. I do think property needs to be lived in, don’t you? Could I ask – how much are you paying for your room at present?’
Debbie gave her the figure and saw Flora nod her head a few times. ‘Deborah, would you excuse me a moment while I go and have a word with Enzo?’
Flora was out of the room for about five minutes, but the Labrador remained to keep Debbie company. Clearly, with his head on her foot, he was far too comfortable to move. She reached down and scratched his ears while she waited and she heard him sigh happily.
When Flora returned, it was to give Debbie the astounding news that she and her husband would be delighted to rent her their flat for the same amount she was paying at the moment.
‘It’s not a big apartment. There’s a little kitchen, a lounge, and only one bedroom, plus a bathroom, but it should do you, I would think.’
Debbie was flabbergasted and protested that she couldn’t possibly accept such a generous offer. Flora tapped her on the arm and shushed her.
‘Really, Deborah, you’d be doing us a favour by using it. Enzo wouldn’t dream of selling it and it seems such a shame to keep it closed up – like a lot of places in Florence, I’m afraid. It’s fully furnished because Claudia, my daughter, wanted all new stuff in her new place. She and her fiancé are on holiday at the moment and I’m sure she’ll come back with even more new things.’ She lowered her voice and grinned at Debbie. ‘To be honest, I’d quite like some new furniture here myself, but Enzo won’t hear of it. If it isn’t at least two hundred years old, he doesn’t want to know.’
Debbie still couldn’t really believe her ears and continued to protest, but Flora was having none of it. At the end of a very pleasant afternoon, she gave instructions to Giacomo, the autista, to take Debbie round there on the way home, to see if she liked the look of the place.
Debbie loved the look of the place.
The flat was in an amazing position, only a stone’s throw from the Duomo in the pedestrian area, and barely three or four minutes on foot from the school. It was on the top floor of a Renaissance palazzo that could almost have been a carbon copy of the school building, complete with massive gates opening onto the street and a shady courtyard on the ground floor with a centuries-old fig tree in one corner. The flat was on the top floor and there wasn’t a lift, but Debbie didn’t mind that one bit. As Giacomo accompanied her up the stairs, she breathed in the sense of history the old building inspired.
The apartment was delightful. There was a decent-sized modern kitchen with granite worktops, a luxurious bathroom, a lovely big bedroom with a lovely big bed, and a sizeable living room with French windows, through which she could see over the roofs of Florence all the way to Fiesole. Even better, the ornate glass doors opened onto a spectacular terrace running the length of the building and connecting with the other flat on the top floor. That apartment, Giacomo informed her, was where the contessa’s son lived, when he was home. Not a bad place to live at all. She reflected upon the fact that Flora had described the flat as small when, in fact, it was almost as big as the house where she had been born and brought up. Clearly, Flora’s standards were very different from hers.
She asked Giacomo to tell Flora and her husband that she would be delighted to take the flat and when he had left, she walked the short distance from there to the school, and let herself in. As it was a Saturday evening it was empty and it felt rather good to be able to walk around wherever she liked without fear of being told off by the grouchy secretary. She turned on her computer, located the file for Flora Dellatorre, found her email address and sent her an email, repeating her thanks for the lovely afternoon and confirming what she had told Giacomo, if they were really sure they wanted her to take it. The offer of the apartment was the best news she could have hoped to receive and she was delighted to accept.
She was humming to herself as she switched the computer off again and left her office. Things were definitely on the up. She was just crossing the main reception area on her way to the front door when she heard a strange noise and stopped in alarm.
It was coming from the principal’s office and, for a moment, she wondered if there were thieves in the building. Then the noise came again and it sounded more like somebody in pain. She went over and cautiously pushed the office door open. There, sprawled on his side on the floor, was Steven, doubled up in agony. His right hand was clenching his left arm and he was gasping for breath, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
Debbie had done several first aid courses and she immediately recognized the symptoms. Her boss was having a heart attack. She ran for the phone and dialled 112, the number for the emergency services. After telling the operator what was happening and then giving the address, she dropped the phone and crouched down beside Steven, cradling his head in her arms. As she did so, he gave a choked cough and, to her horror, stopped breathing. Remembering her training, she reached for the big artery at the side of his throat and was appalled to feel that his heart had stopped along with his breathing.
She ripped off her jacket and threw it away while she desperately set about performing CPR on him. She counted to herself as she repeatedly thumped his chest, just as they had taught her, and it was very hard work. Five or six minutes later, she was mightily relieved to hear footsteps outside and pounding on the door. Abandoning Steven, she ran to open it and the paramedics took over. She left them to it and went out into the reception area, breathing deeply. She was bathed in sweat after her exertions and badly needed a sit down. As she gradually regained her breath, she reflected how lucky it had been that she, by sheer chance, had happened to be here on a Saturday evening. If she hadn’t been there, she had no doubt as to what Steven’s fate would have been.
Five minutes later, one of the paramedics came out with the good news that they had managed to restart his heart and would be taking him to hospital. As he went off to fetch a stretcher, Debbie wondered whom to call. Giancarla was the obvious choice, but she didn’t have a home number for her. She suddenly had an idea and went back into Steven’s office. He was laid out on the floor, his chest bare, a drip in his arm. His eyes were closed and he looked as if he was still unconscious, but even from the door, Debbie could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed once more. The female paramedic glanced up as she came in and Debbie explained.
‘I need his phone. I need to tell people what’s happened.’
The mobile phone was lying on the desk and she picked it up, hoping it wouldn’t be password protected. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the screen light up. No password. She hunted for Contacts and then scrolled through, realising as she did so that, even after more than a month in post, she didn’t know Giancarla’s surname. Fortunately, the phone number was in there just under her first name.
Debbie pressed the call button and heard it start to ring. As she waited for a reply, she had a thought and looked down at the paramedic.
‘Where are you going to take him?’
‘Careggi.’
‘Can I come too?’
‘Yes, if you want to. You can ride in the back of the ambulance with the patient and my colleague.’
Just then Giancarla answered. Debbie was totally taken aback to hear her voice quite literally screaming down the phone.
‘I told you never, ever to use this number again! What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘Giancarla, listen. It’s me, Debbie. Steven’s had a heart attack.’
There was sudden silence at the other end and Debbie was just beginning to wonder if Giancarla had rung off when she heard her voice again, this time little more than a whisper.
‘Santo cielo! He’s had a heart attack? Is he all right?’
Debbie told her what had happened and said she would ride with him to the hospital in the ambulance. When Giancarla replied, her voice was very different from her usual frosty tone.
‘Thank you, Deborah. I’ll meet you at Careggi. Thank you again.’