We are such stuff as dreams are made on – The Tempest
‘You need to do it like this,’ Cesca said, picking up another flat stone from the beach. Curling her arm towards her, she held the stone tightly for a moment, before flicking her forearm back out, watching the pebble skim across the surface of the lake six, seven, eight times.
Shaking his head, Cristiano picked another stone up, then attempted to mimic her movements. It disappeared beneath the lake with a loud splash, causing Cesca to collapse into a fit of laughter.
‘There’s no need to be rude.’ Though his words were tight, his eyes flashed with amusement.
‘I always thought it was girls who couldn’t throw, not boys. I’m sure this little lesson is supposed to be the other way round,’ she said.
‘Are you questioning my masculinity?’ Cristiano asked. His face was flushed from the cheese and red wine. They’d both indulged a little too freely, resulting in Cesca feeling a rush of drunkenness every time she bent down.
She shook her head, feeling the dizziness again. ‘Not at all, I’m just questioning your throwing skills. Didn’t you learn to do this when you were a kid?’
‘I grew up in the city, there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to throw stones,’ he told her, reaching out and taking a lock of her hair between his fingers. For some reason the gesture confused her, made her feel uncomfortable. She shuffled her feet, kicking at the shingle beneath her sandals.
She laughed again, but this time to disguise her embarrassment. ‘I grew up in the city, too. But throwing stones is a rite of passage. I feel as though you’ve missed out on an important development milestone.’ She stepped back, her hair pulling away from his hold. She sensed his frown, but couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes. Cesca had never been very good at flirting, not even after a few glasses of the red stuff. She always felt slightly awkward whenever she sensed a man’s interest in her, as if she couldn’t work out what they wanted.
‘You have a very beautiful laugh,’ he told her. Though he kept his distance this time, Cesca felt a shot of warmth in her veins. Who didn’t like being told something like that?
‘You’ve been drinking too much.’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re not very good at accepting compliments, are you? I’ve found that with English women before. It’s as though you’re brought up believing the worst about yourself.’
She tipped her head to the side, pondering his words. ‘Are Italian girls brought up any differently?’
It was his turn to laugh, deep and low. ‘Being a man, I can’t say from experience. But I can tell you my sister was always complimented, always loved. Girls in this country grow up knowing there’s beauty in every size, every shape, and every shade of hair. Women are worshipped here in Italy, not criticised.’ His voice was soft as he spoke, his stare intense. Cesca could feel her heart start to race.
‘That sounds like a lovely way to grow up.’
‘I was taught from the earliest age to show women respect and adoration. It begins with our mothers, of course, but then we learn to appreciate the femininity that surrounds us as we get older. It makes me sad when women don’t understand their beauty and power. Especially one as lovely as you.’
Was it possible to be seduced by words alone? Cesca wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the wine again, sending shivers down her spine. Making her skin fizz and pop as if she’d just been doused in soda.
Her voice was raw when she spoke again. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ That was the best she could do. After a lifetime of turning away from compliments about her looks, she couldn’t change overnight.
‘It’s a start.’ He gave her a soft smile. ‘But if you’re going to spend time with me, you’ll have to learn to accept compliments all the time. A girl like you deserves them.’ His blue-eyed stare seemed to pierce her, and again she could feel the embarrassment suffusing her. He poured another glass of red and she accepted it gratefully, pleased to have something to do other than try to hide her red cheeks.
‘Shall we change the subject?’ he asked, clearly noticing her self-consciousness. ‘Why don’t you tell me what brought you to Italy? You said you were here on a working holiday.’ He took her hand, helping her to sit down on the soft shingle. He climbed down beside her, stretching his feet out until his bare toes touched the softly lapping water. Cesca did the same, though her legs were shorter, and the lake was still almost a foot away from her pink painted toenails.
‘I was offered a job. The people who own the villa – the Carltons – they’re friends of my godfather.’
‘That was nice of them to give you a job. Have you known them long?’
‘I’ve never met them,’ she told him. ‘Hugh, that’s my godfather, he’s in the theatre industry, just like Mr Carlton. They’ve run in the same circles for years, I think. And when I lost my job Hugh suggested this one, he thought I needed to get out of London.’
‘Because of the weather?’ Cristiano asked.
His question made her laugh. ‘No, not the weather. In fact it was very nice the last time I was there. It’s just I’d been having a bit of a bad time and he thought getting away would be good for me.’ Way to play things down. ‘A bit of a bad time’ didn’t really capture the lows of the last six years.
His features softened with concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Would it be wrong of me to ask what sort of bad time?’
Cesca was torn. This wasn’t the sort of conversation she had with just anybody. ‘I used to be a writer,’ she finally said, her voice quiet. ‘But then something happened and I had this terrible block. It made me get very low and depressed, and I couldn’t snap out of it.’ If this had been a real first date, and not some holiday conversation with a handsome neighbour, maybe she’d have glossed over her problems, and pretend to be all sweetness and light.
Thank goodness this wasn’t a first date then.
‘I knew there was something about you.’ He leaned closer. She could smell the woody fragrance of his cologne. ‘You have this lost look about you that makes me want to know more. It’s very enticing.’
He was close enough for Cesca to feel his breath against her cheek. Her heart almost stopped beating in her chest. She felt frozen to the ground. Was he going to kiss her? More importantly, did she want him to? He was very handsome, after all, and wasn’t afraid to show his interest in her. Something was missing, though, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Can I kiss you?’ She felt his words brush against her skin. He cupped her neck with his hand, his fingers curling around her nape. It was only when she felt the softness of his lips brushing hers that she realised it wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent.
Cesca closed her eyes, feeling his hand pulling her closer, his lips pressing harder against her mouth. She waited for that familiar warmth, for the butterflies, for that desperate need to kiss him back. Waited and waited.
But it didn’t come.
Feeling her lips pull down into a frown, Cristiano pulled away, releasing his hold on her neck. He was frowning, too, still staring at her, his mouth red from her lipstick and the red wine.
‘Was that too much?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Too soon? I’m sorry that I read you wrong.’
She shook her head, still confused by her own reaction. ‘No . . . I mean yes . . . I don’t know. I’m so sorry, you took me by surprise.’
What had he been expecting – for Cesca to throw herself at him?
‘It’s OK,’ he reassured her. ‘You need more time, I understand that. The best things in life don’t need to be rushed.’
In spite of his words, she still felt embarrassed, and found herself scrambling to her feet, standing up on the pebbled ground. ‘I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long day, and I should get some sleep.’
Cristiano followed suit, standing beside her. His smile remained painted on. ‘Of course. Can I walk you to your villa?’
A flash of alarm shot through her. She could only imagine what Sam would say if she rocked up to the house with Cristiano. ‘Oh no, I can go on my own. It’s too far for you.’
His brows knitted together. ‘It’s only next door.’
‘Honestly, I’ll be fine. The owners, they’re very private, they don’t like strangers coming onto the property.’ Seeing his expression, she began to backtrack. ‘Not that you’re a stranger, of course. Well, not to me. But they don’t know you, and I’ve promised to take good care of the house.’
Cristiano chuckled. ‘Please don’t worry, I get it. People guard their privacy very closely here, I can understand that. But I would like to ask a favour, if I can. Will you meet with me again soon? Perhaps we can go out for dinner together. There are a few restaurants around here I’d like to try.’
A long, slow breath escaped from Cesca’s lips. ‘That sounds nice.’
His smile was big. ‘Perfect. I’ll make some plans and let you know.’
Cesca nodded her agreement. ‘Good night, Cristiano.’ She turned, walking along the private beach to the fence that separated Cristiano’s side from the Carltons’, putting her foot on the lowest rung to climb over the top.
It was only when she fell flat on her face on the other side that she realised just how drunk she was.
Sam had forgotten how much he loved to read. It was the first time in years he’d held any written document in his hand that wasn’t a movie script, a contract or one of those goddamned magazines, and he had to admit it felt good. This was why he’d come here, after all, to find solitude and space, enough time to breathe, to think, to be someone other than the man Hollywood expected him to be.
He closed his eyes, letting the old, leather-bound copy of A Room With a View fall back against his chest, dust rising from its pages and tickling his nose. The warm night air caressed his skin as it breezed through the open window, as gentle as a lover’s touch. It had been a long time since he’d been able to doze in silence, without the sounds of LA, or the buzzing of his thoughts constantly interrupting his dreams, but for those few minutes something strangely akin to peace seemed to drift over him.
Gone were the voices in his head telling him he was all wrong. Even the loudest of them – Foster’s voice – stayed silent for a while. And for one blissful hour he managed to sleep deeply, his body relaxed and loose as he dreamed on the library chair.
A loud crash woke him, and it was as though all his circuits were switched on at once. He half stood, the book falling onto the floor, trying to work out the origin of the noise.
It was dark in the library. He must have switched off the side lamp before drifting off, and only the faraway lights from the other side of the lake were left to do battle with the blackness. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. There was a scratching coming from the hallway, like a cat running its claws down a wall. Not that there were any cats in the villa, Foster couldn’t stand them. He wasn’t a man for being at one with nature.
The noise started again, echoing through the library. Stretching his muscles, Sam cocked his head to one side. It really did sound like an animal.
It was only a few steps to the doorway. A few more until he made it into the hall, the murkiness of night following him in, though a lamp glowing in the living room tinted the air with a pale yellow glow. Cesca was kneeling in front of him, her bare knees and feet bracing her against the floor as she desperately tried to scoop up the contents of the hall table, which lay crookedly on the marble tiles.
‘Need some help?’ he asked drily.
Cesca’s eyes were wide, her face was flushed pink. Biting her lip, she shook her head, resuming her desperate tidying. The way she kept missing the papers and pens as she swiped reminded him of a toddler learning fine motor skills.
Sam knelt down next to her, taking the papers for her hands. ‘It’s late,’ he told her. ‘You can tidy this tomorrow when the light is better.’ He wasn’t sure why he was being easy on her, not after everything that had happened in the past few days. Maybe it was the way her hands were shaking, or the shallow breaths that had to fight to escape her lips.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, more worried this time. It wasn’t like Cesca not to have an immediate snarky reply. ‘Are you in pain?’ He reached out for her arm, scanning her body for signs of injury. It must have hurt like hell if the heavy table had fallen on any part of her.
Cesca glanced up, her eyes glassy. She frowned, not quite able to focus on his face. Trying to scramble up from her knees, she managed to fall forward, arms outstretched as she tumbled against him. She was surprisingly strong for such a petite girl, the force of her full weight winding him. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her, his hands pressed against her back, as he tried to stop the both of them tumbling to the ground.
For a moment she was still. He could feel her chest hitching against his. Her lips were close to his neck, her warm breath fanning his skin. Only a few inches more and her soft mouth would be pressing against him.
Her palms pushed against his chest as she tried to lever herself away. Looking down, he could see the expression on her face, her pure shock mirroring his own.
‘Get off me,’ she muttered. It was as though she had no strength. A moment after trying to move out of his embrace, she gave up, collapsing back onto his chest.
‘I think you’ll find you’re the one on me.’ He couldn’t disguise the amusement in his voice. ‘You keep throwing yourself at me. Literally.’ All the anger he’d felt earlier was forgotten. Replaced by a kind of schadenfreude at her predicament. ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’
She struggled in his arms again. This time she managed to dig an elbow into his ribs. It was surprisingly painful, and he instinctively released her in order to grab at his chest, making Cesca once again fall to her knees.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, her hair falling over her face. Through the blonde veil he could see her eyes still shining, her cheeks still flushed. ‘You dropped me, you arse.’
A rumble of a laugh formed deep in his abdomen. The absurdity of the situation was going a long way to take his mind off the pain in his ribs. There was something so comical about the way she was sprawled on the floor, yet still as feral as a cornered animal.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ she demanded. The cadence of her voice had been slowed by the wine. ‘Because there’s nothing funny about this.’
But there was. Here was Sam, hiding away from the world in his parents’ villa, towering over the tiny spitfire who unabashedly hated his guts. It was almost Shakespearian in its drama, making Sam the fallen hero who was finally having to deal with his nemesis, in the form of Cesca Shakespeare, the pretty, furious, playwright who just couldn’t write.
The laughter that erupted from his lips sounded almost alien to him. He cocked his head, frowning, attempting to work out why it sounded so different. It was only after he pondered on it for a minute that he realised the answer: he hadn’t laughed so genuinely in a long, long while.
When he was a small child, giggles were as easy as breathing. There were no expectations, no judgements, and no revelations to muffle the sound. Of course he’d laughed in the past six years, he was an actor after all, but even the act of smiling when he was in LA had a control that was lacking here in Varenna.
Right now, he was Sam the boy who grew up in this villa. Not Sam the adult who had failed so completely in living up to everybody’s expectations.
‘Oh, it’s funny,’ he managed to say between paroxysms. ‘In fact it’s goddamn hilarious.’
The corner of her lip twitched. It was the smallest of movements, but it caught his eye all the same. He could see the struggle behind her gaze as she tried to stop the amusement from rising, her attempts at stifling it slowly losing out.
Then she was laughing, too. A giggly-hiccupy sort of laugh that made her whole torso double over. She collapsed back on the floor, her bottom hitting the marble tiles, as she hid her face behind her tanned hands.
‘This is all your fault,’ she spluttered. ‘You mojo-stealing, house-invading, good-looking bastard.’
Even her insults were backhandedly amusing. Her eyes were screwed up, her chest rising and falling with every gulp of laughter, her arms flailing as she once again attempted to scramble to her feet.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d told him he was good-looking. Wisely, he decided not to comment on it at that moment. Something to store up and use later, when the time was right.
Cesca slipped as she rose to her feet, the alcohol stealing any sense of balance, and Sam automatically reached out to steady her. This time she let him, failing to pull away from his hold, her body pressing heavily against his.
‘Let’s get you to your room, OK?’ he whispered, the laughter disappearing as suddenly as it arrived. ‘You can sleep it off, that’s the best thing.’
Cesca didn’t protest. Instead she let him half-carry her to the staircase, and carefully lead her up the steps. He had to pause more than once when the effort got too much for her and she became unsteady on her feet. When they reached the top, he breathed a sigh of relief, leading her through the door to her bedroom, where she collapsed onto the king-size bed. It seemed as though she was asleep before her body hit the mattress. Sam stood there, looking at her in her skirt and top, wondering if he should just leave her like that, or take away the hazard that the layers of fabric could impose.
He hesitated. Cesca already hated his guts. If she woke up in the morning wearing only a bra and panties, God only knew what kind of fury she would unleash. He was in enough trouble already, he really didn’t need any more.
Even unconscious, Cesca was definitely trouble.
Pulling the covers across her still-clothed body, he took a final look at her face. An expression of peacefulness had stolen the derision that usually crafted her features whenever he was around, and it transformed her appearance completely. For the first time he could see a resemblance to that eighteen-year-old kid he could barely remember, the one whose face lit up whenever she talked about her play. The memory constricted his chest, a strange taste of regret coating his tongue, and he had to swallow hard to take it away.
Had he done this? Been the one to steal away her happiness, her hopes, and her big dream? The thought was like a black cloud in his mind. No wonder she hated him so much.
Turning away, he left her bedroom, walking down the hallway until he reached his own. And as he readied himself for bed he had to fight the urge to stare at himself in the mirror, to berate the man who was staring back. He was a fuck-up, pure and simple. A Midas in negative. The need to make amends took hold of his mind. But what on earth could he do?
There was no point in entertaining the idea of saving her. He couldn’t even save himself.