She smiled softly. She’d never get used to sitting in this kitchen without them. It held so many memories for her. Lucy desperately trying to make their packed lunches for school, Juliet painting a picture on the old wooden table. Kitty glued to the ancient television perched on the kitchen counter. It felt so quiet now, in comparison. As a child, this house had been full of life. The Shakespeare sisters had been vibrant and noisy. But now all that was left were the ghosts of their past.
She could almost see her mother in here, too. Looking as glamorous as ever, leaning down to kiss each one of them before leaving for the theatre. She’d always smelled delicious, like a bouquet of flowers. Sometimes, Cesca caught a whiff of that same perfume and it brought everything back.
‘Will you be OK while I’m gone?’ she asked her father.
‘Of course I will. I’ve got my work to keep me busy. Plus Hugh called to invite me to dinner. Oh, and Lucy will probably pop down from Edinburgh at some point.’
Thank goodness for Lucy. Their oldest sister always seemed to have everything under control. ‘I’ll try to call you,’ she told him.
He waved his hand. ‘I probably won’t pick up. And I still can’t work that damned answering machine. Why don’t you send me a postcard instead?’
‘I can do t
hat.’
He was looking down at his crossword, tapping his pen against his mouth. She’d lost his attention again. ‘Dad, you will take care of yourself, won’t you?’ she asked, aware of the irony of her words. ‘Make sure you eat properly.’
Pulling his pen from his mouth, he scribbled an answer. ‘I always eat properly,’ he said. ‘Though not as well as you, I expect. Italy has some wonderful food.’ Finally, he looked up at her. ‘What are you going to do over there anyway?’
She sighed. ‘Like I told you, I’m going to look after a villa. And I’m going to try to write again.’
For the first time, his face lit up with interest. ‘A play?’ he asked.
‘If I can. I’m a bit rusty though.’ Understatement of the year.
‘That’s wonderful news. Your mother would be so proud if she was alive. She always dreamed that one of her daughters would follow her into the theatre.’
‘I know.’ Cesca looked down. ‘I don’t think she’d be proud though. I’ve turned out to be a disappointment.’
‘Of course you haven’t.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘All you girls, you’ve done so well. It wasn’t easy for any of you after Milly . . . ’ He faded out, tears springing to his eyes. ‘Well, anyway, do your best. That’s all you can do.’
For a moment there she’d thought he was going to open up to her. But she could see him withdrawing in front of her eyes. He carried on filling in his crossword puzzle, as she finished her mug of tea.
He was right, though. Her best was all she could do. But would it be good enough?
3
I was in a better place; but travellers must be content
– As You Like It
The Italian sun was beating through the huge glass windows of the airport, as if to welcome her. She basked in the radiated warmth, trying to work out which group of people to follow, attempting to understand the foreign words on the signs overhead.
Everything sounded better in Italian. Words such as Imbarchi, Attenzione and Partenza seemed to drip off the tongue like honey. Sadly she didn’t understand any of them, not even when she finally located her guidebook and started to leaf through it, hoping there might be a map of the airport somewhere. It was only when she looked again that she saw each sign had an English translation. Stupid? Her?
By the time she got to baggage reclaim, Cesca’s was the only bag left. A battered red leather case that was going round in circles, forlorn in its seclusion. Cesca hefted it from the belt and onto a trolley, cursing the fact it was so old it didn’t have the handle and wheels that most modern luggage had.
Her stomach contracted with anxiety as she walked into the arrivals hall. It was full of people, all waiting for their loved ones, and drivers holding cardboard signs with names on. Milan was one of Italy’s busiest airports, serving the city as well as the tourist-oriented lakes, and today was testament to that. She came to a stop and looked around, wondering whether she should try to find a public telephone and call Hugh.
‘Miss Shakespeare?’ A deep voice came from her left. She turned to see a tall man standing next to her.
‘That’s me.’ She offered him a smile. He looked to be in his thirties, maybe a little older. He also didn’t look as though he was lost. That in itself was a minor miracle.
‘My name is Alessandro, this is my wife, Gabriella. We’re here to take you to Villa Palladino.’
A tiny brunette stepped forward, beaming. ‘I’m Gabi, and you can call him Sandro. I’m so pleased you’re here.’ She enveloped Cesca in a tight embrace, knocking the wind out of her. For a petite woman, Gabi was very strong.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Cesca replied. ‘And I’m so happy you speak English. My Italian is woeful, I’m sorry.’