‘Sam!’ A female voice called from around the corner. ‘Sam, we need you.’
He took a step back from Cesca. ‘That’s Izz,’ he told her, his expression turning to confusion. ‘What the hell?’
Then his sister was running around the corner, her blonde hair swinging out behind her. ‘Sam, Mum needs you. Dad’s fallen on the beach and she can’t pick him up.’
Sam looked alarmed. ‘Is he OK? Is it his heart?’
Izzy shook her head, still looking frantic. ‘No, he’s drunk too much. But he’s being really horrible and she doesn’t want people to see him like that. She wants you to help him up to the house.’
Cesca watched as Sam listened to his sister’s words, his expression morphing into anger. ‘He’s drunk?’
‘Like a bloody newt. Seriously, the things he’s saying, I’m surprised Mum hasn’t slapped him.’
‘Like what?’
Izzy’s voice dropped. ‘Things about you. He’s such an arsehole, Sam. Honestly, anybody would think he hates his own son.’
‘Ah, fuck . . . ’ Sam turned to look at Cesca, who by now had straightened her skirt and sorted her hair out. ‘I need to go, OK?’
Cesca nodded.
Sam glanced at his sister, as if he was worried about revealing anything in front of her.
‘Can we talk about this later?’
She nodded again. ‘Of course. But you should go and help your dad. It sounds as though your mum needs you.’
‘She does,’ Izzy agreed, shooting Cesca a curious look. ‘Come on, Sam.’
With that, the two of them left, heading for the beach at the side of the lake. Cesca waited until they disappeared around the corner of the house before she stepped out of the shadows. Her entire encounter with Sam couldn’t have lasted for more than a few minutes, yet it seemed like hours had passed since she’d last held a tray in her hands.
It was time to get back to work. To pretend nothing had just happened.
Waiting and waitressing. They were the stories of her life.
28
It is a wise father that knows his own child
– The Merchant of Venice
The party was still thronging as Sam circled his way around the guests, heading down to the lakeside beach. Izzy held his hand, her face anxious as they neared the steps that led down to the sand. ‘He’s over there.’
‘Who else is here? Have any of the guests seen him like this?’
‘Just Mum and Sienna. Sandro and the waiters managed to lure the rest of the guests up to the villa once the fireworks ended. It’s amazing what people will do for a glass of champagne.’ Izzy’s words were much too world-weary for a girl of eighteen.
As soon as they were on the sand, Lucia looked over at them, her face ashen in the glow of the moon. ‘Over here,’ she said, pointing at a dark shadow. ‘We’ve managed to get him out of sight.’
‘Is he unconscious?’ Sam asked. He hated seeing his mother looking so lost.
‘Not quite. He’s still saying the occasional word. Talking about . . . things,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know what to do, Sam, how to get him up to the house without everybody seeing him. It’s such a mess.’
The way she looked at him, as if he could solve everything, made Sam feel helpless. He might have been strong, with gym-honed muscles, but he had no chance in hell of carrying Foster’s three hundred pound frame.
‘Who’s that?’ Foster’s voice was little more than a slur. Whisky thickened his vowels and hacked at his consonants.
‘It’s Sam.’ Lucia knelt next to her husband. ‘He’s come to help you.’