Lucy Gordon - The Italian’s Wife by Sunset

‘That’s fine. I wouldn’t have known what to ask for.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Playing the tactful card, huh?’

‘I’m a newcomer here. I listen to the expert.’

Berto returned with white wine. When he had poured it and gone, Carlo said, ‘So, you reckon you can see right through me?’

‘No, you said I could. Not me.’

‘I have to admit that you got one or two things right.’

‘Let’s see how well I manage on the rest. I know Italian men often stay at home longer than others, but I don’t think that you do, because Mamma’s eagle eye might prove-shall we say, inhibiting?’

‘That’s as good a word as any,’ he conceded cautiously.

‘You’ve got a handy little bachelor apartment where you take the girls you can’t take home because they wouldn’t tick any of Mamma’s “suitability” boxes, and that’s just fine by you-’

‘Basta!’ He stopped her with a pleading voice. ‘Enough, enough! How did you learn all that?’

‘Easy. I just took one look at you.’

‘Obviously I don’t have any secrets,’ he said ruefully.

‘Well, perhaps I was a little unfair on you.’

‘No, you weren’t. I deserved it all. In fact, I’m worse. My mother would certainly say so.’

She chuckled. ‘Then think of me as a second mother.’

‘Not in a million years,’ he said softly.

His eyes, gliding significantly over her, made his meaning plain beyond words, and suddenly she was aware that she looked several years younger than her age, that her figure was ultra-slim and firm, thanks to hours in the gym, that her eyes were large and lustrous and her complexion flawless.

Every detail of her body might have been designed to elicit a man’s admiration. She knew it, and at this moment she was passionately glad of it.

It might be fun.

He was certainly fun.

Berto arrived with clam pasta, breaking the mood-which was a relief, since she hadn’t decided where she wanted this to go. But a moment ago there had been no choice to make. What had happened?

He was watching her face as she ate, relishing her enjoyment.

‘Good?’

‘Good,’ she confirmed. ‘I love Italian food, but I don’t get much chance to eat it.’

‘You’ve never been here before?’

‘I had a holiday in Italy once, but mostly I depend on Italian restaurants near my home.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In London, on a houseboat moored on the Thames.’

‘You live on the water? That’s great. Tell me about it.’

At this point she should have talked about her serious day-to-day life, with its emphasis on work, and the occasional visit from her grown up son. Instead, unaccountably, Della found herself describing the river at dawn, when the first light caught the ripples and the banks emerged from the shadows.

‘Sometimes it feels really strange,’ she mused. ‘I’m right there, in the heart of a great city, yet it’s so quiet on the river just before everywhere comes alive. It’s as though the world belongs to me alone, just for a little while. But you have to catch the moment because it vanishes so quickly. The light grows and the magic dies.’

‘I know what you mean,’ he murmured.

‘You’ve been there?’

‘No, I-I meant something else. Later. Tell me some more about yourself. What sort of work do you do?’

‘I’m in television,’ she said vaguely.

‘You’re a star-your face on every screen?’

‘No, I’m strictly behind the scenes.’

‘Ah, you’re one of those terrifyingly efficient production assistants who gets everyone scurrying about.’

‘I’ve been told I can be terrifying,’ she admitted. ‘And people have been known to scurry around when I want them to.’

‘Maybe that’s why I thought you were a schoolteacher?’

‘You’ve got quite a way with youngsters yourself.’

But he dismissed the suggestion with a gesture of his hand.

‘I’d be a terrible teacher. I could never keep discipline. They’d all see through me and know that I was just one of the kids at heart.’

‘You had them hanging on your every word.’

‘That’s because I’m crazy about my subject and I want everyone else to be crazy, too. I believe it can make me a bit of a bore.’

‘Sure, I’m sitting here fainting with boredom. Tell me about your subject.’

‘Archaeology. No, don’t say it-’ He interrupted himself quickly. ‘I don’t look like an archaeologist, more like a hippie-’

‘I was thinking a hobo myself,’ she said mischievously. ‘Someone not very respectable, anyway.’

‘Thank you. I take that as a compliment. I’m not respectable. I don’t pretend to be. Who needs it?’

‘Nobody, as long as you know your stuff-and you obviously do.’

Carlo grinned. ‘Why? Because I kept a few youngsters quiet? That’s the easy part, being a showman. It’s not what really counts.’

She’d actually been thinking of his string of qualifications, but remembered in time that she wasn’t supposed to know about them.

‘What does really count?’ she asked, fascinated.

That was all he needed. Words poured from him. Some she understood, some were above her head, but what was crystal-clear was his devotion, amounting to a love affair, to ancient times and other worlds.

All his life he’d had soaring ambitions, hating the thought of being earthbound.

‘I used to play truant at school,’ he recalled, ‘and my teachers all predicted I’d come to a bad end because I was bound to fail my exams. But I fooled ’em. I used to sit up the night before, memorising everything just long enough to pass with honours.’ He sighed with happy recollection. ‘Lord, but that made them mad!’

She couldn’t help laughing at the sight of him, transformed back into that rebellious schoolboy.

‘I couldn’t face anything nine-to-five,’ he said. ‘Not at school, not at work. The beauty of being in my line is that you get to fly.’

‘And you really have to fly,’ she teased. ‘I guess when you get near the earth you crash.’

‘Right. That’s why I could never be a teacher, or a museum administrator. I might have to-’ He looked desperate.

‘Might have to what?’ she asked through her laughter.

He glanced over his shoulder and spoke with a lowered voice.

‘Wear a collar and tie.’

He sat back with the air of one who had described unimaginable horrors. Della nodded in sympathy.

‘But doesn’t it ever get depressing?’ she asked. ‘Spending so much time surrounded by death, especially in Pompeii-all those people, petrified in the positions they died in nearly two thousand years ago?’

‘But they’re not dead,’ he said, almost fiercely. ‘Not to me. They’re still speaking, and I’m listening because they have so much to say.’

‘But hasn’t it all been said? I mean, they finished excavating that place years ago. What more is there?’

He almost tore his hair.

‘They didn’t finish excavating. They barely started. I’m working on a whole undiscovered area-’

He stopped, and seemed to calm himself down by force of will.

‘I’m sorry. Once I get started there’s no stopping me. I told you I’m a bore.’

‘I wasn’t bored,’ she said truthfully. ‘Not a bit.’

In truth, she was fascinated. A fire was flaming within him and she wanted to see more, know more.

‘Go on,’ she urged.

Then he was away again, words pouring out in a vivid, passionate stream so that she caught the sense even of the bits she didn’t understand. After a while she stopped trying to follow too closely. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he could make her see visions through his own eyes. It was like being taken on a journey into the heart of the man, and it was exhilarating.