‘Ah, and there is a hike that one can do,’ she says. Hal has the distinct impression that she is suddenly eager to move on from the subject of her ancestor. ‘It begins here in Portofino, and goes up over the top. Spectacular views. Is anyone brave enough to do it with me?’
Hal and Aubrey Boyd offer to at once. Aubrey’s eagerness is a surprise, because he always appears so indolent.
The Contessa is pleased. ‘Anyone else?’
‘I’d like to do it,’ Stella says, suddenly.
Truss turns to her. ‘And do you plan to walk it in your high heels, my dear?’ he says, lightly. ‘Or perhaps in your bare feet? I don’t imagine there’s anything in your wardrobe that would be appropriate for a hike.’
‘I have some plimsolls with me.’
‘Where did you get those?’
‘I bought them.’
Truss looks momentarily bemused. ‘Well, if you’re sure, Kitten.’
‘I am.’
She does a good job of keeping herself in check, Hal thinks. But if one is watching at exactly the right time, he has noticed, it is possible to see the electric flare of emotion beneath the surface. A flicker of unease, a silent, tiny spark of anger. She is like this with her husband. When he insists on her doing this, or not doing that, or eating exactly the thing he has selected for her. There is an instantaneous rebellion, immediately quashed.
The first part of the climb is straight up out of the town. The air is thick with the pungent scent of wild garlic. Hal’s calves burn, and his shirt sticks to his back. He has always thought of himself as fit, but it is more challenging than he would have expected.
Aubrey Boyd is appalled by the ascent.
‘I thought you said,’ he gasps to the Contessa, ‘that this was a walk? This isn’t a walk – it’s a prolonged heart-attack.’
The Contessa turns back to him with a smile, barely out of breath herself. ‘It will be good for you. And think of the view from the top.’
Aubrey’s enthusiasm for the expedition, Hal learns, is his expectation of some photographic opportunities. ‘I have a vision of you,’ he tells Hal as they begin climbing, ‘standing atop a rockface like a Greek god, king of all you survey. And perhaps you could be, well, shirtless too.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Hal says. ‘I’m the journalist – what will you do with the photograph? It can’t go in the story.’
‘It could,’ Aubrey says, a little petulantly.
‘Not if I had anything to do with it.’
‘Fine. But I’m going to keep pestering you. You’re too good a photographic opportunity to pass up.’
‘I’d rather be – as you might put it – on the other side of the lens.’
‘I can see that, I think. You like to be alone. Your own man.’
‘I suppose so.’
Aubrey nods. ‘Me too. I don’t like all that mess.’
‘Mess?’
‘Well, you know. The heart.’
‘Ah.’ Hal can’t imagine Aubrey with a woman – he is fairly certain that isn’t the way the man would be inclined. And yet he can’t quite see him with anyone.
‘How long have you lived in Rome?’ Aubrey asks.
‘Five years or so.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Back in England. How about yours?’
‘England, too. Oxfordshire. Hardly ever see them, though. We don’t get along.’ He sighs. ‘My father has always thought what I do is quite ridiculous. I could make pots and pots of money from it, and he would look on it as ill-gotten gains.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t think it’s a proper vocation for a man. If I photographed conflict, say – well, that would be another matter. Though, come to think of it, that would probably still be a little artistic for his liking. Much better if I had a job in finance, or the civil service. Goodness, he’d probably prefer it if I emptied dustbins for a living.’
It is said with humour, but the archness doesn’t quite ring true. For the first time, Hal realizes that there may be more to it than mere affectation. He remembers certain men on board, always ready with some flippancy, who sobbed with terror when the cruiser came under fire.
‘Does anyone’s father approve of them?’ he says. ‘I know mine doesn’t.’
‘What’s your crime?’
‘Mainly that I enlisted with the navy, in the war. He’s army: a brigadier. I think he believes it was some act of rebellion on my part.’
‘Was it?’
‘No – or at least, not consciously. I enlisted as a rating – which I suppose was something of a revolt, as I knew he would have wanted to pull strings to get me an officer rank. But mainly because I’d always felt at home on the sea. I sailed a lot as a boy. I thought I might be better at it.’
‘Were you?’
‘Is anyone good at war?’
‘Not sure. I’m a pacifist.’
‘Ah. Well, it wasn’t quite like sailing dinghies in the Solent, that’s for certain.’