But his tender description of their relationship during Luciana’s final months reminded her of who he’d been. And it made her envious because she remembered what his undivided attention had felt like; she had benefited from it when she’d needed it most. When all she’d wanted to do was run outside and scream at the thunder, he’d been the one to hold her back until the storm passed. But when she’d needed to be held like that again, he was holding someone else.
She knew it was pointless begrudging a dead woman. Luciana hadn’t fallen in love with the wrong man; it was she who had. And remarkably, she respected him for having the courage to end the life of the only thing he’d wanted to live. Maybe he knew what love was, after all.
Eventually he broke their contemplative lull.
‘Are you well now?’ he asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Yes,’ she replied quietly. ‘I still have check-ups every six months, but so far, so good. Touch wood.’ She tapped the dent in her head.
‘Good,’ he replied, ‘good.’ He paused. ‘And was James a big help, what with him being away so much?’
She wondered why he’d singled out the eldest of all their children. ‘Yes, he was. He often texted and phoned, and came home when he could.’
However, he didn’t appear to be listening to her reply and it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed it. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but chinks were appearing in the armour he’d arrived wearing.
Granted, it had been a mentally exhausting day for both of them, but something about his ever-increasing vacantness perturbed her. The room went silent again as he stared out of the window and into the garden.
‘Simon?’ she asked, baffled by his stillness.
‘Yes?’ he said with a start.
‘Are you all right? You look a little dazed.’
‘Would you mind if I had a glass of water?’
She nodded and went to the kitchen, removed a filter jug from the fridge and poured some water into a glass. When she returned, he was examining a framed platinum disc hanging on the wall that James had given her.
‘James looks a lot like you,’ she said, handing him the glass. ‘He has your eyes and your skinny legs. Sometimes I find myself staring at him because he looks like your double.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve met him, Catherine.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIMON
Montefalco, Italy, one year earlier
26 January
I sat under the shade of a plump, lemon-yellow umbrella and watched the locals go about their business from the cobbled village square.
Since Luciana’s passing, there was just too much time. My capable staff ensured the winery ran smoothly, and the management structure she’d put into place before her death took care of our business interests. Everything had been plotted, planned for and preserved, with the sole exception of me. I took pleasure in seeing glimpses of Luciana in both Sofia and Luca, but glimpses were not enough. I ached for her.
My life and our home were stark without her. I moved into a different bedroom when her citrusy perfumes that lingered on the fabrics in our own became too much to bear. I craved her presence with such force that it disorientated me. I’d talk myself into believing her death had been an awful dream and that when I awoke I’d find her out in the garden, lost in a novel or chatting to our grape pickers. It never happened, of course; I was alone in my coma.
I found it impossible to concentrate on anything for long, and I’d have to write down my ‘to do’ lists, otherwise I’d forget my chores from one hour to the next. Grief’s malevolence crippled me.
When Luca and Sofia were out of the house, I’d pass the time by walking down to the town, installing myself outside Senatori’s café and nursing a latte with cinnamon sprinkles. People-watching eased the loneliness a little. I’d appraise the tourists as they passed me by and try to spot obvious signs of Britishness – milky-white or sunburned skin; trainers worn for every occasion.
Every so often I pondered whether I’d recognise one of my other offspring if they stood in front of me. More than likely, neither of us would ever know we’d been in touching distance of faded flesh and blood. I remembered parts of them all, like eye shapes, hair colours and bone structures, but I couldn’t put enough pieces together to make them anything other than excerpts of children.
Luca reminded me of James, in the way the corners of his mouth hid under his cheeks when he giggled, or how his ankle rested on the shin of the opposing leg as he slept.
Sofia was an amalgamation of the best aspects of Luciana and the worst of Doreen, and that frightened me. As she grew older, she became more listless. I had admired her mother’s independent spirit but I prayed she wouldn’t follow her grandmother’s path. I wanted her to take time to smell the flowers growing beneath her feet before she trampled over them. I loved Sofia like any father loves his daughter, but slowly I began to pull away from her, knowing I’d never be able to harness her true nature.
Luca was her opposite and I admit I put more into our relationship than I did with his sister. Perhaps I tried to replicate what I’d had with my first-born with my second from a third life. I even bought him an acoustic guitar for his birthday like I had with James – only he didn’t abandon it like his brother had. I smiled as I recalled how painful it was trying to teach James the three chords to ‘Mull of Kintyre’.
As he grew older, Luca discovered rock music, and in particular, a British band having worldwide success called Driver. I couldn’t escape his obsession with them, and if their music wasn’t thundering from his bedroom stereo, then it was booming from the speakers of my car.
About a month ago, he’d been devastated when his alarm clock failed to go off the morning tickets went on sale for their Italian tour. Ever since, I’d watched him mope around the villa, cursing it.
Suddenly a motorcycle engine interrupted my coffee break as it pulled up in front of the café. A courier removed his black crash helmet and spoke to me.
‘Signor Marcanio?’ he asked. I nodded and he handed me a brown padded envelope. I thanked him, picked myself up off the chair and began the slow walk back uphill to the house.
I hoped at least one of the children would be there to fill its hollow corridors with the life that had been sucked out of it.
2 April
Luca beamed up at me after opening the envelope to find two tickets for Driver’s concert. ‘How, Papa?’
‘I have my ways,’ I replied with the mysterious smile fathers only give when they want to prove they’re still of some value to their growing offspring. I’d pulled a few strings with the venue’s bar manager, who I supplied wine to, and then kept it a secret until a few days before we were due to fly.
‘Who are these scruffy devils then?’ I asked, pointing to a photograph of the group on his computer screen.
‘That’s Kevin Butler, the singer and bass guitarist,’ he began excitedly, ‘and on drums Paul Goodman, on keyboards David Webb, and James Nicholson on lead guitar.’
Two seconds passed before the latter’s name sank in. ‘James Nicholson?’ I repeated.