Perhaps Dario was amammone.She’d read that three out of ten marriages ended in divorce because of the close connection Italian men have to their mothers.
Or, like her birth father, had he had an affair? Italian men were, after all, the masters of romance and charm. From the short time she’d known him, Lucy had a strong suspicion that Dario fitted that stereotype perfectly.
What business was all this of hers anyway? She was there to teach, not stick her nose into the domestic goings-on of people she barely knew. Hadn’t she had enough drama in her own life?
On the other side of town, Dario was closing the shutters to his apartment. He threw off his jacket, loosened his tie, took a cold beer from the fridge, stretched out on the sofa and turned on the TV to watch the second half of his beloved Napoli play A C Milan.
Football was in his blood. Vesuvius could erupt during a match and he wouldn’t notice. But tonight his mind kept wandering to the British woman he had just met. There was something about Lucy Anderson that interested him, separate to her whoosh of red hair, startlingly emerald green, catlike eyes and lilting Scottish accent; she was charmingly gauche and had a natural naivety about her, which he found refreshing. He’d thought her genuine embarrassment of earlier endearing, but there was intelligence too, he could sense that.
Most women he knew were self-assured, sophisticated, their designer clothes emphasising their Jessica-Rabbit figures, neverwithout their classic leather bag, skyscraper heels, perfectly applied make-up, and neatly coiffed hair.
With her flat shoes, bare, freckled face, slight gap between her front teeth, loose-fitting shirt, rucksack on her back and unpretentious ways, Lucy had made an unexpected impression on him, and he hoped to get to know her better.
Chapter Six
‘Elena! Elena!’
Lucy awoke the following morning not knowing for a moment where she was.
‘Elena!’
Pulling on the shawl draped over the wicker chair, she flung open the shutters and stepped out onto the sunlit balcony. There was not a breath of wind. Shielding her eyes, she looked down.
‘Buongiorno, Signorina!’
The voice belonged to an elderly man with a weather-beaten face, wobbling precariously in a wooden rowing boat, a bright red bandana tied around his head.
‘Buongiorno!’ Lucy’s voice echoed across the shimmering sea. ‘I’ll go find Elena for you. Just a minute!Un momento!’
She padded into the kitchen in her bare feet. It was deserted.
‘Elena! Elena?’
She flung open the front door and ran downstairs to the foyer. The car had gone. As she re-entered the kitchen, she noticed a note on the table.
Good morning, Lucy!
I hope you have slept well.
After I have taken Stefano to Holiday Club, I will go to the market.
If you see Luigi, the fisherman, ask him for three sea bass.
The money is in the pouch in the fish basket.
Arrivederci!
Elena
Lucy picked up the plastic-lined basket, which had a long piece of rope attached to the handle, then dashed back to the open window, frantically trawling her mind for the Italian word for ‘sea bass’.
‘Aah!Spigola!’exclaimed Luigi at last, triumphantly holding aloft a smoky grey fish.
‘Sì, spigola!’ Lucy secretly hoped she’d plumped for the right one from the many varieties of seafood presented to her in quick succession, for they had all started to look the same. ‘Tre, per favore.’
Now what? After a bit of improvised mime, Lucy carefully lowered the basket over the balcony. Luigi took the money from the pouch in exchange for the fish. ‘Grazie!Ciao!’
Grasping the oars, he turned the old boat around and disappeared behind the craggy rocks to his next customer.
