Then the other arm. She pulled Tess forwards, and Tess, taken off balance by her surprising strength, was propelled into an unexpected embrace. She felt the woman’s bristly chin as she kissed her resoundingly on both cheeks. Goodness.
‘Santina,’ the woman said, pointing at herself.
‘You have the key?’ Tess asked, not willing to be deflected from the task in hand. The name meant nothing to her – why would it?
At this, Santina practically dragged her over the threshold into a dark, dingy hallway, painted blood-red and covered in framed photographs and religious paraphernalia. Santina said her goodbyes to Woman in Black mark one and, maintaining a firm hold on Tess’s arm, led her into the kitchen. This was dominated by an ancient stove above which various iron cooking implements hung from hooks on the smoke-stained whitewashed wall. There was a small square window with a net curtain and an assortment of wooden chairs placed around a stained, pock-marked table in the centre of the room.
‘
Espresso
?’ Santina demanded. ‘
Caffè? Biscottu
?’
Much as she was desperate to see the villa, Tess had the feeling that her hostess was not to be deflected from hospitality. And besides, it had been a long time since lunch at Gatwick, she realised. An espresso might just hit the spot. ‘
Sì, grazie
.’ She sank on to the chair Santina had indicated. She was tired. She felt as if she’d been strung out with tension for days – since Robin’s announcement that he couldn’t come away with her, in fact. How was the weekend with Helen’s parents going, she wondered. Where were they now? At dinner? At the theatre? Anyway, something in this kitchen had just cut the rope. Her shoulders slumped and she let herself relax. She was here now. She had made it.
Santina nodded, retreated to the kitchen doorway and started shouting up the stairs. ‘Giovanni! Giovanni!’
Who would this be, Tess wondered. An ageing husband perhaps? Another face from Muma’s past who would expect Tess to have at least heard of him?
But no. Two minutes later, a Sicilian man – probably in his late thirties, Tess guessed – entered the room. He wasn’t tall, but even so, he seemed impressive as he paused in the doorway. Posed almost, she found herself thinking. His thick black brows beetled together when he saw Tess. He rattled out something to Santina and she rattled back. Like a couple of old-fashioned trains hurtling down a track.
‘You are Flavia’s daughter?’ he asked abruptly in English.
‘Yes.’ It was beginning to sound like a TV series. Tess didn’t know whether to be offended by his tone or relieved that here was someone she could communicate with at last.‘I’m Tess. Tess Angel.’ She got up and held out her hand. ‘And you are …?’
‘Giovanni Sciarra.’ He said the words with some pride. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, eyeing her from under his dark lashes. ‘At your service.’
Hmm. Tess wasn’t sure about that. The last thing she needed right now was male attention – of any kind.
Santina poured water from a jug in the white enamel sink and scooped some coffee into a small metal percolator which she placed on the stove. She hovered by Tess, beaming and nodding, before letting loose a stream of unintelligible words.
Giovanni smiled (a cruel smile, Tess decided, a bit like a tiger who’d spotted a kill). ‘I must apologise,’ he said. ‘Your visit – it is
una sorpresa
– a surprise. We thought Flavia’s daughter to be of a greater age.’
Tess raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ she said.
‘No, no, you do not disappoint.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘But … ’ He drew up a chair and mounted it by swinging one muscular leg over, so that – weirdly – he was facing her over the back slats. Tess tried not to giggle. His new position only fuelled the tiger fantasy – only now the tiger was behind the bars of a cage.
‘My great-aunt Santina,’ he gestured towards the
‘Santina,’ the woman said, pointing at herself.
‘You have the key?’ Tess asked, not willing to be deflected from the task in hand. The name meant nothing to her – why would it?
At this, Santina practically dragged her over the threshold into a dark, dingy hallway, painted blood-red and covered in framed photographs and religious paraphernalia. Santina said her goodbyes to Woman in Black mark one and, maintaining a firm hold on Tess’s arm, led her into the kitchen. This was dominated by an ancient stove above which various iron cooking implements hung from hooks on the smoke-stained whitewashed wall. There was a small square window with a net curtain and an assortment of wooden chairs placed around a stained, pock-marked table in the centre of the room.
‘
Espresso
?’ Santina demanded. ‘
Caffè? Biscottu
?’
Much as she was desperate to see the villa, Tess had the feeling that her hostess was not to be deflected from hospitality. And besides, it had been a long time since lunch at Gatwick, she realised. An espresso might just hit the spot. ‘
Sì, grazie
.’ She sank on to the chair Santina had indicated. She was tired. She felt as if she’d been strung out with tension for days – since Robin’s announcement that he couldn’t come away with her, in fact. How was the weekend with Helen’s parents going, she wondered. Where were they now? At dinner? At the theatre? Anyway, something in this kitchen had just cut the rope. Her shoulders slumped and she let herself relax. She was here now. She had made it.
Santina nodded, retreated to the kitchen doorway and started shouting up the stairs. ‘Giovanni! Giovanni!’
Who would this be, Tess wondered. An ageing husband perhaps? Another face from Muma’s past who would expect Tess to have at least heard of him?
But no. Two minutes later, a Sicilian man – probably in his late thirties, Tess guessed – entered the room. He wasn’t tall, but even so, he seemed impressive as he paused in the doorway. Posed almost, she found herself thinking. His thick black brows beetled together when he saw Tess. He rattled out something to Santina and she rattled back. Like a couple of old-fashioned trains hurtling down a track.
‘You are Flavia’s daughter?’ he asked abruptly in English.
‘Yes.’ It was beginning to sound like a TV series. Tess didn’t know whether to be offended by his tone or relieved that here was someone she could communicate with at last.‘I’m Tess. Tess Angel.’ She got up and held out her hand. ‘And you are …?’
‘Giovanni Sciarra.’ He said the words with some pride. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, eyeing her from under his dark lashes. ‘At your service.’
Hmm. Tess wasn’t sure about that. The last thing she needed right now was male attention – of any kind.
Santina poured water from a jug in the white enamel sink and scooped some coffee into a small metal percolator which she placed on the stove. She hovered by Tess, beaming and nodding, before letting loose a stream of unintelligible words.
Giovanni smiled (a cruel smile, Tess decided, a bit like a tiger who’d spotted a kill). ‘I must apologise,’ he said. ‘Your visit – it is
una sorpresa
– a surprise. We thought Flavia’s daughter to be of a greater age.’
Tess raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ she said.
‘No, no, you do not disappoint.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘But … ’ He drew up a chair and mounted it by swinging one muscular leg over, so that – weirdly – he was facing her over the back slats. Tess tried not to giggle. His new position only fuelled the tiger fantasy – only now the tiger was behind the bars of a cage.
‘My great-aunt Santina,’ he gestured towards the
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