From Italy With Love Read online

  From Italy With Love

  JULES WAKE

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

  Copyright © Jules Wake 2015

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover design by HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

  Jules Wake asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International

  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

  downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

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  whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

  hereinafter invented, without the express

  written permission of HarperCollins.

  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008126339

  Version 2015-05-05

  For Nicola & Ian Walker,

  friends, steadfast & true.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  Jules Wake

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The minute Lauren saw the girl dressed in brilliant fuchsia, teetering along on mile-high heels, a fascinator bobbing in her hair like an exotic bird of paradise, she knew she’d got it wrong. Not just wrong – horribly, horribly wrong.

  She liked this navy blue suit and until that moment had liked it a lot. Some might say it was serviceable, but they were just mean. It was smart, fitted well and she felt OK in it.

  At the same time she realised her loose interpretation of Uncle Miles’ edict, ‘Don’t wear black,’ was way off the mark and that perhaps she should have paid more attention to the ‘wear your glad rags’ element of the instruction.

  Huddling closer to Robert, equally conservative in dark jacket and trousers, did little to reassure her, as another girl exposing an awful lot of pert cleavage passed them, her stilettos crunching into the gravelled drive up to the chapel. Out of the corner of her eye, Laurie caught Robert’s nipple radar go on high alert, even though he tried to look disapproving. Maybe she should have warned him about today. Not that it would have helped much. You had to have known Uncle Miles to appreciate his … what? Excesses? Eccentricities? Ebullience? She swallowed hard, unable to believe she wouldn’t hear his loud, imperative voice down the phone or see the impatient scrawl that covered his prolific postcards again.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Robert breathed.

  She looked up. Oh boy, had she ever got it wrong.

  Flanking the chapel door were two beautiful blondes in full red and yellow leather cat-suits, very Flash Gordon, with zips slashed open to the navel, handing out Order of Service sheets printed on scarlet, no, make that Ferrari-red, card in the same shade as their glossy nails and pouty, shiny lips.

  Taking one with a limp smile, she tugged at Robert’s sleeve, ignoring his dazed look and pulling him inside with her. Could anyone really be struck dumb? It looked as if he might have been.

  Inside, the high-beamed room echoed with chatter and the wooden pews were filled with colour, like an aviary of brightly-plumed birds.

  Coming down the aisle, she felt like a decrepit Mini Metro at the Goodwood Festival of Speed.

  ‘Where do you want to sit?’ whispered Robert, indicating the pews with a sweep of his hand, nearly all of which were occupied but not full.

  Perceptively perhaps, he didn’t include the front two rows, where the more outlandish of the hats had taken roost. They belonged to Uncle Miles’ coterie of ex-wives, all of whom were happily exchanging conversation and air kisses. Robert didn’t know about them either. She closed her eyes for a second; what had she been thinking bringing him along with her? Pulling a face, she took a breath and focused on the four women in the first two rows of pews.

  As family she couldn’t skulk at the back but neither could she join them. They were too damn scary, although to be completely fair, they’d always been kind to her. The third row would do nicely.

  ‘Mind if we sit here?’ she asked the solitary figure sitting in the next pew.

  ‘No, you’re good.’ He barely glanced at her before turning away but she caught a flash of blue eyes and unshaven cheeks. Despite the scruffiness of his jeans, he was definitely one of the beautiful people. She could bet he’d worn the casual linen shirt in that shade of turquoise knowing it emphasised the brilliant green of his eyes, and that the stubble was deliberate.

  ‘Thanks,’ she snapped, a stubborn lick of anger flaring as she glared at him.

  He turned back to her, surprise and bafflement on his face.

  Shame gnawed at her conscience. Now who was being small-minded? You shouldn’t dislike someone just because they were too good-looking. Sighing she gave him a tight smile. She really needed to rein in that King Edward-sized chip on her shoulder.

  Dipping her head, she sat down and studied Robert’s polished black brogues. They contrasted with the worn, leather cowboy boots on her left.

  ‘So, do you know any of these people?’ asked Robert in a hushed, awed voice.

  Did he have to make it sound such an impossibility? She looked around at the other mourners surreptitiously, looking for any familiar faces. That was a laugh. Laurie had only been looking for one face in particular, feeling slightly sick and praying she wouldn’t come.

  ‘Just my aunts,’ she nodded at the four women talking in the pews ahead.

  ‘Aunts?’ Robert’s eyebrows shot up like startled caterpillars. He looked at them again, studying each in turn with more attention now.

  ‘Step-aunts, really. Uncle Miles married a few times.’ She chose to deliberately misunderstand him.

  ‘Those are your aunts?’

&nbs
p; She nodded and gave him a bright non-committal smile. Livia could only just have turned thirty-five and Penny and Janine, at this side of fifty had been a good thirty-four years younger than her uncle.

  ‘Yes. Uncle Miles was …’ she faltered not wanting to say anything more.

  ‘A philanderer?’ asked Robert, his tone sympathetic.

  ‘No, no.’ How did you explain Miles? Complicated, selfish, generous, opinionated, kind, slightly mad. ‘He enjoyed being married but he liked women too.’ She lifted her shoulders in a Gallic shrug, trying to explain something that couldn’t be summed up in a few trite sentences.

  ‘So how did he know all these people?’ whispered Robert. ‘I thought I saw Liz Hurley near the back.’ His mouth curled as if that was a total impossibility. ‘Don’t you know anyone here?’

  Guilt pinched at her. She hadn’t seen Miles for nearly a year. Now he was dead, none of the reasons for putting off seeing him seemed like good ones. Too shy, too cowardly, too stubborn.

  There was a flurry of activity and then suddenly at the front of the church, the vicar appeared. Although robed in black with a white collar looking every inch the traditional cleric, his eyes held a mischievous twinkle as if he’d been briefed by Miles as to exactly how this funeral should go.

  The chapel quieted and then organ music began to swell as the back doors opened and the coffin flanked by four pall bearers all dressed in drivers’ overalls and helmets came down the aisle.

  Robert shot her an incredulous look and dug her in the ribs but she stared straight ahead, trying to pretend to be as blasé as the rest of the congregation − which didn’t seem to find anything amiss.

  The music soared, triumphant and vibrato, up to the high rafters. It sounded familiar but unfamiliar and it took Laurie a moment or two to place the tune. Oh my God. He hadn’t. She glanced at the vicar beaming beatifically at the gathered congregation and bit back a giggle as the notes continued to rise in volume and reverberate with drama.

  He had. She bit her lip hard, cheeks tense, trying to hold back the laughter, containing a snigger in her belly and making a funny sob noise.

  Robert squeezed her hand, mistaking it for an expression of grief.

  Sucking in a breath of air, she tried to get her equilibrium back and stared straight ahead at the stained glass window above the vicar’s head. The procession bearing the coffin passed on her left and she held herself rigid not daring to look. Her diaphragm ached as she tried to hold everything in.

  The stifled snort from her right did the damage and she made the mistake of turning just enough to register the man next to her valiantly swallowing and eyes fixed, his shoulders shaking.

  This was awful, any moment now she was going to burst out laughing. She let out a wheeze, trying desperately to hold onto the rising hysteria but it was no good, another snort escaped. Tears were starting to leak down her face and any moment now she was going to start …

  Her neighbour was no better, his puffed-up cheeks and tightly pressed lips told her he was as desperate to hold back the mirth as she. They caught each other’s eyes and both let a snort escape.

  As the notes of the organ rose again, building to the chorus, she felt something pressed into her left hand and looked down. A handkerchief, stark against his tanned hand, was being pushed into her palm. Gratefully she shook it out and held it up to her nose, covering most of her face, just in time to stifle the giggles that erupted.

  She blew her nose loudly praying it looked like she was crying.

  Recovering slightly she nodded her thanks to him. He winked and despite the solemnity of the occasion, she grinned at him.

  When he smiled back, revealing perfect white teeth brilliant against swarthy skin and several day old bristles, one eyebrow quirking in amusement, adrenaline hit her, socking her straight in the chest. Desire shot downwards arrowing between her thighs while her nipples, the miserable traitors, leapt to attention. Horrified, she burrowed her flaming face in the hanky again and concentrated on the music.

  Only Uncle Miles would have chosen Bat Out of Hell to kick off his funeral.

  Cam only just managed to get himself under control. Laughing uproariously, even at Miles’ funeral wasn’t the done thing, although it was better than weeping. He was going to miss the old bugger.

  The colourful card had felt more like a wedding invite, with its required dress code. It looked as if everyone else had followed Miles’ instructions apart from the girl next to him. If the dull navy blue suit was the best she could do, her life was seriously missing the sense of fun Miles had indicated with his invitation to wear your glad rags. She was definitely missing the glad. Her connection to Miles had to be distant. Although at least she had a sense of humour.

  Across the aisle Tania waved and smiled enthusiastically, her mouth a slash of scarlet against brilliant white teeth. He grinned back. It had been a while but she looked stunning, as always. The white dress showed off her opulent figure, cleavage to the fore and her dark hair cascaded artfully down one shoulder. He knew exactly how long it took her to achieve that, oh-so, casual placing and the softness of its touch. Was it Marbella or St Tropez the last time he’d seen her? He couldn’t remember exactly. He had a memory of sultry Mediterranean heat and the scent of pines and the sea.

  It would be nice to catch up with her at the wake. See how she was doing. Not bad from the look of things. Her skin still held the golden hue of the sun and her hand was linked proprietarily through the arm of a tall, blonde guy in a smart suit which shrieked designer. No, Tania was doing just fine. The guy looked much more her type, suitable in every way. With a self-deprecating twist of his mouth he looked down at his jeans, the material just about to give way across his left knee. Old and comfortable, he couldn’t remember buying them. Absently he picked at the worn fabric before looking at Tania. Like most of the women he dated, she’d done her best to her smarten him up.

  ‘See you later, Cam,’ she mouthed across the way. With an answering nod, he turned to scan the rest of the congregation. The wives were all gathered at the front. How the hell Miles managed it, he didn’t know. Cam couldn’t manage a civil conversation with his own ex-wife, Sylvie. Thank God they’d not overcomplicated things with children. Although neither had Miles; he’d had four wives, each successively younger than the last, remained friends with each of them and they all seemed to be friends too. They’d probably organised today, no – make that followed Miles’ instructions together.

  The old sod seemed to have planned every last detail. Cam could remember to the minute where he was when he heard that Miles had gone into the hospice. A terrible stilted phone conversation with Miles’ friend Ron. No one knew, it seemed. Everyone had assumed he was leading his normal nomadic existence, flitting between Monte Carlo and Barcelona, Le Mans and Rome. No one realised that the wily old so-and-so had gone to ground and holed up at home.

  Cam couldn’t decide if knowing, or not knowing, his friend was dying was a good or a bad thing. Not saying goodbye in person ached. But it saved a lot of awkwardness. And wasn’t he just the coward? Truth was, he couldn’t have coped with a goodbye, any more than Miles. Christ the two of them would have got pissed, maudlin and then pissed again. No maybe it was a good thing he’d not known.

  The funeral progressed at a cracking pace, just the way Miles had planned, although the eulogy done by all of the ex-wives took a little time. Each one of them found it hard to get their words out. Their obvious grief said as much about Miles as the words. Finally the last hymn was sung.

  With a reluctant, half-hearted smile at the curtains which closed on the coffin, Cam left the church and headed into the sunlit graveyard. At least someone was smiling down on him.

  Outside there were plenty of people milling about and he could have spoken to any number but was drawn to Eric and his wife Norah. Of all the congregation they looked the most sombre and, he noticed, quite frail. Eric had been with Miles for as long as he could remember. He and Norah had lived in the housekeeper�
�s quarters. She ran the house and Eric the garages, looking after the cars, tuning them up, doing oil changes and replacing spark plugs with the skill and dedication of a transplant surgeon.

  He needn’t worry what would happen to them – Miles would do right by them. Eric’s job had been an act of charity for the last ten years. His rheumatic fingers did their best to polish the chrome and the minute he’d retired for the night, a young lad from the village came in and finished the job off properly under Cam’s strict supervision.

  Norah’s eyes were red-rimmed but she dabbed at them with a heavily scented linen and lace handkerchief. He could smell the lavender from several feet away, reminding him that he’d just lost his one and only handkerchief.

  ‘Cameron, young man. Well that was a fine service.’ Eric pumped his hand.

  Norah sniffed but her wrinkled eyes held a little glint. ‘Mm, old devil. Always liked his own way.’

  Cam grinned. ‘And did he get it?’

  She huffed. ‘Yes, bless his generous soul. Told us a while back that he’d leave me and Eric the Old Wainwright cottage on the east side of the estate.’

  ‘Thought he might.’

  ‘For all his funny foibles,’ Norah gave a scathing glance towards one of the leather clad ushers, ‘he was a good man. Few strange ideas but there’s nowt so queer.’

  ‘Quite a few coming back to the big house,’ observed Eric tipping his head to one side watching the crowd spilling out of the chapel. ‘Just like old times.’

  Cam followed his gaze trying to duck the punch of sadness at the sight of so many gathered, a testament to how popular and well-loved Miles had been. They’d all crowd into the salon at Merryview where no doubt an unorthodox but meaty and filling buffet would have been laid on. A ribbon of excitement fluttered in his chest tinged with shame. He knew once he got to the house the lure of the old stable block would be impossible to resist. Although there was nothing official, no paperwork, no exchange of ownership, Miles wouldn’t have made the promise idly. A curl of satisfaction unfurled in his belly warming him. He could probably pick up the keys today.