Page 4 of Never Too Late
The speaker was a friendly-looking man in his fifties with a luxuriant handlebar moustache that wouldn’t have disgraced a pantomime villain. His English was fluent and he spoke with a lilting Italian accent which reminded Steph of her father and immediately endeared the man to her. Her dad had been a major influence on her life and she still missed him terribly.
Ethan roused himself from his stupor sufficiently to produce a response. ‘Yeah, hi. Thanks. Here…’
It came as no surprise to Steph that Ethan omitted to introduce her or that he handed over his collection of bags to Cesare while leaving her to haul hers along unaided. For a second or two she caught the Italian’s eye and shrugged. He gave her an encouraging look.
‘Can I take your bag as well, signora?’ Although it would have been a struggle with his hands already full.
She gave him a grateful smile and replied in Italian. ‘That’s okay, thanks. I can manage. My name’s Stephanie. I’m the recording engineer.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Stephanie, or should I say Stefania? My compliments on your Italian. You’re very fluent. Are you English or Italian?’
She gave him a brief résumé of her family background as they walked out of the station and he offered his condolences for the loss of her father. He led them out into a small square in front of the station where the car was parked. Steph had been wondering what sort of flashy car a rock star might own and was almost disappointed to find they were to travel in an anonymous minibus. Of course, she reminded herself, Cesare was only the hired hand. No doubt Keith Bailey and his fellow band members would have their luxury cars at the house, wherever that was. According to what Ethan had been told, she and Ethan would be staying in the ‘guest apartment’ and she wondered what this would consist of. The way things had been going with Ethan, separate bedrooms would be a bonus.
After Cesare had lifted all the bags into the cavernous boot, they climbed into the van. Ethan subsided onto the back seat so Steph opted to sit up front alongside the driver. She let him negotiate his way out of town and onto a busy road heading towards a range of low tree-covered hills before engaging him in conversation.
‘Is it far to Mr Bailey’s house?’
He shook his head. ‘Another fifteen minutes or so. It’s just past Lerici.’
‘I don’t know this part of Italy.’ She remembered seeing the name on the map. ‘That’s on the coast, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, indeed. Lerici’s on the eastern side of the Gulf of Poets, the place where some of your greatest poets like Shelley and Byron came to stay and write. It’s a beautiful area and Signor Bailey’s house is just to the south of the town, right on the coast.’
At school Steph had studied the great Romantic poets of the first half of the nineteenth century but she couldn’t recall the name Lerici coming up. To be honest, she hadn’t been terribly keen on poetry, but there was a first time for everything so maybe she would have to check out Shelley and Byron again. At that moment they crested a saddle between two taller hills and a stunning panorama opened up below them.
‘Wow, that’s amazing.’ She gazed in awe at the almost unrealistically blue sea dotted with boats and a handful of islands. It was like something on a poster or a scene from a travel programme and it certainly couldn’t have been more different from London. ‘I can see why a poet would choose this place.’ Returning her attention to Cesare she carried on. ‘And what’s Mr Bailey’s house like? Is it very old?’
‘The opposite. It’s very modern. It was built only twenty years ago by a film director, but he got into financial difficulties and Signor Bailey bought it from him five, no, six, years ago. My wife and I’ve been running the place for him since then.’
‘And I believe Ethan and I are staying in the guest apartment. Is that part of the house?’
‘No, that’s a much older building. It’s what used to be a pair of fishermen’s houses down by the beach. Signor Bailey converted the ground floor into a recording studio and turned the upper floor into guest accommodation. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable there.’
A minute or two later, they turned off the main road in the direction of Lerici. Cesare told her that the main road continued towards La Spezia, which was a major base for the Italian navy. When she asked him if it was worth a visit he shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you like sailors. With its big boatyards it’s pretty chaotic compared to the southern part of the gulf, although Portovenere on the other side of La Spezia’s very pretty. No, Lerici’s much nicer than La Spezia.’
As they descended towards the sea the landscape became increasingly built up and the streets of the little town when they got there were crowded with cars and holidaymakers. Steph gazed in anticipation at no fewer than four ice-cream shops – each with twenty or thirty different flavours and colours on display – enticing clothes shops and one delicatessen outside which they had to wait for almost a minute while an ambulance squeezed past. She barely recognised half of the items on display, hanging from hooks, spilling out of steel trays and filling glass jars like an old alchemist’s wares. One thing was for sure: she was going to come back to Lerici for a visit.
Ten minutes of stop/start driving later they emerged from the houses again onto a tortuous and much narrower road that wound its way southwards around the rugged, steeply sloping hillside directly above the coast. As Lerici disappeared behind them they found themselves in an unspoilt area of rocky outcrops and dense woodland, interrupted every now and then by steep-sided ravines that offered tantalising glimpses of the deep cerulean blue of the sea below.
A minute or two later they reached a pair of sturdy metal gates set between stone gateposts with imposing wire fencing several metres high disappearing into the trees on either side of the gates. Cesare slowed and as he did so the gates began to open automatically. Steph couldn’t miss the security cameras mounted on a steel pillar just inside. Clearly, Keith Bailey was taking no chances of being disturbed by unwanted visitors. Steph couldn’t blame him. Being a world-renowned star presumably came with drawbacks, although the benefits probably far outweighed any such concerns.
Cesare drove in, and the gates were already closing behind them as they set off down a gently sloping narrow gravelled drive through the pine trees. This soon opened up into a broad, relatively flat area where four or five vehicles were parked. Steph didn’t know much about cars, but the sleek silver convertible alongside which they parked absolutely screamed excess. A swift glance at the prancing horse emblem on the steering wheel as she climbed out into the heat of the sun confirmed her suspicions. She was in the land of the wealthy and privileged now – probably the over-privileged – and for the first time she wondered if she was going to like Keith Bailey and his entourage. She had met enough arrogant overpaid performers over the past few years to know that the prospect of spending up to a month among such people might not turn out to be a bed of roses.
As far as beds of a more practical nature were concerned, she was pleased to find that the guest apartment boasted no fewer than three bedrooms, all with huge beds and luxurious private bathrooms. Cesare walked them to their accommodation down a flight of stone steps between huge fragrant rosemary bushes covered in little blue flowers and alive with the buzzing of bees. Coming from London it really was like entering a different, enchanted world, and Steph loved every part of it. Entry to the old stone building was through a fine wooden door. This led into a hallway and Cesare pointed out the door to the studio on the right-hand side and a stairway straight in front leading up to the guest apartment. She climbed up and when she got there she found that it was every bit as swish as the Ferrari up the hill.
The views from the windows were spectacular and Steph stood and stared, spellbound. She could hardly believe that a two-hour flight could have transported her to somewhere so gorgeous. Although her Italian grandparents lived near Venice, which was unquestionably a wonderful historic city, the seaside around there that she had visited as a girl had been fairly flat and uninteresting. Here the scenery was much more spectacular. These old fishermen’s houses had been built on the edge of low cliffs, probably only ten or twenty metres above a little cove, and from up here she could see deep into the crystal-clear water and, as she looked on, a shoal of little blue-and-grey fish flitted across the seabed. It was totally charming. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Cesare arriving at the top of the stairs with her suitcase, which he had insisted upon carrying up for her.
‘Thank you so much, Cesare. That’s ever so kind. I’ve just been admiring the view. I can see why Mr Bailey chose this place. It’s fantastic.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. Every morning when I get up and look out I almost have to pinch myself to prove to myself that I’m not dreaming. Like your father, I’m from the north. I was born and brought up in the suburbs of Milan – not the nice luxurious ones – and then I served thirty years in the Italian navy, much of my time spent in a two metre by two metre steel cabin. Coming here six years ago has been a liberation. I love this place and I’m glad you feel the same way about it.’
He switched to English for the last sentence, glancing across to see if Ethan was similarly impressed by the view, but all he got was a vague nod of the head. Undeterred, he carried on in English and addressed himself to Ethan anyway.
‘Signora Faye told me to tell you to take your time and settle in. When you feel like it, she invites you to come up to the villa for afternoon tea and to meet the family.’ His face split into a grin. ‘Tea’s what you English people like, isn’t it?’
Seeing as there was still no reaction from Ethan, Steph answered for both of them. ‘That’s very kind. Tell me, Cesare; Signora Faye, is she Mr Bailey’s wife?’
