Page 79 of Someone in the Water
‘Did they buy it together?’ Lola asks.
Patrick shakes his head. ‘At the start, Salvo owned it by himself. But when I turned eighteen, I asked if I could get a job there, full-time. I wanted to get away from the hotel and I’d loved my summers working there.’
‘And your grandfather said no?’
‘He said he needed to check with his business partner, and he said no, so I pushed to find out who it was. My father and Jack are pretty tight, so Jack would have known that me leaving the hotel wouldn’t have gone down well. And we can’t upset the great Raphael Paoli, can we?’
I lean back against the leather seat and let my hair fly free again. Jack was Salvo’s business partner? How could he afford to invest in a vineyard? It doesn’t make sense, but then nothing makes sense in this place. I lift my arm to check my watch. It’s almost 8 p.m. which means there’s only an hour or so more daylight. I’ve done everything to stop this happening, but now it’s too late. A swell of fear tightens in my chest, and I try to breathe through it.
Finally, Patrick pulls up alongside a town square and cuts the engine. The square is lined with palm trees and there are pockets of tables and chairs spilling out from the restaurants.
‘Where’s the event being held? In one of these bars?’ Lola asks, nodding towards the line of restaurants facing the square.
Patrick smiles. ‘Locals wouldn’t be seen dead in these places during tourist season. It’s at a more hidden away kind of place. We’ll toast Salvo with his own wine, and then we’ll all get chance to tell a story about him.’ He turns to me. ‘Will you say something?’
There’s no way I’m telling anyone about mine and Salvo’s story, but I manage a watery smile. ‘I don’t think I have one.’
Patrick nods, then reaches for Lola’s hand. I follow them across the square. We walk through a narrow archway in a stone wall, and into a covered alleyway. Only a tiny chink of light in the distance shows that it’s not a dead end, and the noise of my sandals hitting the flagstones bounces around my head as I stumble onwards. The narrow alley eventually opens out onto a small stone courtyard with shuttered-up buildings and one bar with a faded blue canopy. Condensation drips down the window.
The bar is narrow but deep and we wind through small groups of people until we reach a larger room at the back of the space. There are about thirty people sat on benches with carafes of wine and glasses dotted along the tables. Most of the guests are strangers but I can see Raphael and Anna sat with Jack. Harriet and Dom close by.
I take a few steps towards them. I need to find the strength to confront Dom.
But then I see a large poster stuck to the wall. A close-up of Salvo staring directly into the camera lens. I stare at the lies or truth etched into his deep wrinkles, the kindness or cruelty glowing from his eyes.
Then exhaustion engulfs me, and I slump onto a bench.
Frankie
31st July
Harriet is talking about her day trip to Ajaccio, how she visited Napoleon’s birthplace, and the cathedral he was baptised in, but she’s exhausted and needs her bed. But it’s just white noise to me as I scan the room for Lola. This is how the evening has gone. Me prowling, keeping my daughter in sight. Lola slipping away, then reappearing, like a game of cat and mouse she doesn’t know we’re playing. I spot her coming back from the toilet and breathe a sigh of relief.
I check my watch. It’s eleven o’clock already. One hour until midnight. In this cavern-like room at the back of the bar, with Salvo’s friends telling stories about the old man in a language I don’t understand, time has felt suspended, but now it’s all too close – the anniversary, Lola’s birthday – and I’m not ready.
I haven’t even confronted Dom yet.
I spot him at the makeshift bar area at the back, alone, filling up his wine glass. I have to find the strength to do this. ‘Excuse me, Harriet,’ I mumble, backing away before she can resume her monologue. I snake through the swell of old men, their pungent scent of sweat and earth making me dizzy. Dom looks up as I approach, then his eyes dart away as though he’s looking for an escape. But he doesn’t move.
‘We need to talk,’ I murmur.
Dom looks nervous, and sweat is beading on his forehead, but he nods and sinks onto a wooden bench close by. ‘So what’s up?’
‘Why did you do it?’ I ask.
He gives me a weak smile. ‘Do what?’
I hesitate for a moment, then sit down beside him. My eyes burn. God, I’m so tired. Tired of the secrets, and the regrets, and the questions that never get answered. ‘I didn’t think it could be you, writing those notes,’ I say. ‘Because how would you know about the mazzeri? But you do know, don’t you?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What notes?’
‘Five years I’ve been emailing, then packaging up my paintings, dutifully sending them off to that storage facility. I thought I was the one hiding my identity. But it was you really, wasn’t it, Nick?’
Dom blinks. ‘I really don’t—’
‘Please, stop lying.’
He stares at me for a long moment, then sighs and drops his gaze. ‘You were never supposed to find out,’ he whispers.
