Late Season Read online

  Justine had found this unaccountably depressing, perhaps for what it said about her own idealized view of motherhood, or about men’s, or Louisa’s inexorable transformation into her own mother, who had taken a cocktail dress into the maternity ward with her and managed to fit into it three hours after giving birth. While admitting to a grudging admiration for Louisa’s iron will – all those salads without dressing, grilled chicken breasts with the skin carefully removed – Justine had thought even then, though she hadn’t voiced it, that if she had a baby she would not care if it was written all over her body, she would be so triumphant. And it was unsettling to think that now, despite all the time and effort Louisa had spent to look the way she did, the sit-ups, the squash, the waxing and ironing and bleaching, she should suddenly be unhappy with herself; it seemed as though she had lost faith. Justine wondered what was going on.

  Justine looked up at her friend from the hard, modern sofa, the newspaper on her lap, and waited for her answer. Louisa was turning slightly away from the mirror, looking back at her body and frowning as though she didn’t recognize it, the small waist, flat stomach, sharp, elegant brown ankles.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ she said, helpless and impatient. ‘I don’t know. It’s just – you know, you go along thinking you’re doing things the right way, more or less, ended up with the right person, doing the right job, or whatever, then something happens and you’re not so sure any more. It’s like that.’

  Not Louisa, thought Justine. ‘You’re not sure if you’re with the right person?’ she said. ‘Tom?’

  ‘No,’ said Louisa. ‘That’s not exactly –’ she broke off. ‘I meant him. I always thought I was what Tom wanted, that he liked me as I was, but –’ At the sound of her rising voice the salesgirl looked up from her reverie and Louisa fell silent; Justine glanced at the curtain below which Dido’s ankles were visible.

  Louisa went on, more quietly. ‘You’ve got your job, you’ve got something to show for yourself. I know l’ve got the kids, and, I mean, I love them, you know I do…’ She paused, sounding almost anguished. ‘But they grow up, don’t they? They’re not really mine, not in the long term. They’ll get girlfriends who hate the mother-in-law and before you know it, you don’t see them any more.’

  Justine laughed with disbelief at the sight of Louisa’s thirty-five years of defiant self-belief going up in smoke. One by one they seemed to be giving in to age and disappointment, even Louisa, and reluctantly Justine found herself wondering if what Lucien had said might have been true after all. About Tom and Evie. She pushed the thought away, and concentrated instead on what Louisa had just said, which was easier to deny.

  ‘Come on, Louisa,’ she said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They’re hardly about to get married, they’re only what, six and nine? And they’re not going to stop seeing you, they love you. They’ll probably want to marry a girl just like you.’

  Louisa grimaced at the thought and turned her back on the mirror. She looked down at her hands, something sheepish in her stance. She sighed. ‘But – oh, all right, all right,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s an early menopause, then?’

  ‘What, you, or Tom?’ Justine asked. But she had a nagging feeling that they had missed the point somehow; that Louisa had been about to confide in her and Justine had headed her off. What was it, exactly, that she didn’t want to know about her friends’ marriage? But despite herself, Louisa laughed, and as though her laughter was a signal, at that moment the swagged velvet of the end cubicle was drawn back and Dido appeared. She was wearing a tight, plum-coloured T-shirt and dark denim jeans above which gleamed a flat, pale strip of midriff. She flushed a little, one arm bent across her body in a shy gesture, but she looked radiant and was smiling at them.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said, and Justine and Louisa both smiled back at her with relief, at the interruption, at Dido’s happiness, even at the thought that they were no longer girls on a shopping spree, but the older generation looking at the younger.

  ‘Lovely,’ they said together.

  ‘Bella,’ said the salesgirl, smiling and nodding her head like a geisha.

  They had divided up on the crowded steps at the front of the cathedral, Tom with the boys, the three women together, Martin and Lucien each alone.

  The agreement was that they would make separate arrangements for lunch but would meet back up at seven at a bar with tables in the Piazza della Signoria. The bar, called Rivoire, was elegant, overpriced, in Tom’s estimation, but very easy to find, and from there they could go to the restaurant together.

  The women had stood, irresolute, on the cathedral steps, and watched as the men traced their separate paths between the backpackers sitting in the sun, through the queue for entry to the cathedral that snaked right around its great green and white marble bulk and back on itself, around the horsedrawn carriages waiting in the sun for tourist custom. Justine had watched Martin walking north towards the old market and the Medici library, a tall, purposeful figure; she tried to imagine how he would spend his day, and failed. When she turned back she could see Tom as he headed purposefully towards the south, the boys trailing behind him, bickering and pushing, but Lucien had already disappeared.

  Now, as the women stood waiting to pay for Dido’s purchases in a narrow street on the far side of the city, Lucien was walking through the elegant cream and grey pietra serena porticoes of the Uffizi. Without a sideways glance that might betray interest in their efforts he strolled past the street artists propped against every pillar, each one cajoling passers by into having a caricature drawn, or buying a watercolour of the Ponte Vecchio. There was a long queue waiting under the colonnade to get inside the museum, clustered here and there into patient groups being lectured by their tour guides on what they would see once they gained entry. Lucien by-passed the queue and slipped in through a side door, but no more than twenty minutes later he was back out again, holding a small, postcard-sized paper bag with the museum’s logo printed on it with an air of satisfaction.

  Lucien tucked the small paper package into his pocket and crossed the long, rectangular flagstoned courtyard, an airy refined space filled with jostling sightseers, balloon sellers and cheap reproductions stacked for sale in plastic folders. At one end stood the heavy stone battlements of the Palazzo Vecchio, at the other an arcaded view across the river, but Lucien ignored both, slipping between the tall buildings and down an alley lined with the bright windows of expensive artisan boutiques.

  By the time Lucien reached the end of the street he had bought some gloves made of very soft dark-red pigskin, a heavy silk shirt and a set of handsome gold cufflinks modelled on an Etruscan design. He spent some time in each shop, discussing the methods of production and source of materials; he didn’t like to buy anything that was not produced locally, and using traditional techniques, and he prided himself on making human contact, on treating people as though they were equals. When he bought the last item, in a shop like a jewel-box, lined with velvet and inlaid wood and smelling of mahogany, Lucien had lightly pointed out to the saleswoman that the Etruscans had not worn cuffs, let alone cufflinks. He asked her the Italian for cufflinks. She had laughed, prettily, and he had asked her if she could recommend somewhere for lunch.

  She was called Silvia. ‘Do you know anywhere good?’ he had asked, confidentially, smiling at her. ‘Not a tourist place.’

  Tentatively Silvia had suggested a little winebar just across the river, where the tourists, she said with a shrug, generally were thinner on the ground. Lucien thanked her thoughtfully. At this point Silvia did, she admitted to herself later, once the door had closed behind the Englishman, expect him to ask her to join him; it would not have been the first time that an overture had been made by such a customer, although naturally she would not always accept. This one, though, was well dressed, handsome, confident; the kind of man who would not be turned down. But he didn’t ask her to lunch, not even for an aperitif; she had the feeling, however, that the possibility hovered between them and h
e took some pleasure in refusing it. Even the shop’s manager, who had observed the exchange from the small back room where he had been sorting stock, had waited with one ear cocked for the invitation to come. As the doorbell swung into silence behind their last customer of the morning and no invitation had been issued, not even a single word of flirtation, he leaned back and looked through into the shop, observing his pretty assistant’s tiny frown of discontent. Well, well, he thought. Not that sort of man, after all.

  It was in the bar that Silvia had recommended that Lucien now sat, drinking a large glass of expensive Chianti and contemplating a steaming dish of risotto with shaved truffle, at a marble-topped table with a good view of the passers-by. Lucien seemed pleased with the choice; it wasn’t cheap, but it was an attractive place, wood-panelled and bright with polished glass and silver, and quiet. Besides, it wasn’t that Lucien disliked spending money, more that he disliked waste, buying expensive dinners or unnecessary gifts for those who didn’t appreciate them, paying for someone’s compromised taste. He looked around at the delicate wall-sconces, the refined carving of the cornices, with some satisfaction as he ate. Along one wall were long glazed doors that had been opened to offer a view out into a quiet, stone-paved side-street, and it was while he was enjoying the air and the view this afforded that Lucien saw Martin.

  Martin wasn’t alone. He was walking slowly down the centre of the street, his arm around a red-haired woman. She was about his age, freckled and white-skinned, and in fact it was she Lucien had first seen, being on his side of Martin and very beautiful. She was tall, with a long, high-cheekboned face, dark, tawny hazel eyes, and she was unnaturally pale, as though she’d had a great shock. There was something intense about the pairing; neither of the two was speaking and it looked to Lucien as though the woman might be crying. He watched, frowning, as slowly they walked to the end of the street and around a corner. For a moment it looked as though Lucien was considering paying up and following them, but instead he sat back in his chair. He ordered an espresso, and slowly, thoughtfully, as though his mind was elsewhere, he began to look through his purchases.

  The women were enjoying themselves. They’d been to a smart bar for lunch, and found themselves herded to the marble counter with a crowd of elegant Florentine women, all of them dripping with emeralds and eating tiny bowls of pasta standing up, leaning against the gleaming counter and talking fast. They’d watched to see how it was done by the locals, then imitated their orders. Justine ended up with linguine with clams, Louisa rigatoni with spinach, Dido a risotto sticky with cheese. Giving up on conversation in the cheerful din, they ate hungrily, staring around at their exotic surroundings; a stern barman polishing champagne flutes, a gigantic Murano chandelier hanging low in the centre of the tea room, baroque murals, glittering silver.

  It was hot even in the shade as, replete, the three women wandered through the streets. Now that it was long past midday, approaching three, the tall buildings kept all the direct light out of the narrow alleys, but it was deliciously warm, a steady, dry heat that could never have been replicated at home. They had found their way down closer to the river, where every street seemed to have a tempting bright vista at the end, and tiny shops were set in the bottom of every tall building. After the quiet of the long lunch hour the streets seemed to be filling up. There were mothers and their daughters, dressed identically, sleek hair back, dark glasses and cardigans draped over their shoulders, deep in conversation; tourists and handsome couples arm in arm, looking in the shop windows as their owners came out to open their shutters.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get anything?’ Dido asked, hugging her expensive bags to her chest and smiling with unselfconscious delight. Her cheeks were pink with sun. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Mum used to love going shopping.’ And her face seemed to lose a little of its radiance.

  ‘Oh, maybe,’ said Justine, partly to please her, to bring the glow of happiness back. Oh, Evie, she thought, despairing suddenly; it was one of the things that made it hard to believe she no longer existed; she had made such clear choices about everything: what she wore, what she liked to eat, where to go on holiday. Where did all that go? All that information, all that hard-wiring, disposable after all.

  She smiled at Dido. Never mind Lucien, she thought, defiantly. It’s none of his business. If I see something I want, I’ll buy it. The problem was, Justine wasn’t like Evie; she wasn’t ever that sure abut anything.

  So they wandered on, with hours to kill before the appointed time, past shops full of marbled paper, tortoise-shell obelisks, gilded mirrors. They paused at a tiny jeweller’s, tucked in profanely under the massive, sombre wing of a church, and looked in at the display, full of baroque coral and gold and pearls; pendants, bangles, rough-cut diamond daisies for earrings. There were plenty of expensive, gleaming boutiques, plate glass and artful displays, but nothing that tempted Justine in. It didn’t seem to matter; holidays should be like this, she thought, just wandering the warm streets, plenty of time. Then a woman passed them walking the other way, about their age, wearing a flowered dress wrapped and tied at the hip, crimson and pale pink, long, fluted sleeves, little red sandals. They all stopped to look at her, unable to help themselves; she seemed oblivious, pausing a little way on to look in at a display of shoes, ribboned satin and punched leather, thoughtfully stroking her chin.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Dido, with enthusiasm. ‘You’d look lovely in that, Justine.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Justine, wistfully. ‘It’s pretty.’ The woman seemed to exist in a different universe, somewhere brighter, more optimistic, where there were places and occasions to dress up for.

  ‘Ask her where she got it,’ said Dido, nudging. ‘Go on.’

  ‘No!’ said Justine, laughing at Dido in surprise; suddenly it struck her how like Evie she was, the way she thought everything was possible. Had once thought. Dido had that same natural sweetness.

  Dido rolled her eyes; something about her expression tugged at Justine’s memory.

  ‘Well, I will if you won’t,’ Dido said, smiling, and as Justine and Louisa watched in startled admiration Dido crossed the narrow street and politely stood near the pretty woman in her flowered dress. After a moment she seemed to notice the girl standing attentive at her elbow, turned away from the shop window and addressed herself, a little bemused, to Dido’s bright face. With gestures and sign language and a bit of her year’s Italian thrown in, Dido managed to communicate her question. She looked back at them across the street, smiling and happy, sure everything would be fine. Like her mother.

  Louisa and Justine looked at each other, the same thought in their heads, almost tearful as they recognized the scene played out in front of them. Evie had done the very same thing, on Bond Street of all places, when they were all still students. She had seized a haughty, well-heeled woman by the elbow because she liked her coat and managed to charm her into giving away its origins. Evie had not betrayed a moment’s dismay when she discovered it came from the most dauntingly expensive shop on the street, and had just thanked the woman seriously and begun to plan where she might find a decent copy.

  Triumphant, Dido came back to them with her prize: information. ‘Down there,’ she said, pointing towards the river. The pretty woman stood and watched them go from behind dark glasses, smiling and shaking her head.

  It was a tiny, bright window between a grocer’s and a shop selling engravings of the city; in the window stood a mannequin in a suit of dark-blue silk, narrow-waisted, pearl buttoned, with deep cuffs. It looked expensive; handmade. Inside double rows of hanging identical dresses and waisted shirts, one above the other, of silk, linen, flowered, geometric-patterned, pink and red, cornflower blue and chocolate brown crowded against each other in the narrow space.

  A bell pinged as they entered, and at the far end of the shop a curtain was pushed back to reveal a heavy-duty sewing machine and rolls of cloth. A young, serious-looking woman came out from behind the sewing machine, untying an apron. She approache
d them with a tentative smile; perhaps it was clear that they were not Italian, and they soon realized that she had no other language.

  ‘Wow,’ said Dido.

  ‘It’s a dressmaker’s,’ said Louisa, reverently. A real dressmaker’s.’

  Once Justine had explained to the assistant what she was looking for, half-embarrassed still at her own persistence, the dress was located quickly, and smilingly, with nods and gestures, the seamstress encouraged her into a tiny curtained corner of the shop. Telling herself that it would certainly not fit, and if it fitted would not look the same, Justine put it on.

  It felt perfect. The fastenings were clever, a button and a tie at the waist, it fitted closely without being tight, it crossed over just low enough at the front not to be demure and the narrow sleeves turned back in a little cuff, halfway along her forearm. Justine couldn’t see herself, but suddenly she felt as though she had a waist, a bosom, a long neck, slim wrists. She felt like a different person. Reluctantly, lest she be disappointed, she came out of the cubicle to look in the mirror, and when she saw herself she flushed with relief. She turned a little in front of her reflection, seeing someone confident, independent. Stupid, she thought. It’s just a dress. But Louisa hugged her.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ said Dido. ‘Go on’.

  Defiantly Justine bought two; one flowered, one in scarlet linen, feeling the unfamiliar glow of a secret pleasure as she handed over the bundle of bright foreign money. Together they burst out of the shop, talking and laughing with excitement, holding their bags like trophies, ridiculously happy.

  ‘Your turn now,’ said Justine to Louisa, laughing, as she caught her surreptitiously sneaking a backward look into the window of a shoe shop as they passed.

  ‘Well,’ said Louisa, shamefacedly, ‘perhaps just a look.’ And before they could voice their agreement she had slipped into the shop.