The Sweetness of Liberty James (11 page)

Liberty sat back, pleased that she hadn't devoured the entire bread basket, but in no way did she feel over full. They knew how to balance a meal.

She sipped her small glass of red wine brought with the food – fruity, light Chianti. She smiled and felt genuine happiness for the couple who were now chatting away happily, waving their hands to demonstrate their meaning, and from what she could understand of the conversation, talking about the apartment they were moving into, although it was obviously not the one the girl had picked!

Families were conversing over coffees, children were playing together around the tables and the staff from the open kitchen had to dodge as they played games of chase around their feet.

It was almost four o'clock in the afternoon, and Liberty knew she needed to walk and see more of the city, but she was enjoying herself too much. Carlo approached her table and looked down at her in a paternalistic way.

‘I am so happy you enjoy our lovely town properly, signora. It is so calm in here, and so happy, I feel you are seeing more of the true Tuscany in here than out there with the tourists. Well then, an espresso and you can have a walk along the river. It will not be too crowded, as many tourists leave around now to go for a rest before early dinner.'

The espresso arrived with a tiny sliver of hazelnut and chocolate cake, a shot glass of zabaglione and a small ball of coffee granita, sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts and cocoa. ‘Try it, you will love it and ask for all my recipes,' said Carlo with a smile.

Indeed she did. ‘Sadly, I never divulge recipes,' Carlo joked as he brought the bill.

‘Then why say that I should ask for it?' she responded.

‘I didn't say that you should, I said that you would. I gave my heart and the recipe for the cake to someone in Rome once, and she made it, only without love and without the essential ingredient . . . It only tastes as good with the butter from my cows, who live outside Florence, so unless you want to come and milk my cows every night, when the milk is richer, there is no point in my giving you the recipe.'

Liberty smiled up at him with a glint in her eye. What was happening to her? When did she last flirt, for heaven's sake? And what did happen to the lady who made the cake?

‘Well, as I said, she made the cake without love; I could tell, all beating and no care. I couldn't love a woman who baked like that, so I returned to my family, found a lady who knew how to caress both human flesh and butter and cream, and from that moment on, no one gets the recipe apart from her! I am a married
man, but you have made my day, signora, and you may return and eat at my humble
ristorante
any time you wish. You should come up to the estate and have lunch
con la famiglia
!' offered the smiling owner (or should she call him doctor?).

Liberty knew well enough that this was the restaurateur speaking, but she appreciated the offer. ‘Thank you so much, signor, I hope to return soon.' With that, she paid her appropriately large bill, feeling she had indeed been in a hospital, and asked for her bags.

‘They have been taken to your hotel, signora, to free you for your walk,' responded the lady at the desk.
Wow!
thought Liberty,
now that's service,
and she climbed back to street level and headed towards the river. The tourists had indeed thinned a little, but in normal terms the city was still crowded. Liberty decided she had had enough, and suddenly needed to get away, back to the peace and sanctuary of the hotel, so she hailed a taxi.

As the Fiat wound its way up the hillside towards Fiesole, Liberty realised she was shaking with apprehension. She had lost herself for a few hours; she had left her true situation and taken a fantasy day out. Now she was terrified in case Percy had returned, not because of what he might do to her, but simply because she knew she never wanted to see him again. She wanted truly to rid herself of him and everything she had ever shared with him. She felt different, cleansed almost, and was ashamed to find herself realising that she was almost happy, able to be herself for the first time in years. She also felt deeply sad, but only because she had been wasting her life for so many years.

Percy was not at the hotel. Two envelopes were waiting for her. One was to inform her that an 11.30 flight had been arranged to take her to Nice the following day, and a hotel car would collect her at 9.30. The other contained an email that had been sent care of the hotel concierge.

‘Liberty, expect you to have calmed down. No hard feelings. Will see you Monday when I get back from work.'

Liberty sat on the terrace with a cup of English tea and thought
about herself, her life and her position in it. As she looked around the garden, reality flooded into her sore head. She did not want to, but it was necessary to acknowledge Percy's message. She thought for a moment. She knew she would not go back to live with him. She had few possessions to call her own, and she didn't want them. Or did she? Her diary and other personal papers were all at work. Her passport was with her. She certainly didn't want to walk into the room she had been secretly transforming – in her mind – into a nursery. She had bought several rolls of Quentin Blake wallpaper, tiny baby gowns, cashmere blankets, several teddy bears. They were no longer needed. They were not part of her life any more. She realised she had no need whatsoever to return to the mews.

The message she tapped out on her BlackBerry was concise.

‘Am staying with Paloma in St Tropez for a while. Will not be back.'

As she pressed ‘send', Liberty knew it was the right thing to do, but felt sick to her stomach and had to race back to her room to weep in private, grieving for her beloved parents-in-law and her lost security, and wondering what the hell she would do next.

Finding herself weeping on her bed, Liberty thought,
This is getting silly
. Doing something better with her life did not include soaking Frette sheets with salty water and being a complete drip. She needed to do something constructive; despite a wave of tear-drained exhaustion enveloping her, she wondered if she had packed a swimsuit. Rummaging around, she found her bikini tangled amongst her lingerie and slipped into it, covered it with a discreet San Michele robe, and ran down to the pool. This too was built into the hillside and was surrounded by a lemon grove. The last rays of the afternoon sun still warmed the flagstones along the side. A few couples were lying on the loungers on the grass area surrounding the pool, but the water itself was temptingly turquoise, empty and calling to her.

Wow!
she thought after diving in. The cool water enveloped her, enlivening her instantly, and she swam with energy and
enjoyment, clearing her mind and loving the sense of burning off bad emotions in a healthy way. After twenty minutes she clambered out, for once feeling no need to be her normally elegant self, but more like a child. She gulped huge breaths of air as she realised how hard she had worked her body. She had needed to. The still-warm sun caressed her legs and she knew her cheeks were red with exertion. She felt alive, happy and excited about her trip to see the gorgeous Paloma.

The next morning, after a deep and prolonged sleep, preceded by an excellent but light supper on the terrace, Liberty woke early and packed her suitcase with her new clothes, shoes and toiletries. She had even bought some scent for the first time, Aqua Di Parma, as it was a classic, and for the time being she didn't know which would become her favourite anyway. The name sounded like ham, and that had to be alluring! Did they make a freshly baked bread scent?

She went downstairs for an early stroll, to pay the bill and enjoy a final breakfast in Italy. Luca was ready for her.

‘There is no charge, signora. We hope to see you soon again under better circumstances. My mother wishes you a happy return home.'

Liberty was stunned. ‘But you can't not charge me. I know how much the rooms cost here, and . . .' she felt embarrassed and stopped mid-flow, not sure how to continue.

‘Direct orders from my mother,' said the smiling Luca, ‘and she is far more terrifying than any CEO. We hope you will return for longer and in happier days.'

‘Thank you, a million thank yous, and this is for your mother. Please see that she gets it, with my gratitude.'

Liberty handed over the exquisite hand-printed silk scarf she had found the previous day, knowing that a scarf would be the only splash of colour an Italian widow would consider wearing.

9

The stewardess opened the aeroplane door, and Liberty stepped out into the white glare of Nice. The chaos and throng of August had ended with its last hours, and travelling on the first of September, Liberty found herself through immigration in no time. Claude was waiting for her. He was Paloma's son, and although it had been assumed his father was the light-foot who had run away when Paloma's beauty and vivacious personality had taken over ‘his' restaurant, she had never acknowledged this directly. Deirdre, Liberty's mother, had always said the father must have been someone else, and that was the true reason Paloma's husband left, but Paloma wasn't telling. Claude had always been the apple of his mother's eye, a delightful, charming boy with a ready smile, who turned into a whippet-slim, dark-haired Gallic jaw-dropper. As a young boy, he had frequently sat at Liberty's feet in the St Tropez garden, gazing up at her beauty while Paloma and Deirdre gossiped about food and lovers. Deirdre had moved through several, some rather infamous, lovers as ‘therapy' to get over Alain's departure, thus making her somewhat too well-known for the wrong reasons, but she sold a few more books as her infamy brought her to the attention of a new generation of would-be cooks. It also won the respect of Liberty's friends, much to her embarrassment.

‘Liberty!' breathed Claude in her ear as he bent to kiss her on each cheek; very erotic, very French, but she thought to herself that he was wearing too much cologne, something she had not been aware of until now. They instantly returned to the happy-go-lucky brother/sister relationship they had enjoyed
for so long, quickly getting rid of any sexual tension that may have existed back when Claude was twelve and his hormones encouraged him to think he was in love with her, even though she was two years older than him. He used to run after her on the beach, bringing seashells and other treasures for her to admire, thrilled when she ruffled his hair in an older sister kind of way and rewarded him with an ice cream. But his attentions had turned to French girls since those days.

‘Come along, let's get to the car, and we can enjoy the drive along the coast to St Tropez. Paloma is desperate to hear your news, but she is busy with the restaurant. We still have to work all hours for the four-month season here where the room bookings are concerned.'

‘But the restaurant now has such a good reputation. You must be booked all the year round, surely?'

‘Well, yes, but the people who come during the summer spend money on wine, whereas the rest of the year tends to be booked by real foodies who appreciate what we serve, but who spend less.'

They had arrived at the car, an ancient white E-type Jag. ‘Lucky I travel fairly light,' giggled Liberty, as he struggled to get her newly filled bags into the back.

‘It's OK, we will have the roof down,' said Claude, shrugging in a typically French way as he helped her into the front seat.

‘And such manners. Your mother has done a fine job!' noted Liberty.

‘She always told me manners got the girls, so I had no problem concentrating on those lessons,' Claude divulged with a wink. As he swung on to the highway west, they took up the restaurant theme once more.

‘Isn't it more interesting cooking for foodies?' asked Liberty.

‘Of course it is, but although they appreciate and really savour the food, they tend to drink only a little, which, sadly, these days, means little return for a great deal of effort. Paloma can tell you all about it.'

‘How long have you called your mother Paloma?'

‘It just seemed more natural, really, especially when I had to speak to her in front of the punters.'

He drove fast but easily, glancing around only occasionally at the view of the outskirts of Nice.

‘Now, you tell me, how come you look so wonderful? I thought there would be a tragic heap to meet at the airport. Have you dumped that moron at last?' And he leaned over and put his hand on her leg, just for a moment.

‘Watch it!' screamed Liberty, as Claude swerved out of the path of a wayward lorry, and she grasped his arm. ‘I forgot how badly people drive down here.'

Claude laughed and drove in silence for a few minutes. Then he continued, ‘Didn't you always know how I hated Percy?'

‘You don't know anything about it. I didn't say a thing in my message,' she huffed at him.

‘Yes, but Maman can see through these things. She put two and two together and made sixty-five, as usual; she knew you were finding out if you were pregnant, and when you asked to stay she figured it was for a reason. Come on, she knows you well, little fairy godsister.' Claude smiled at her in a sympathetic way that Liberty hoped wouldn't last.

‘I am not over it yet, so be careful what you say.'

‘Yes, I know you too, and Maman can read you like a book, and she told me Percy has always been too much the upper-class Englishman, but without the good manners or redeeming qualities.'

‘Just don't let him hear you saying that.' But Liberty found herself smiling; she supposed it was true. Despite his good breeding and lovely parents, Percy seemed to lack the natural charm and manners of most of his upper-class English men friends, once he had got what he wanted. He was lovely while he was wooing her; she remembered how charming he was when they first met. But she quickly swept all thoughts of him out of her mind, determined to enjoy herself.

‘I just need to get away for a while, and I think I want to learn how to cook.'