‘I haven’t exactly got anywhere to go,’ she pointed out, as he walked out into the kitchen.
Five minutes later he was back, a big smile on his face.
‘You look like the cat who got the cream,’ she told him, wincing at her own joke.
He laughed loudly. ‘I just spoke to some old friends. I’d heard on the grapevine they were having trouble finding a house-sitter for their villa in Italy.’
Cesca raised an eyebrow. ‘Well that’s convenient.’
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Hugh chided. ‘I’m not stretching the truth or making anything up, it’s simple serendipity. They have a live-in couple that takes care of the place, but they want to go away for a few weeks, and need somebody they can trust to stay in the house. You won’t have to do very much, apart from keep an eye on the place, so there’ll be plenty of time to write. Plus if you agree to it, they’ll pay for your flights and food while you’re there.’
Sceptical didn’t even cover it. ‘And where is this villa that needs a messed up failure to take care of it?’ she asked.
‘It’s on Lake Como, just outside a pretty little village called Varenna. Villa Palladino – that’s where you’ll be staying – has been in their family for centuries. I’ve been there myself, it’s absolutely beautiful. What’s more, it’s secluded and quiet, and nobody will interrupt you there. You can breathe in the lake air, take lots of walks, you can even lie on the beach if you want to.’ He paused, glancing up at her again. ‘Or you can write.’
She was so torn it almost hurt. Part of her wanted to get up and jump up and down, show some excitement and thank her uncle for saving her life. The other bit – the Cesca who had been running the show for the past six years – was telling her it was too good to be true, that things like this didn’t happen to her. She was being set up for a fall, and was going to let her godfather down once again.
‘I can’t hold down a job,’ Cesca whispered, ‘so what makes you think I can do this one?’
‘I know you can do it,’ Hugh replied, ‘because there’s nothing to do but write and get your head straight. It’s what you should have done all those years ago after the play folded. I should have insisted upon it. Instead you got yourself into this downward spiral, and you’re spinning so fast that nobody can catch you.’
It was impossible to ignore the truth in his words, and Cesca didn’t bother to try.
‘If I do go,’ she said hesitantly, still not quite able to bring herself to agree, ‘then I’ll need to sort some things out. Like a passport, and clothes. Plus I need to work out what the hell I’m going to write.’
Hugh gave her a beaming smile. ‘Those are the easy things, we can get them arranged tout de suite. Getting you to agree to it is the tricky one.’
‘Do you have a photograph of the villa?’ Cesca asked. ‘How big is it?’
Hugh shrugged, glancing away. ‘Oh, it’s medium-sized. I don’t think I have a photo, they’re very private people. There’s enough rooms for you not to bump into the couple who look after the house while they’re there, but it’s not so big that you’ll be overwhelmed after they leave.’ Sensing her reluctance, he reached out for her arm. ‘Just give it a try. Do it for me, for your dad – goodness, do it for your mother if you have to, but get on a plane and go to Italy. If you hate it, I’ll talk to my friends and we can think again.’
‘I don’t know . . . ’
‘Stop thinking and just say yes,’ Hugh told her. ‘Look at this as rock bottom, and now you have a chance to start climbing back up.’
He was right, she knew he was. It was crazy how little she had left to lose. There came a point in everybody’s life where you either accepted that things were never going to improve, or you took hold of the wheel and actually started thinking about where you were going. Sitting there, in that London flat, Cesca realised this was the moment for her.
Could she ignore it? Could she bear to walk away and only look back with regrets? She already had enough of those to last a lifetime.
‘OK, I’ll do it,’ she said, causing Hugh to let out a relieved sigh. ‘I’ll go to Italy and I’ll look after that damn house and I’ll try to make some changes in my life.’
Hugh pulled her up into an uncharacteristic hug. Stunned, Cesca returned the embrace, her hands on his back, feeling the bones pressing through his thin frame.
‘Good girl,’ he whispered, ‘I’m so proud of you.’
His words touched her, and made her feel wistful. There was a time she was proud of herself, too. If only she could feel that way again.
‘When do you leave?’ her father asked, looking at her over the rim of his mug.
‘Tomorrow,’ Cesca told him. ‘I catch a flight from Heath-row in the morning.’ She glanced around the kitchen. The walls were shabby, paint peeling away from the plaster. The sink was piled up with dirty dishes. It was crazy, really. The house itself was worth a lot of money, but Oliver had neglected it for years, more interested in studying insects than the interior decor.
She felt a twinge of anxiety about leaving her father behind. Though he was still a good-looking man, sitting across the kitchen table from her he looked frailer than she remembered. Older.
‘Have you told your sisters you’re going?’ he asked.
‘I spoke to them this morning. On Skype.’
‘On that video phone thing?’ Oliver questioned, shaking his head. ‘It’s amazing how you can all see each other, even though you girls are scattered far and wide.’