The computer was where she’d left it, the screen was black but the light still flashing. She switched it on, the first page of her play blinking back to life in front of her.
For the next hour she sat and read every comment, her eyes taking in each change he’d made.
Seeing his words took her back to when she was in English class at school. Every term the teacher would hand out the required texts, old dog-eared books that had been in the department for years. Some of them for longer than Cesca had been alive. Yet each time she’d felt a shiver of anticipation slide down her spine, knowing that when she opened up the book it was more than the author’s text she would see.
Each schoolgirl who held that book in their hands would leave a little piece of themselves behind in there. It wasn’t just the bookplate they had to sign at the front – with their names, their form and the year they held it – but also in the illicit scribblings they’d leave in pen or pencil in each page, saying what they thought of the passage, what they thought of the book. No two people ever read the same story, because they each brought with them their own view of the world.
And as she sat in front of her own text, seeing it through Sam’s eyes, the same feeling was rushing through her veins.
With each word she read, Cesca could feel herself becoming more and more ashamed. Of her actions, of her words, of the way Sam had looked at her with such shock before he stalked away from her and back to the villa. Because his suggestions were good. No, that wasn’t enough. They were excellent. He was seeing things so differently to her. Adding comments to make the characters rounder, more real. And all those things that had been holding her back from making the play work were slowly melting away.
She’d expected him to be critical, disparaging even. Instead he was kind, succinct and hit the nail on the head every time. He hadn’t bothered disguising how much he liked the story, and he was making her see it from a different angle. A clearer one. One that she could actually see working. She felt herself sink lower and lower, until her lip started to wobble as she read his final comment.
This is brilliant. She needs to write more. It’s one of the best scripts I’ve read in a long time, and I’ve read a lot.
Her hand shook as she covered her mouth. Cesca couldn’t remember when she’d felt more ashamed of herself. She’d accused him of breaking her, of messing up her life, and all the while he’d left such lovely comments. No wonder he’d looked at her as if she was some kind of screaming harridan. She was like a lion who, when offered an olive branch, simply ate the dove for breakfast.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered into her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam.’
What on earth was she supposed to do next? Cesca wasn’t really sure. All she knew was she’d managed to mess things up, and it was up to her to untangle them again.
Sam didn’t come out of his bedroom all afternoon. By evening, Cesca’s stomach was grumbling, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since that morning, and she decided she’d cook enough food for two. Grabbing some pancetta and wild mushrooms, she put a griddle pan onto the range, igniting the flame to heat it up. While the food sautéed – spreading a gorgeous aroma throughout the kitchen – she boiled up a pan of pasta, watching the water bubble over, occasionally glancing to her left to see if Sam was anywhere to be seen.
The previous nights that he’d been here, Cesca’s cooking had never failed to attract his attention. He’d watched with envy as she’d made a quick sauce for some golden strips of tagliatelle, or deftly rolled out some pizza dough before topping it with fresh ingredients. Not tonight, though. This evening there was no sign of him at all. Even when she splashed some wine into the pan and cooked it off before adding the cream.
She’d made enough for two. More than enough, probably, but from her observations Sam had a pretty big appetite. Placing the pasta-laden plates on the wooden kitchen table, Cesca poured out two glasses of iced water and grabbed some cutlery. Then she wandered out of the kitchen into the hallway, making her way to the grand staircase.
‘Sam?’ Her voice was tentative. She didn’t want to sound angry, the way she had in the gardens. Maybe if she was softer, more cajoling, he might actually answer.
Except he didn’t. Cesca stood at the base of the staircase, her ears full of the sound of silence.
‘Are you hungry?’
Still no response. Cesca reached for the banister, her movement stopping so her hand was in mid-air. Should she go up, see if he was OK? Maybe he wanted to be left alone, and for her to disappear back into the hole she’d managed to crawl up from. She couldn’t blame him, either.
‘I’ve made pasta,’ she called again. ‘Enough for both of us. Would you like to join me?’
She waited for another minute. The hallway was silent, save for the sound of her breathing and the low hum of the air conditioning as it attempted to fight the Italian heat.
‘I’ll put it in the refrigerator, then,’ she said, as much to herself as to him. ‘Come and help yourself if you’re hungry.’
Her shoulders felt heavy as she walked back to the kitchen. Once inside, she sat at the table, trying to ignore the empty seat opposite her, and the plate of food that would almost certainly never be eaten. Cesca couldn’t understand why she was so upset by their argument – or rather her rant – and his subsequent reaction. The
Cesca of a few weeks ago would have been happy with that outcome, of finally seeing the golden boy brought to his knees. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted, the opportunity to really tell Sam Carlton what she thought of him? The problem was, she didn’t feel satisfied, or vindicated, or any of those emotions she’d thought she have. Instead she felt sick and guilty, and more than a little disgusted with herself.
It was clear Sam wasn’t coming downstairs. It was obvious he hated her more than ever, and there was nothing she could really say to make things better.
At times like these, the only thing left to do was write.
15
Mistress, you know yourself, down on your knees
– As You Like It
Sam had slept in this room since he was a young boy. Though it had been redecorated since that time, not much else had changed. It still had pale blue walls, an oversized bed with an embroidered quilt, and antique furniture that had been in the Palladino family for centuries. Strong and hardy to the touch, yet delicate to look at. Like everything else in his mother’s home, he treated it with respect.
Everything except the person pottering in the room below him, that was.