Ah, the party. Another wonderful Foster idea. Sam grimaced at the thought of being surrounded by his stepfather’s friends, but he’d promised his mother he’d stay for it. The delighted expression on her face had been almost worth it.
‘I guess I’ll go then.’ He was half expecting her to start laughing, to tell him it was a joke. And maybe if he had a little less pride, he would have begged her to let him stay. But after a day filled with emotions, followed by a night hearing exactly what his stepfather thought of him, Sam was exhausted. He was all out of energy.
‘Good night.’ He didn’t wait for her to reply. Instead he simply walked out of her room, making sure the corridor was clear, and then tiptoed to his own room, collapsing on his bed.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the incessant voice in his head, telling him he was fucking everything up all over again.
It had been a hell of a day.
*
‘Good night, Sam.’ She was aware she was talking to the darkness, and that he had long since gone out of earshot. It seemed important to say it anyway, if only to remind her own heart that he was gone.
Gone.
At least she’d done it on her terms this time. She hadn’t woken up to find out that Sam had left for LA and turned her world upside down. After all the progress she’d made – on herself as well as her play – she couldn’t let him sabotage it for her again.
Curling up on her bed, she pushed her notepad to the floor, hearing the thud as it dropped onto the wooden boards. She wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them to her chest, trying to ignore the pain that was emanating from deep inside.
She’d done the right thing, she told herself again. And of course it was going to hurt. But she’d get through it, she always had. She was a survivor, wasn’t she?
27
Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love
– Hamlet
Cesca took one last look in the mirror before heading downstairs. Her hair was perfectly coiled into a French plait, her white shirt pristinely ironed. It was tucked into the tight black skirt that Gabi had loaned her. One size too small but what choice did she have? It stopped high above her knees, revealing her toned, tanned thighs.
‘You’ll have to do,’ she whispered at her reflection. Just one more day, and she could leave this all behind. She was booked on an early flight to London the following morning, which meant she and Sandro would have to leave for the airport at the crack of dawn. But it was necessary – she clearly wasn’t needed here any more, now that Sandro and Gabi had come back. There was no point in her staying for Sam, either.
As soon as she made her way downstairs, she was hit by the frantic commotion. The staff had spent most of the day preparing for this – after they’d risen at the ungodly hour of six to take delivery of the food and drink – but it didn’t cease to amaze her how much work there was to do for one little party.
No, not even a party. Lucia was insisting on calling it a soirée. Not that Cesca understood the difference.
She found Gabi in the kitchen, talking rapidly to the chef and cooking staff who’d been brought in for the occasion. They’d already split the duties, agreeing that Gabi would supervise the kitchen, while Cesca and Sandro took control of the waiting staff. He would be in charge of the drinks, while Cesca would direct the food. With her experience in waitressing – as sketchy as it was – it seemed like the best idea.
‘Everything on track?’ Cesca was breathless with nervous anticipation. ‘Do you need me to do anything?’
Gabi shook her head. ‘It is, as you call it, the calm before the storm. The waiting staff are ready for you, as soon as the guests start to arrive.’
‘OK then.’ Cesca straightened her shoulders, rolling her neck from side to side to loosen the muscles. ‘Good luck in the kitchen.’
‘Ah, this is my happy place. More importantly, good luck to you out there.’
She’d probably need all the luck she could get. Cesca rounded up the waiting staff – comprised of local students looking for some extra cash – and tried to give them some orders using a mixture of English and pidgin Italian. Luckily one of the older boys took pity on her and started to translate, leading to the others nodding in agreement.
‘Thank you,’ Cesca whispered.
‘You’re very welcome.’
The next hour passed in a blur of final preparations, as she sent the staff in and out of the kitchen with trays of food. They were dispersed throughout the public rooms of the villa, ready to provide canapés along with the glasses of Prosecco and Chianti being readied by Sandro’s team. There was no sign of the family, thankfully, apart from a brief glimpse of Foster as he emerged from the library to grab a glass of red wine, but then he was gone again, ensconced in his office.
Just before eight, the guests started to arrive. Impossibly glamorous and expensively clothed, Cesca felt dull and dowdy in comparison to them. They didn’t notice her, any way, too intent on gossiping and drinking glasses of win
e to see who was handing the food and the drink out. It was amazing how invisible you could be when dressed in black and white.
The chatter silenced for a moment, before the furious whispering began. The guests were all looking out on the terrace, pointing and nodding at each other. Cesca followed their gazes, already knowing what she was going to see. And there he was, in glorious, beautiful splendour. Not her Sam, though. No, this was definitely Hollywood Sam who was standing before them, drawing everybody’s gaze in a way that was as natural as breathing.