Broken Chord by Margaret Moore Page B

lives in England,” she replied.
    “I know. What’s that got to do with it.”
    “Nothing, I suppose.”
    “What’s she like?”
    “Straight-laced.”
    “Ah, and she wouldn’t approve of me.”
    “No, nor of me,” she said briefly. “Can we not talk about my mother. I’m sorry I mentioned her.”
    “Well, if it’s going to put you off your food, we’ll postpone it.”
    “Good. Pour me some wine and I’ll tell you all the gossip from the Festival.”
    He named a prominent opera singer and asked, “Well, tell me, is it true that she eats young men for breakfast and spits out the bones.”
    “Absolutely. You know she’s got to be fifty and some of the men are so young. You have to wonder why they go for her.”
    “Adulation, trying to further their career, notches on their belts?” he suggested.
    “Notches on her bedpost, more like. I suppose they’re flattered and it is true that she looks years younger. She’s very attractive. She’s also very powerful.”
    “And rich.”
    “That as well.”
    “I bet she can’t cook as well as you.”
    “Flatterer.”
    “No, it’s the truth. This food is divine.”
    “There’s baked fish to follow.”
    “What brought this on?”
    “You may remember I’ve been staying at the sea and I wanted to carry on eating sea food and I know you love it.”
    “I do. So you enjoyed the Festival.”
    “I did, very much. Tell me what’s going on in Lucca.”
    “Nothing much. A few squabbles among the immigrants, a bit of drug dealing, and a far too efficient air-con system. I’ve been having to wear a jacket in the office. Actually, I’ve been bored out of my mind, longing for a juicy murder, and with Bruno away it’s been pretty abysmal.”
    “Still, he’ll be back soon and before you know it, we’ll be on holiday ourselves.”
    “Eating fish.”
    They smiled at each other and tucked into their food.
    Vanessa looked down at the cat who was sitting on the floor watching them and remarked, “By the way, I’ve decided to call him Rossini.”
    Later that evening he talked to her about Lucca, which despite his boredom he was beginning to appreciate. “Perhaps you could meet me there one evening, come on the train, and we’ll have time to have a look round a bit before eating.”
    “Alright. I’d like to. I don’t know Lucca well. I have covered a few concerts but that’s about it.”
     
    With the arrival of Tebaldo, his wife, Isabella, and their two girls, Ursula’s family was complete. As always every summer, she liked to have them all under her roof as though in affirmation of her public image as a good mother and grandmother.
    Marianna had not come down to breakfast. Tebaldo’s small children ate quietly, perhaps somewhat cowed by so much adult company. Ursula beamed her approval on them. “I must say Teo, the children are becoming quite civilised.”
    “They’re growing up.”
    “Which makes me an old Granny.”
    “Don’t be silly, Ursula. Of course you aren’t old,” said Guido diplomatically.
    “It’s all subjective anyway, old as opposed to young, or just comparatively older, in which case older than whom?” asked Lapo, gazing at his mother and then letting his eyes settle on Guido’s face.
    Ursula glared at him as though about to protest, but managed to overcome what would have been an ill-advised rebuttal. Knives were sharpened early in the day in her household. She saw Isabella hide a smile behind her serviette and felt a savage desire to slap her face. She made do with giving her a withering glance and took a deep breath. Before she could speak, Tebaldo asked, “Can I use your car this morning, Ma?”
    “Yes, I won’t be going out. I have a million phone calls to make this morning.” She looked at them all and added, “You dorealise I’m getting married! There’s still so much to decide on. You’ve no idea.”
    Isabella said, “I thought you said it was going to be a low key affair.”
    “Low key, but I want perfection. I