On Friday evening, the night of the party, Marcie comes alive. The furniture in the long sitting room is pushed back to make room for dancing, and the gramophone is set up on a side table. Torches outside the main gates and every lantern in the place are lit to beat back the dark. On the terrace the long table is laid with twelve place settings. For all the invites she sent, for all the expectation and preparation, Marcie has only managed to find seven people, beyond her husband and houseguests, willing to come to Masseria dell’Arco for dinner. In defiance of that she fusses as though the King of Italy will attend, and is wearing her silks and jewels; the light swoops over the shallow curves of her hips, the deeper ones of her chest, and glitters from her ears and neck and fingers.
Clare is dowdy in comparison, and doesn’t care. She washes her hair and leaves it loose to dry, so that it hangs without shape or bounce. She puts on clean clothes and the only pair of evening shoes she has with her, but pays no attention to the outfit. She catches sight of her reflection as she’s about to go down and only then sees how pale she is – a strange kind of pallor that seems to come from within, since the sun has coloured her skin for weeks and brought out freckles. Beneath the suntan, her face is bloodless. She rubs some blush into her cheeks and puts on a little lipstick, but somehow these touches only make it worse. When Marcie sees her, her face falls. But she takes Clare’s hands and squeezes them together.
‘Clare, honey. Are you sure you’re up to this evening? You look pale, and I know you’ve been feeling under the cosh lately.’
‘Aren’t we all under the cosh here? But I’m fine, thank you,’ she says. Marcie smiles.
‘Tonight’s going to be so much fun. We can pretend to be normal wives, leading normal lives. Won’t that be grand? Just for a little while,’ she says. Her eyes sparkle, and Clare wonders if she even remembers their tight exchange in the bat room. Marcie takes a deep breath; her grip on Clare’s hands gets tighter, and tighter.
‘Perhaps we are normal wives. Perhaps this is just what life is like,’ says Clare. Marcie drops her hands at once and takes a step back, shaking her head.
‘Don’t say that. Well! Try to enjoy yourself, anyway, Clare. It could be your last chance to before you go home, and the only exciting evening we’re likely to get this summer. God, I need a drink.’ She stalks away, the high heels of her silver shoes tapping and glinting, and Clare watches after her with a seasick feeling, thinking how wrong she is. A more exciting evening, exciting for all the wrong reasons, crowds the steps of this one.
It’s Friday night, and in two nights’ time, on Sunday, Ettore will come, the farm will be raided and she must play her part, and play it well, or risk harm coming to him. The thought stuns her, blindsides her, every time it comes into her head. It’s like a sudden cacophony that drowns out everything as the other guests start to arrive, and Pip appears from his room in his best clothes, and Boyd comes up from the sitting room with Leandro at his side and a glass of whisky in his hand. The other guests are the doctor who treated Ettore’s leg and Clare when she fainted, his wife and teenage son and daughter; a stern man called Labriola, a retired teacher who likes to practise speaking English; and Alvise and Carlotta Centasso, a witless pair from Gioia too dazzled by Leandro’s wealth and Marcie’s jewels to mind that they are American arrivistes. They drink milky, almond-scented rosoglio on the terrace and Clare gulps at hers, longing to be feel numbed, to feel serene for a time. The drink is hot in her stomach, but doesn’t settle it.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ says Boyd, close to her ear. Clare shrinks from him; she can’t help it. She nods wordlessly and moves away towards Leandro, who is grand and groomed in his evening suit, a black silk tie fastened with a perfect knot at his throat. So it’s by pure chance that she’s standing next to him and not next to her husband when Federico Manzo comes up the terrace and crosses to Leandro to murmur some message in his ear.
Clare is hung; she can’t take her eyes off him, or move away, however much she wants to. All she sees now are the muscles beneath his clothes, and the ease with which they overpowered her; she sees his mouth and instantly recalls the feel of its odd shape against her own, and the taste of his saliva; his broad hands, and how just one was wide enough to prevent her breathing. She rocks back on her heels; wants to run but is paralysed. She feels stripped naked, humiliated; the blood roars in her ears and when Federico turns to go he looks at her and the glance is sullen, coldly hostile. For the short moment his eyes brush over her it’s like the unwanted touch of his hands again, the intimate press of his body. It turns her cold.
When he’s gone she grabs at Leandro’s arm without thinking, only needing the support. He smiles down at her and then notices her distress and draws her immediately to one side.
‘What is it, Chiarina?’ He uses the diminutive of her Italian name with such concern, such warmth it almost undoes her. She swallows tears.
‘Federico,’ she says quietly.
‘What of him?’ he says, but Clare can’t answer. She looks away, looks down, and can’t prevent a shudder going through her. There’s a long pause. ‘He did this, didn’t he?’ says Leandro then, in a very different tone; touching one finger softly to her chin. Clare nods. ‘But why? I thought it was my nephew you’d fallen for?’
‘You know?’ says Clare, stricken.
‘But of course. My dear, not much goes on around here that I don’t know about. Tell me – why did Fede hit you?’
‘He just… I was alone, in town. He must have followed me, and…’ She can’t finish this, can’t say the words. Leandro’s face gets that dragged downward look she’s come to recognise – his features weighted with anger, black eyes snapping.
‘Forgive me. This is my fault,’ he says, in a voice flat with fury. ‘He attacked one of the kitchen girls last year. Spun me a yarn about how they’d been courting, and how she’d given her consent and was lying about it after the event. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘No. The fault is mine,’ says Clare. ‘He saw me… he knows about Ettore.’ She raises her eyes to him wretchedly. ‘Don’t tell my husband! Please, tell no one. Not even Marcie,’ she whispers.
‘No, no. We won’t speak of it. And Federico Manzo won’t set foot here again, I promise you that. I’ve no need for a man like that – no better than an animal. It’s the duty of the men in my household to protect the women, not endanger them! I’ll go now and see to it. Are you steady now? Here – take another drink.’ He passes her his own glass and watches her drink, then steers her by her elbow to Marcie’s side, where she can hide in the shadow of his wife’s radiance.
‘There you are, Clare,’ says Marcie, seeming to think nothing of the way her husband deposits her there. ‘Have you ever been to watch the horse races back in England? I’ve never seen one – is it fun? Mr Centasso was just telling me about his new racehorse – a thoroughbred, no less! The signori here do love their horse races. Oh, do promise you’ll invite me to watch your horse run, Mr Centasso,’ she says. ‘And I promise I’ll bet on it.’ Clare watches after Leandro as he excuses himself and leaves the terrace.