The Mysterious Italian Houseguest. Scarlet Wilson
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of humour had attracted more viewers. Within a year the show had been a hit. All for a job that Portia had landed due to a complete fluke.
Five years on she’d broken more Hollywood stories than any of her rivals. The truth was, she’d been a little ruthless at first. She’d had a natural tendency to sniff out a story at fifty paces and her boss had quickly pushed her for more and more headlines. At first, she’d enjoyed it. She’d interviewed film stars past and present with aplomb. And while she’d charmed them with her smile, she hadn’t lost her investigative edge. For the last five years she’d happily exposed liars, cheats and corruption in Hollywood. But as time had marched on the colours around her had muted a little. She was becoming jaded. She’d lost the fire that had once burned in her belly. Hollywood seemed to be a cycle, with only the faces changing while the stories sounded the same. And her boss was pushing and pushing her for more scandal-led headlines—the kind that had started to make her stomach flip over.
The thing was, she did have two major stories she could break. But the conscience she’d developed wouldn’t let her. One, about an elderly well-respected actor who was gay. As far as she was aware, virtually no one knew. And no matter how much the information spun around in her brain—and even though she knew it would make headlines around the world—she really didn’t feel the urge to ‘out’ him. The second story, about a major actress who was secretly crippled by depression, would also make headlines. This woman was known for her sense of humour and smile. But it was all completely fake. The thing was, Portia knew why. Her daughter was very sick. And it was a story that she didn’t think she should break either.
It played on her mind. Unless she could find another story in the next few weeks she would have to find a whole new career. And what kind of story could she find on L’Isola dei Fiori? A place with a tiny population and barely any mobile phone signal.
It might be time to take another look at that book she’d been writing for the last three years. Anything would be better than feeling like this.
A gentle sea breeze blew through the hallway. The back French doors must be open.
Space. That was one of the marvels of this place.
Portia wandered through to her favourite room of the house. The ceiling curved into a dome and the washes of blue, mauve and pink—even though faded—made it seem as though a magical sunset were taking place right above your head. If she closed her eyes she could remember this house in its prime. It had belonged to Sofia, her sister Posy’s godmother. Sofia had been a famous model and, a number of years ago, the then Prince’s mistress. If Portia could turn back the clock she’d love to interview Sofia. When she was a child it had all just seemed so normal. A godmother who lived in a huge house on a mystery island, sweeping up and down the grand staircase in a whole array of glittering gowns like some forgotten starlet.
If she closed her eyes she could remember most of the movie stars, rock stars and models of the nineties that had filled the rooms in this house. If she could really turn back the clock she would pay more attention to some of the conversations and liaisons she could vaguely remember hearing and witnessing.
Coming to L’Isola dei Fiori had always been such an adventure. The flight to Italy and then the journey over on the ferry had always seemed like part of a children’s story complete with the image of the pale pink Villa Rosa sitting on the headland.
But Villa Rosa wasn’t quite as magnificent as it had remained in her head. The pale pink stucco had cracked and faded. The exotic flowers in the gardens had been surrounded by weeds. Part of the scullery roof had fallen in and been mended by Miranda’s new husband, Cleve, along with some of the ancient electrics in the house. It seemed that in years gone by each room had only required one plug point.
Portia ran her hand along the wall. Some of the plaster was crumbling. There was a crack running up the wall towards the top of the dome, bisecting part of the beautiful paintwork. The whole place was more than tired. Parts of it were downright neglected.
Even though Posy had inherited it from Sofia, all the sisters felt an element of responsibility. They’d all enjoyed holidays here as children. Sofia had been the ultimate hostess. Sipping cocktails and treating the girls like adults instead of children. There had been no fixed bedtimes. No explicit rules. As long as the girls were respectful and well-mannered Sofia had seemed to be entirely happy.
Villa Rosa conjured up memories of lazy days with beautiful sunrises and sunsets, long hours on the private beach and by the hot spring pool, the many legends about the craggy rock arch bisecting the beach, and a flurry of fun in a rainbow of satins, silks and sequins. Sofia had had the most spectacular designer wardrobe and she hadn’t hesitated to let her mini charges play dress up.
Portia leaned against the wall and sighed. The ugly crack annoyed her. Doubtless it would require some specialist to repair it. Like most of this house. Why did it feel as if the house was reflecting her life right now?
She couldn’t remember. Was Villa Rosa a listed building? Did they have listed buildings in L’Isola dei Fiori? Miranda and Cleve had done some emergency repairs on the house. There were a few liveable rooms. But the kitchen and bathrooms were antiquated and barely functioning. The dusty full attics would probably be an antique dealer’s dream. But Portia knew nothing about things like that and was too wary to even attempt to help with a clean-up for fear she would throw something valuable away.
She breathed in deeply. The warm sea air was wafting through the house bringing with it the aroma of calla lilies, jasmine and a tang of citrus from the few trees along the wall of the garden. She sighed, walked through to the kitchen and retrieved a semi-chilled bottle of rosé wine from the sometimes functioning fridge, grabbing a glass and walking through the double doors to the glass-ceilinged conservatory. There was a sad air about it. A few of the delicate panes were missing or cracked. At some point Sofia had commissioned a specialist stained-glass maker to install some coloured panes in a whole variety of shades, randomly dotted throughout the conservatory. It meant that when the sun streamed in from a particular angle the conservatory was lit up like a rainbow, sending streams of colour dazzling around the space. The doors at the end of the conservatory opened out to the terrace and gardens, which led to the sheltered cove below with a bubbling hot spring. It really was like a little piece of paradise.
She settled on an old pale pink wooden rocker sitting on the terrace that creaked as she sat down. She smiled, holding her breath for a few seconds for fear the wood might split. But the rocker held as she poured her wine then rested her feet on the ledge in front.
The azure sea sparkled in front of her. The horizon completely and utterly empty. It was as if the whole rolling ocean had been made entirely for her viewing pleasure.
She closed her eyes for a second. There was something about this place. Something magical.
In her head she could see the glittering parties that Sofia had hosted. Full of film stars, models, producers, and Sofia’s very own special Prince. Portia sipped her rosé wine, letting the dry fresh flavour with hints of cherry and orange zest fill her senses as she rocked back and forward in the chair.
If she could capture just one of those moments, and bring all the gossip twenty years into the future, she wouldn’t need to worry about her job any more. Times had been different then. No instant social media. No mobile phones in every pocket or every bag.
She gave a little smile as she closed her eyes and continued to rock. A warm breeze swept over her, scented with jasmine and hugging around her like a comforting blanket. It was almost as if time had stood still at Villa Rosa.
And for Portia’s purposes, that was just fine.
* * *
Javier finished nursing his last bottle of beer. He’d crossed over on the last evening ferry to L’Isola dei Fiori and, instead of heading straight to the house, he’d headed straight to the nearest bar.
L’Isola dei Fiori had been a favourite haunt of his mother’s. Her friend Sofia’s house had been a refuge for her when her manic behaviour had got out of control, she’d stopped eating and stopped taking her medication. His father had learned quickly not to try and intervene.