The Savage Garden

    'Something bad happened. I can feel it. I just can't see it.'

    She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed. 'Bravo, Adamo. Really. Bravo.'

    He wasn't good with compliments, but he knew what to do when he saw her head drawing closer, her neck arching, her lips reaching for his.

    They kissed gently. Then again, less gently, their tongues searching each other out. He felt the heat coming off her, and the twin pressure of her breasts against his chest.

    When they finally drew apart, she said in a whisper, 'I told myself I wouldn't.'

    'That's interesting, I told myself I would.'

    He could just make out her smile in the deepening darkness.

    They were still holding hands when they left the garden, sidestepping through the yew hedge. They only released each other when, nearing the villa, she stopped to remove a stone from her shoe.

    'Why did you tell yourself you wouldn't?'

    She slipped her shoe back on and stood upright. 'Because you are going soon.'

    'A week.'

    'It will only make it worse.'

    'But think—what a week.'

    He reached for her and she playfully slapped his hand away.

    It came at them clear through the still night air—laughter from up at the villa. A devilish cackle. Disturbing if you'd never heard it before. More disturbing if you had.

    'Oh Christ.'

    'What?' asked Antonella.

    'Harry . . .' said Adam, breasting the steps to the back terrace. 'What are you doing here?'

    'What does it look like? Having dinner with a beautiful woman.'

    Signora Docci smiled indulgently.

    'I thought you wouldn't get the money till tomorrow.'

    'Arrived the day you sent it.'

    Adam tried his best to sound pleased. 'Good.'

    'Bad,' said Harry.

    'Bad?'

    'It's a long story.'

    'It is,' said Signora Docci.

    Harry turned to her. 'But not uninteresting.'

    'No, not uninteresting.'

    Oh Christ, thought Adam. 'When did you get here?' he asked, trying to mask the strain in his voice. 'A few hours ago.'

    Long enough to have done untold damage.

    'Nice lunch?' asked Harry.

    'Yes, great—sorry—this is Antonella.'

    Harry got to his feet. He was wearing a grubby Aertex shirt, khaki army shorts that reached well below the knee, and his feet were squeezed into black gym shoes, one of them worn away at the end so that his big toe poked through. He stooped to kiss Antonella's hand, considerately removing his cigarette before he did so. 'Antonella,' said Harry. 'Harry,' said Antonella. 'Nice dress.' 'Nice shorts.'

    'Thank you. Practical in this heat.' 'Absolutely,' said Antonella, for Adam's benefit. 'Please . . .' said Harry, pulling a chair back for her. 'Thank you.'

    'Have you eaten?' Signora Docci asked.

    Adam held up his hands in surrender. 'Enough for a couple of days.'

    'Antonella is an excellent cook.'

    'She certainly is,' Adam replied, wondering for a moment if he was trapped in a Jane Austen novel.

    Fortunately, at that moment Harry chirped up, bringing them back to some kind of reality. 'So's Maria.'

    Maria had just stepped from the villa, carrying a tray. Harry adopted an exaggerated Italian accent. 'Vitello con sugo di . . .'

    'Pomodoro,' said Maria.

    'Pomodoro!' trumpeted Harry. 'Magnifico!'