Lucy Gordon
Married Under the Italian Sun
© 2006
CHAPTER ONE
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, here we are again with your favourite TV programme,
Sitting backstage, Angel prayed for the burbling introduction to be over soon. In fact, she thought, please let the whole mindless business be over. Just as her marriage was over, and only awaited a decent burial.
The presenter was getting into his stride.
‘On my right, Mr and Mrs Barker, and their famous team member-’He named the star of a minor soap opera. Watching the backstage screen, Angel saw him enter, flashing his teeth and grandstanding to the audience.
Nina, her personal assistant, surveyed her with critical approval.
‘You look perfect,’ she said.
Of course she did. Angel always looked perfect. That was her function. Long blonde hair, large, dark-blue eyes, slender figure encased in a tight gold dress, cut teasingly low. Masses of glittering, tasteless jewellery.
‘And now, the lady I know you’re impatient to see-’
‘The one we’ve all been waiting for…’
A look in the mirror, a final adjustment of her dress to ensure that her assets were displayed to advantage, mouth widened just so far, no further. And now for the last walk to where the lights beckoned and the cameras preyed on her. It felt like a walk to the guillotine.
‘Here she is. The beautiful, the fabulous-
She’d done this a hundred times before, and it should have been easy, but as she emerged and the applause washed over her, something terrible happened. The lights seemed to dim, and suddenly her mind was filled with darkness and panic.
Mercifully, the dreadful moment passed swiftly. She could cope again, just.
She advanced on the suicidally high heels, hands outstretched, voice tuned to a note of artificial ecstasy to greet the presenter.
Her fellow contestants were Mr and Mrs Strobes. She’d met them in the hospitality room before the show and it had been an endurance test.
‘We’re so sorry about your divorce,’ Mrs Strobes had said. ‘We think it’s just terrible the way he threw you out.’
‘Parting was a mutual decision,’ Angel had hastened to say.
But what was the point, with Joe flaunting his new companion at every party and nightclub?
The audience was agog to see her, so she smiled and waved, turning this way and that so that they shouldn’t be disappointed. She could almost hear the comments.
‘A right sexy little piece-a bit of all right.’
That was what her husband had wanted from her. For him she’d been a ‘right sexy little piece’ for eight years, and suddenly eight years felt like a very long time.
The show started. The questions were ridiculously easy, but even so she gave a performance of racking her brains, giggling at her own ‘ignorance’. They wanted ‘dumb blonde’ so that was what she would give them.
The soap actor on the other side seemed to be genuinely dumb, and Angel’s team was soon in the lead. The clincher came when the host burbled, ‘And now, Angel, here’s a real tough one for you. Who painted the Sistine Chapel? Was it a) Maisie the Mouse, b) Michelangelo, or c) Mark Antony?’
She did her bit, putting her dainty fingertips to her mouth and giving an ‘Angel’ giggle.
‘Ooh, dear! I don’t know. I never studied music.’ Roars of laughter from the audience. ‘Could you repeat the question, please?’
He did so and she gave a little squeal.
‘You always give me the hard ones. I’ll have to guess. Michelangelo.’
‘Michelangelo is right, and you have won.’
Cheers, applause, her team mates bouncing with joy. It would be finished soon.
At last it was over and she could escape. Nina was waiting for her with the car, so that she could make a speedy escape from all the prying eyes.
Nina had been with her for eight years, secretary, maid, gofer and good, solid friend. She was a little younger than Angel, plain, funny, and a rock to cling to.
When they were on their way, Angel let out a long sigh of relief.
‘At least that’s over,’ Nina said. ‘With luck you’ll never have to do another one.’
‘Not once I’m living in Italy,’ Angel agreed. ‘Amalfi, here I come.’
‘I really wish I could come with you.’
‘So do I,’ Angel said, meaning it. ‘I’ll miss you, but I shan’t need a secretary, even if I could afford one now. I’m going to live a very quiet life.’
‘Joe called me today and asked me to go back to work for him. He said “darling Merry” needs me. Merry! I ask you. Her name’s Meredith.’
‘And mine’s Angela, but I let him rename me Angel for the sake of his image.’
‘I told him I’d found another job. As though I’d work for him again-a great, stupid vulgarian who thinks he’s somebody because he’s rich.’
‘Mind how you talk about my ex-husband,’ Angel said mildly.
‘You object?’
‘Certainly. “Great, stupid vulgarian” doesn’t begin to do him justice.’
‘How about, “coarse, spiteful, bullying thug”?’
‘That’s much better,’ Angel said with a wry little laugh.
‘You’re well shot of him. And, even if he did cheat you out of a proper settlement, you got an Italian palace out of it.’
‘The Villa Tazzini isn’t a palace. If it had been, “Merry” would have wanted it. He bought it for her, but without letting her see it first. It was to be a wonderful surprise. But when she realised it wasn’t palatial, just a large country house, she didn’t think it was wonderful at all.’
‘Rumour says it cost him a million.’
‘A palace would have cost at least five million. I heard he showed her a lot of pictures he’d taken, and she ripped them up.’
‘I suppose Freddy told you that,’ said Nina, naming Joe’s PA, who was secretly on Angel’s side, as was everyone who’d worked for her.
‘That’s right. Apparently her language would have made a stevedore blush.’
‘And Joe let her talk to him like that?’
