‘Fully paid-up Silver Level Patron of the RSC.’
‘Then Stratford is the place to be.’ His choice made more sense now. ‘Think there’s something on at the castle here in Lullbury Bay.’ Callie’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember the details, her brain fuzzy with alcohol. ‘Open air theatre? Might beTwelfth Night?Not going to compete with the Royal Shakespeare Company but might be worth seeing.’
‘Shall we go? I’d love to. Would you like to accompany a down-at-heel ex-journalist who is doing his best to flee from family life?’
He said it casually, but Callie was very aware of how their relationship had shifted. In a short space of time, over wine and Kettle chips, from strangers who happened to share a house, a friendship had developed. ‘I’d really like that.’
‘Okay. I’ll look into it.’
‘Tell you what I need to look into.’ She peered into her empty glass.
‘What’s that?’
‘Food. How about I make some pasta? Something simple but filling, and to soak up the alcohol.’
He got up effortlessly and stretched his arms above his head, easing out the kinks in his neck. ‘I was a bagful of tension when I got back here this afternoon but this – talking to you, I mean – has helped so much. And,’ he added, grinning down at her, ‘pasta sounds wonderful.’
‘That’s unless you tell me you’ve lived in Naples too?’ Callie squinted up and tried to slide out of the deck chair but couldn’t get purchase on the slippery canvas.
‘Need a hand?’
‘I do,’ she replied helplessly, beginning to giggle. He hauled her up and she wobbled against him. ‘Whoops. I told you I should have drunk more water. Drinking wine in the sunshine goes straight to my head.’
‘Then there’s only one solution.’
‘What’s that?’ She put a hand up to his chest enjoying the hard muscle and the scent of sun warmed cotton.
‘We either sober up or open another bottle. And you’re wrong. It wasn’t Naples but I did live in Rome for a short while.’
‘Oh bugger. If you’re used to Italian cooking, there’s only one thing for it then. If I’m forcing my carbonara on you one more bottle may not be enough. We might need the whole crate.’
Eight
MONDAY MORNING 12TH AUGUST
Frida Kahlo 1907–1954
Known for her portraits and the vividly coloured decorative quality of her work. Look at life story of Frida, examine cultural aspect – compare Mexican folk art.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Callie stretched luxuriously, enjoying the cool cotton against her skin. She’d slept better than she had for years. Must be the sea air. Sliding up in bed and reaching for her glass of water she giggled at the time, her head slightly groggy. She’d slept in. Unusual. Even during the long summer break she tended to wake at six.
Going to the window she drank in the view. Brilliant sun made diamonds dance on the sea and the harbour was busy with people messing about on boats. She could even hear excited childish voices floating up in the breeze. A fishing boat chugged out through the gap in the harbour wall, a pirate flag fluttering and its side painted with the sign,Bay Fishing Trips.She watched until the bright light made her eyes hurt.
She and Johnny had eaten her pasta and his garlic bread, drunk another bottle of wine and had fun. The evening had stayed sultry, so they’d returned to the garden and chatted and laughed until late. She’d been fascinated by his descriptions of living in some of the most exciting cities in the world and had giggled through his review of a particularly experimental version ofRomeo and Julietwhich he’d just seen at The Other Place theatre in Stratford.
Callie made a promise to book something. It had been ages since she’d seen any theatre and after all Stratford wasn’t too far from Worcester. It had been so late they’d left the clearing up to do this morning.
Feeling the beginnings of a hangover headache kicking in, she half hoped Johnny had got up early and done it. The last thing she wanted to face was the creamy pan she’d made carbonara in. Ferreting in her bag for aspirin and glugging back more water she began to feel slightly more human.
On her way back from the bathroom she heard her phone ring. Pouncing on it she saw, to her relief, it was her daughter.
‘Frida!’
‘Jeez, Mum, you don’t have to shriek.’
‘Sorry, love. It’s just so good to hear from you.’
