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The pine clad Monte Castello hills stretched high above the sea where a Sunseeker and a few other boats of varying sizes lazily bobbed in the gentle swell. It was a hot summer. In the spring it had rained a lot but by mid June the sun burned down to such an extent that there’d been fires in the surrounding hills and in the distance you could see the blackened patches like the back of an enormous piebald. These hills that ran steeply down to the sea were luxuriant in greenery – the trees looked taller, more densely packed and the Ligurian coastline rolled away like a continuation of the sea. Only now the sea was flat, so flat that it didn’t look possible that it could ever rage and pound at the hills to create the mass of displaced rocks that littered the foot of the hills – which it did each winter with great ferocity.
      The Sunseeker was a Manhattan 52 class, undoubtedly a boat lover’s choice but one who was more concerned with the impression it gave about the owner rather than its nautical ability. It certainly looked a little out of place there amongst the other local boats with their peeling paint and stocky silhouettes, its sleek lines razor sharp against the randomness of the hills.
      The same could be said about Vincent. He cut a faintly unreal figure on deck in this overtly natural environment. There was something too sharp about him, the way he dressed, his boat, his entire demeanour. In his late thirties, there was something of a matinee idol about him. Smooth and manicured, he was very aware of himself but not in a foppish way – quite the opposite – there was an edge to him, he looked capable and you wouldn’t want to cross him. As he hosed down the diving deck at the stern of the Sunseeker, the water cannoned off in a huge arc of spray that in itself was as ostentatious as the boat…bigger and better than any other spray you might find that morning.
      Abruptly he turned the hose off and the silence in its wake was quite deafening. Only it wasn’t silence. It just seemed like it. The reality was there were a number of subliminal sounds that gently crept in - the distant hum of the cicadas on the hill, the water lapping lazily against the hulls and the mooring ropes creaking intermittently. It was the silence of a perfect summer’s day. You could almost hear the sun beating down relentlessly.
      On the fly deck Barbara sat reading. Unlike Vincent she was the real deal, the genuine article; there was no hint of the ersatz, the pretence of money, the aura of trying too hard. She just oozed a quiet sense of non ostentatious wealth, a wealth she was comfortable with and was used to. Mid forties, elegant and very stylish she sat upright on the white leather seats. In fact she was only pretending to read the book that lay on her lap, beneath her sun hat  she was watching Vincent on the lower deck as he carefully coiled up some rope.
      ‘Where were you last night?’
      It wasn’t exactly accusatory but neither was it a friendly marital inquiry like ‘Where did you put the keys?’ There was a pointed shimmer in the air as she spoke which wasn’t lost on Vincent.
      He didn’t turn but stopped coiling the rope for a split second – then resumed.
      ‘Oh you know…couldn’t sleep …went for a walk, checked the boat…that sort of stuff. Why…did I wake you?’
      ‘No, just worried about you that’s all.’
      That was true to a certain extent about her entire relationship with him. It was nothing new. She was always worried about him but not in a protective motherly way. No that was entirely reserved for their son Tim who was lying in the rubber Quicksilver tied to the stern, wearing shades and listening to his iPod like any other twelve year old. No, her ‘worries’ were more like a nagging unease that went back a long way to when she first met Vincent at a Charity Ball in London. An unease that stemmed from an unspoken truth that theirs was a marriage of convenience that neither of them had ever acknowledged but none the less was hovering above them like a host of Valkyries waiting for a moment to swoop down and claim them.
      At that time she had a kind of secular epiphany and realised that like a latter day Rip Van Winkle, every one and every thing had moved on - but her. She came from a hugely wealthy family, was thrown out of a string of the best schools in Europe for a variety of misdemeanours, mostly boy related. Her address book was packed with princes and playboys but she had woken up one day in a champagne haze to realise everyone else had got married, died or was languishing in some foreign jail. A wave of panic had hit her when she realised that like most women, even if they denied it vehemently, she wanted to have the one thing that money couldn’t necessarily buy - a child. But this was exactly what she did although she couldn’t even admit it to herself …she bought one - or to be precise, she bought Vincent. It wasn’t a great romance for either of them and both of them knew it deep down. But the timing was right for both of them and for her, Vincent fitted the bill... He was charming and handsome but she knew the nature of the beast. Oh yes she recognised it straight away. Vincent was a hustler of sorts. He had no money and a string of failed businesses to his name. She had what he craved, money, and he could give her the child she wanted. That’s not to say there wasn’t an element of passion, of affection, of mutual respect but umbrella’d by an unspoken understanding, a guilty secret, they both were aware of, that it suited both of them and the timing was perfect.
      ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’ he said, his back to her.
      Oh but she did, and it was entirely selfish. She really worried for herself. Theirs was a marriage resting on gossamer thin foundations. She knew he was a womaniser when she met him and every time she had suspected him she had been furious to experience an unfamiliar sensation - jealousy. Did that mean she cared? Of course she did. But was it tinged with humiliation? She, who had partied around Europe and had the ‘best’ fall at her feet, she who had broken the hearts of playboys and movie stars…was jealous of, let’s face it, a second division lothario who wouldn’t have even made it to the front door of the clubs and parties she frequented. Yes she cared but the true emotion she kept vigorously locked away deep in a place even she could scarcely bare to visit, an emotion too hideous to confront face on was…shame.
      Vincent knew he was being scrutinised, he always did. He felt her gaze burning into the back of his head. It irritated him - made him feel like some animal in a cage, some experiment of hers. The overall emotion he felt coming from her was disappointment. How patronising was that? OK she could have done better. He knew he wasn’t the greatest catch especially in her circles but lets face it those others…the types he had met briefly with her, those useless silver tongued playboys propped up with money they didn’t earn, those euro trash sycophants and sly-eyed crooks, those fifth rate royals and failed movie producers…well, THEY WEREN’T FUCKING INTERESTED . No, she was past her sell by date even he could tell that. Her money was of no interest to them and though undoubtedly an attractive woman if breeding was on the agenda or even marriage, they wanted a much younger model. He on the other hand was willing to accommodate as long as his creditors were paid off and he could live a life he’d always wanted and let’s not be too mercenary here, she was attractive, he was attracted to her (and her lifestyle) and they had produced their beautiful son. There was a lot she didn’t know about him, there were secrets she must never discover but, to a certain degree, wasn’t that like most couples? There was another Vincent that existed long before she came along, a Vincent that with all her perception and female intuition, she wouldn’t recognise, a Vincent that was cut from an entirely different cloth…he shivered, even in the heat, as these thoughts briefly surfaced like unwanted effluence in a swimming pool.

* * *

It was a living hell of frayed tempers and nervous resignation in Dante esque proportions, who would have rewritten Inferno if he’d seen it, immediately understanding the misery, the hopelessness, the sheer horror of mans predicament in an airport. There was no need for rivers of blood here - in fact they would have been welcomed as light relief amongst the doomed and trapped. Lines of holiday makers snaked back through the departure hall. Trolleys, bags and screaming children littered the spaces between them. There was an atmosphere of barely controlled hostility but worse than that an almost tangible feeling of insular self interest. People would be quite prepared to lie and cheat their way to the front of a line with not a care for their fellow man. Eyes flashed with an unspoken understanding that there was no ‘love thy neighbour’ here. It was dog eat dog, all knew the game and understood that the civilised rule book had been torn up.
      Bobby was musing on this concept of mankind as he shuffled slowly in the line making its way towards the Alitalia check in desk. He, unlike the majority of his fellow travellers, was oblivious to the discomfort of his predicament. True his wife Paula was staunchly keeping his children under control, which wasn’t easy as James who was four kept wanting to wander off and fought bitterly for his right to do so and Lee being twelve and the eldest, who should have been lending his support, was in fact amusing himself by punching James on the arm when he thought no-one was watching. No, Bobby’s mind was elsewhere and anyway he wasn’t the disciplinarian type of parent. He was always faintly amused by their appalling behaviour which Paula put down to weakness but was in fact a genuine fascination in his children whether they were being good or, in this case, bad. His mind was elsewhere because he was in deep trouble and this holiday could not have come at a worse time. He was almost suffocated with worry and paralysed with fear for their future. He was thirty seven and a serial failure – or that’s how he imagined he was perceived. He struggled each year to keep his business, a small design company, afloat. He re-financed time and time again to no avail. The Bank was going to foreclose on him unless he could show new clients and a new strategy for the forthcoming year. But it was hard. Thanks to the internet he was now competing in a world market which was great only it meant he was competing with thousands of similar companies around the world for the same job, companies with lower overheads, better rates and younger more dynamic personnel. He had a partner but he had family money. If it went down it wouldn’t affect his lifestyle – it would be an inconvenience that would be all. But for Bobby it would mean the end…of everything. He had nothing but admiration for Paula sticking by him at this time as he knew it was hard for her. He also knew that his gratefulness was a weakness and drove her mad. But she had stuck with him over the years, she a vivacious, glamorous ex actress who had given up her career for domesticity and children and him a slightly crumpled, bookish, invisible sort of man; the sort of man that after meeting you wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd of one. Well that’s what he believed anyway. But that was another of his problems, he was too hard on himself, too self deprecating. Paula had been attracted to the very traits he despised in himself. She saw an eminently kind, gentle man who thought about others more than himself. For her this was so different to the actors and producers she was used to mixing with. Their egos were so large that she found them deeply unattractive, their self obsession revolting. She worried that she too was becoming like them, she was catching it like a disease. She had felt she was losing her grip on humanity and the emotions that went with it, empathy, sympathy, warmth and even love for another human being. Bobby was her salvation although he didn’t know it, her re-entry to the human race which she would always be grateful for and always love him for. But that didn’t negate her frustration with his passive acceptance of what life threw at him. She wished he was more forthright and would take control sometimes but deep down she knew he never would and that she probably wouldn’t like him anyway if he was.
      Bobby’s phone rang.
      ‘Yeah… Ken…no we’re about to check in…hold on I’ve got them here.’
      He started to rummage in his pockets as the line neared the desk. Paula looked at him exasperated. She picked James up who wriggled and fought this unexpected imprisonment as they finally reached the desk, enraged not only because his mobility has been curtailed but also because his brother repeatedly flicked him on the ear when he thought no-one was looking.
      Bobby pulled out some papers.
      ‘OK it’s Andersons on….Oh you’ve got the number…look the legal people always drag their heels, you know that but it’s a chance…the only chance I’ve…we’ve got…I don’t see how we’ve got a choice.’
      The line behind them began to get restless as they realised, sensed there was going to be a hold up - kids, dad on the phone, no tickets or passports in view – they knew the signs and this didn’t look good. Paula had enough. She swung round to him.
      ‘For Gods sake, get off the bloody phone and find the tickets and passports.’
      The girl at the desk was bored; she’d seen it all before. She sighed and braced herself for a domestic. She’d been trained how to deal with it but she wasn’t in the mood this morning. She turned to speak with a colleague.
      Bobby began another assault on his pockets.
      ‘Ken, I’ll call you back.’ He turned to Paula.
      ‘This is important, I can’t just…’
      ‘So is this Bobby…this is important. The kids have been looking forward…’
      She spun around to face Lee just as he flicked James ear for the hundredth time.
      ‘WILL YOU STOP DOING THAT!’
      She shook her head. It was obviously a conversation they’d had before and she couldn’t be bothered to carry on with it.
      Bobby delved deeper into his pockets then triumphantly pulled out the tickets and slapped them down on the desk. The check in girl sighed again. She had settled in for the long hall and in a perverse way was quite looking forward to a drama at her desk: the line getting more frustrated and angry as this particular customer went into meltdown….but it wasn’t to be…he was back on track. They heaved the luggage onto the weigh in and she was faintly disappointed even then to see that all was under the legal weight.
      ‘Gate 28,’ she smiled all teeth no eyes and handed back the passports and tickets. ‘But you’d better hurry as the gate’s closing in twenty minutes.’
      As a parting shot this was her consolation prize and she luxuriated for a few seconds in the look of panic she had imbued in this man, but it was fleeting. She looked over his shoulder to the next in line.
      ‘Tickets and passport please.’

 

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