Under Italian Skies

by Nicky Pellegrino

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Stella has life under control - and that's the way she likes it. For twenty-five years, she's been trusted assistant to a legendary fashion designer, but after her boss dies suddenly, she's left with nothing to do apart from clear the studio.

It seems as though the life she wanted has vanished. She is lost - until one day she finds a house swap website and sees a beautiful old villa in a southern Italian village. Could she really exchange her poky London flat for that?

But what was intended as just a break becomes much more, as Stella finds herself trying on a stranger's life. As the villa begins to get under her skin, she can't help but imagine the owner from the clues around her. She meets his friends, cooks the local food he recommends and follows suggestions to go to his favourite places. But can an idea of someone ever match up to the reality?

As Stella wonders if she can let go of the safety of her past, perhaps there's a chance for her to find a way into her future...

Read by Jane McDowell

Release date: April 7, 2016

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 304

Sample

Beginning with an ending



It was the old order books that were Stella’s undoing. Shelves of them, neatly stacked, right at the back of the storeroom. She had known they were there of course but it was years since she had bothered to take a look, never mind open one. She did so now and saw her own handwriting, rounder and better formed than it was nowadays, less rushed.

There were orders for pleated fabrics from Maison Lognon in Paris, for fine cashmeres and printed Liberty silks, for jacquard jersey knits in deep blues and heather-toned purples, for soft leathers and supple suedes. Stella flicked through the pages and started to cry.

The tears took her entirely by surprise. Until then she had held firm and stayed dry-eyed. All through Milly’s short but brutal illness she’d managed to keep going. Even when she’d had to announce the designer’s death to the other staff and break the news that the business was to close. Every day since then, coming into the office to empty it out, closing accounts, packing up boxes, sending the last archive pieces of clothing to fashion museums – it was dispiriting work but it hadn’t made Stella cry. Not once.

Now, though, all alone in a half-bare storeroom, she sat down on the floor, leaned back against the shelves, dropped her head into her hands and fell apart. Big, wrenching sobs shook her whole body. The more she cried, the more she felt as if she might never stop.

Those order books held the history of Stella’s life. And that life was over.

Soon her cheeks were drenched, her mascara running. Grateful no one else was in the office to witness the state she was in, she struggled to pull herself together. She wasn’t going to deal with this today. The order books would have to be thrown away but better to leave it until she felt less emotional. Right now she would make herself a cup of tea instead.

Stella wondered if her hormones were playing up. Perhaps this was the beginning of an early menopause. There seemed no other reason why a bunch of order books, some a quarter of a century old, should have such a calamitous effect on her.

As she boiled the kettle and rinsed her cup, Stella thought about how young she had been when she had written so carefully in their pages. Life was still shiny and new then, and a little scary too. Coming here to work as Milly Munro’s assistant, part of the fashion world at long last, she had been desperate to impress, so keen to do well.

What a lovely boss Milly had turned out to be, appreciative and generous, always interested to hear Stella’s opinion of a new design for a suit or a little black dress. Milly used to perch on her desk, her grey hair cut into a sharp bob, her mouth a slash of darkest red lipstick, wearing one of her own creations, something plain, slimline and perfectly tailored. Stella would pin up the sketches of each new collection on the large corkboard and together she, Milly and the rest of the small team would examine each one, talk about fabric and fit, discuss what sort of women would wear those skirts and jackets, those gorgeously draped dresses, whether they would be able to run for a London bus in them, sit at a desk, pick up a child.

‘These are clothes to live, work and love in,’ Milly often said. It was her motto, really. One day Stella had printed it out and pinned it on the wall as a constant reminder to everyone. Now it was the only thing left up there.

Sadly there would be no more collections of beautifully cut clothes. They were finished, the corkboard was bare and the walls too; the desks had been cleared out.

Stella kept wondering if her boss had suspected she was ill. All through that last year, although she worked as hard as ever, she seemed a muted version of herself. It was obvious she was losing weight; those outfits that had fitted so perfectly began to hang off her. Now and then she complained of a stomach ache or back pain. Stella urged her to see her GP but Milly had resisted, claiming she was too busy, saying she was fine and everyone should stop fussing.

In the end Stella had been so worried she had made the doctor’s appointment herself and insisted Milly keep it. The diagnosis when it came was devastating. Pancreatic cancer. By then things were pretty far gone and although Milly tried to keep working it wasn’t long before she was forced to give up coming into the office. For a while Stella had gone to her home in Kensington every morning to take down lists of instructions and watch Milly become jaundiced and then fade away.

In her will she had been very definite about the future of the business. It wasn’t to continue without her, some other person at the helm. She was Milly Munro, her designs were her style and the label would die with her. Stella thought it had been the right thing to do. That was the only thing she was sure of.

She had been working in this office for so long she knew every line of the building, every windowsill, every crack in the ceiling. It was extraordinary to think that someday soon she would lock the door behind her one last time and never come back. Where would she go? What would she do? Stella had no idea.

She knew what she didn’t want – to be someone’s dogsbody, making coffee and running errands, not trusted with anything important. And even if she were offered a job working for a designer she respected it wouldn’t be the same. No, Stella believed she had to reinvent herself. Do something completely different.

Eking out the whole sorry business of closing down the office had kept her occupied for a while. But those order books were almost the last of it. Once they had been cleared out and a few more things tidied up, Stella couldn’t justify being here any longer.

She was lucky that money wasn’t an issue. A couple of the other girls had been in such a panic about finding new jobs. But Stella had done OK out of her divorce and later, when her parents died, as an only child she inherited all they had. So there was no mortgage to worry about and she had some savings. In fact, if she was frugal she might be able to retire early; but the idea seemed ridiculous.

Forty-nine wasn’t old any more, was it? That was what she kept reading in women’s magazines. And besides, she didn’t feel old. Yes, the chestnut colour of her hair was courtesy of L’Oréal these days and the smearing on of night creams and serums had become quite a process. But Stella still looked in decent shape. One of the few benefits of not having children was that she hadn’t gone flabby around the middle, nor been subjected to sleepless nights to leave her puffy-eyed. She had been careful with her pale skin in the sun, had eaten well and exercised. Looking after herself had paid off; she hoped so anyway.

Forty-nine was young enough to start a new career, to see the world, or fall in love again; it meant she had a past but there were still enough good years ahead, or so everyone kept telling her. Lately Stella’s future seemed to have been discussed endlessly over cups of tea and glasses of chardonnay. All her friends pitched in with ideas but most of them seemed impractical. Start your own business, suggested one, or launch your own fashion label. Open a boutique said another, become a personal shopper, a stylist. Retrain as a florist or a make-up artist. Teach English as a foreign language. There was no shortage of ideas. Stella was lukewarm about every one. In fact, she almost resented them.

It had been Lisa, the junior assistant at Milly Munro Fashion, who had said the only thing she had been intrigued by.

‘Why not have a gap year?’

‘A gap year? Isn’t it a bit late for that?’

‘I don’t see why. My gap year was the best time ever. I travelled, got into my photography and tried all sorts of new things. I’d love the chance to take another. Wouldn’t you?’

‘I never took one in the first place,’ Stella had admitted.

‘Well then, now is your chance.’

A gap year? What was it young people did on them? Went backpacking, she supposed, worked on a kibbutz or volunteered on a charity project in a developing country. Stella wished she felt bold enough.

This office had been the place she belonged, this room with the heavy sash windows covered in blistering paint, filled with messy piles of fabric swatches and the chatter of other women. Stella knew it was unusual to stay in a job for such a long time but she had never wanted to leave; she still didn’t.

Of course, the person she really longed to talk things through with was Milly. In the old days if something was bothering her they would have lunch at the Italian place, the one that was always their favourite. Usually Stella ordered the spaghetti with clams, Milly the chicken salad and if it was a Friday perhaps a couple of glasses of wine. And Milly listened … she was good at listening.

Stella wanted to tell her how sad she was every morning when she opened the office door and didn’t find Milly there, already at her desk, tip-tapping on her laptop. She needed her to know she was angry that she hadn’t seen a doctor sooner, when perhaps the cancer might have been caught before it spread so far. To hear about the sympathy notes from long-time clients and the distressed emails, how tough it had been to read them all and draft the right sort of replies. Most of all she wanted to hear Milly’s husky voice telling her what she needed her to do, just like she had every single Monday to Friday, and occasionally weekends, for the past busy, happy twenty-five years.

In the kitchenette Stella poured boiling water on the teabag, added milk, then changed her mind and tipped the whole lot down the sink. It was lunchtime after all. She would go to their favourite Italian place and enjoy a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. She would do it on her own. Surely she was bold enough for that.

The maître d’ there was an ancient Italian guy called Frederico who had always made a fuss of them. Stella had never been without Milly and was dreading explaining her absence. Putting on her jacket, she checked her face in her compact. Her eyes still seemed puffy from the storm of tears but once she had fixed her make-up they looked much better.

The restaurant was just round the corner and, walking there, Stella found herself cheered by the thought of sitting at one of the familiar tables and looking through a menu she had read at least a hundred times. However, the instant she walked through the door she saw that the place was different now. The décor had been changed, the starched white tablecloths had gone and the far wall had been covered in blackboard paint that was scrawled over brightly in chalk.

Thankfully it was still the same old guy who greeted her at the door.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Stella. ‘Has it changed hands?’

‘No, no, it is still in the family,’ he reassured her, his accent resoundingly Italian although she was sure he had lived in London for years and years.

‘But nothing seems the same,’ she said.

He threw up his hands. ‘The young people are never happy to stand still. Always they are wanting to move with the times, even here in Little Italy. And so you see no proper menu any more, just this blackboard.’

Stella squinted at it. ‘Do you still have the spaghetti with clams?’

‘For you, signora, yes. I will tell the kitchen and they will make it for you.’

‘But is it not on the menu any more?’

‘We are all very casual here now, very relaxed. We serve you small plates filled with meatballs, seafood or crostini, Venetian food, snacks to share.’ The old man’s mouth turned down. ‘I heard about your friend, signora. Such a sad loss and I am very sorry. For you there will always be spaghetti with clams. And today a glass of something special to toast her memory.’

He brought a glass of a chilled sparkling red wine that she sipped carefully and thought delicious. Still Stella couldn’t get over feeling slightly rattled by the way the place had altered. In her opinion nothing was wrong with how it used to be.

Not that it mattered, really. Once the office was closed she was unlikely to come back here. It was just another part of her old life that was disappearing.

She enjoyed her spaghetti as much as always. The briny juices of the clams, the hit of chilli flakes, the tang of olive oil and white wine – at least the flavours were exactly as she remembered. Comfort food, she supposed it was. And right now Stella needed comfort.

Where would she be a month from now? Stella had never had a plan B. It had seemed enough, her life; it had seemed perfectly good.

A gap year. Stella pondered the idea as she finished her food. Why should they only be for students, anyway? Perhaps taking one was exactly what she needed to recharge. Then she remembered all those order books, relics of the past that for some reason she had chosen to keep. Really they ought to have been thrown out years ago when they had made the switch to computers. Stella put down her fork, dabbed her mouth with the paper serviette that had replaced the usual starched napkin and waved at Frederico to bring the bill. It was time to make a start.











Time running wild

Everything changes, doesn’t it? That is what Stella kept reminding herself when she woke in the morning bright and early as always, even though she no longer bothered to set her alarm clock. Nothing stays the same. People die or move on, relationships break up, businesses close or are modernised, jobs are lost and there is nothing you can do so you might as well accept it. Stella told herself this, sitting up in bed with her first coffee of the morning, as she wondered how to occupy the day.

It was three weeks since she had walked out the door of Milly Munro Fashion for the final time clutching a few mementos – an offcut of a fabric she loved, one of the old order books, Milly’s own tape measure – so worn it was almost illegible in parts – a few of her sketches and a magazine cover featuring one of her most iconic designs.

Stella carried these things back to her small mews flat and found places for them, then there was nothing else to do, nothing at all.

She tried to fill her time. The first week she painted the living-room walls in a pale duck-egg blue, hated it and repainted them plain white again. The second week she threw a cocktail party and made ridiculously elaborate drinks that involved much researching of recipes and scouring for ingredients. The third week she decided she really had to start job-hunting, only she didn’t and instead took long rambling walks round London, discovering hidden-away places she hadn’t known existed, stopping for sweet treats and cups of tea, and trying not to notice how everyone else seemed to have somewhere to go, someone to meet.

Now it was the Monday of week four and Stella had stopped pretending to herself that she wasn’t despondent. She stayed beneath the duvet in the curtained half-light of her bedroom, sipping milky coffee. She didn’t even have a cat – that is how empty her life was. Funny, but she had never thought so before.

To Stella time felt like some wild thing she needed to corral and tame. It raced ahead of her, writhing and bucking, and she stayed motionless in bed, half afraid of it.

Simply getting up and taking a shower felt like a triumph. It was late morning by the time she was dressed and had put on a little make-up. That was one of the things she had promised herself she wouldn’t do: lie around all day in a bathrobe, with messy hair and a shiny face, giving herself a fright every time she happened to catch her reflection in the mirror. So she slipped on one of Milly’s designs, a sample dress she had been given. It was plain black, with off-centre buttons and a shirt collar, and Stella felt a little more businesslike whenever she wore it. This was a dress that demanded some sort of activity. If only there was an errand to run or an appointment she had to keep.

Her friends were all at work and Stella was wary of bothering them. Hadn’t she always been impatient at being interrupted by someone just for a chat when she was in the middle of a busy day? There was only one person she thought might welcome the distraction. Her very best friend Nicky Bird, otherwise known as Birdie, was working as a sales rep for a magazine publisher and liked to escape the place and complain how tough it was whenever she had the chance.

Stella texted her, Free for lunch?

The reply pinged straight back, Not really but let’s do it anyway!

They met in a little place on Beak Street. It was part of a chain but did good sandwiches on crusty sourdough and decent coffee. Birdie was already there when she arrived and had saved her a stool by the window.

‘I’m so envious of you being able to flit about catching up with friends instead of imprisoned in an office all day like me,’ Birdie said the minute she joined her.

Stella didn’t tell her that freedom wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, because she knew it wasn’t what her friend wanted to hear.

‘So tell me, what have you been up to? How’s the job-hunting going?’ Birdie asked once she had spent the requisite ten minutes complaining about how impossible work was, how difficult her clients and unreasonable her sales targets.

‘I haven’t even got started yet,’ Stella confessed. ‘I’ve just been mooching round.’

‘Oh well, you can afford to take a little time off, can’t you? May as well enjoy it.’

‘Mmm,’ Stella agreed.

Birdie looked at her, eyes narrowing. ‘What do you mean by “mmm”?’

Stella shrugged. ‘The thing is, I’m not enjoying it.’

‘Really?’ Birdie sounded incredulous.

‘It’s not like being on holiday and relishing the time you have off because you know it’s limited. I have no plans, none at all.’

‘Well make some,’ Birdie said. ‘Book a trip. Go somewhere amazing that you’ve always wanted to see. Angkor Wat? Petra? Have an adventure.’

‘I’d love to but not on my own. It wouldn’t be the same.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Birdie conceded. ‘You know I’d love to come but my credit cards couldn’t take the strain right now.’

Stella considered offering to pay for the flights and accommodation but didn’t want to seem like she was flashing money around. And actually she had never told Birdie how much she had stowed away in stocks and shares. She was private about that kind of thing, just like her parents had been.

‘Someone suggested I should take a gap year,’ she said, just as Birdie bit into her sandwich. ‘Like a student, you know, but an adult one. Apparently it’s a thing now. I googled it.’

‘An adult gap year?’ Birdie said, swallowing her mouthful. ‘Really? What are you supposed to do on it?’

‘All sorts of things – voluntary work, learn new skills. There are loads of programmes and expeditions to choose from. I came across one in Ghana helping in an orphanage and another where you work on a building project in some poverty-stricken village without any electricity or running water.’

Birdie looked dubious. ‘Would you do that on your own? It sounds a bit awful.’

‘You’re supported by the organisation that sets it all up so it might be OK.’

‘But have you ever built anything in your life? And an orphanage … you’d fall in love with half the children … it would break your heart.’

‘Probably,’ Stella agreed. ‘That’s not a reason not to try it though. Surely it’s better than staying here with no idea what to do with myself.’

Birdie stared out at the lunchtime crowds pushing their way down Beak Street’s narrow pavements and she frowned. ‘If I had the time and money to escape from all this then what I’d do is go and live in another country for a while and really immerse myself in the culture. I’d choose somewhere beautiful like Paris or Rome, or maybe a smaller town because it might be easier to meet people. And I’d sign up to a language school – yes, I would. That would be me.’

‘So would you stay in the same place the whole time?’ Stella was intrigued by the idea.

‘Yes, I’d rent an apartment, or if I had a nice flat like yours maybe I’d do a house swap. That way I’d really be living like a local.’

‘I don’t know if my flat’s really all that nice,’ said Stella. ‘It’s tiny.’

‘What do you mean? It’s in such a cute little mews and it’s so central. Visitors would love it.’

From the outside Stella’s place didn’t look like much, just a plain brick building in a narrow cobbled lane in Camden. But at the back it had French windows that opened onto a tiny courtyard and she had stripped the floors back to palest pine and kept things bright and airy so the pokiness of the rooms wasn’t too obvious.

‘Perhaps I could try something like that,’ she wondered.

‘You should look into it at least,’ Birdie urged her. ‘There are websites, I should think.’



Stella was feeling a little more upbeat as the Northern Line train rattled her towards home. After stopping at the Inverness Street market to pick up some salad for dinner, she hurried back. The afternoon wasn’t quite warm enough to open the French doors but she did it anyway and sat on the sofa, laptop on her knee, sunlight dappling the walls, and thought her flat might be nice enough after all.

There were so many websites to explore. Stella picked one to start with then made her way through the rest methodically, taking notes as she went. Soon she realised there was quite a lot to it. The home-exchange companies suggested getting your place professionally photographed, then you had to write about yourself and the neighbourhood, and possibly even make a short video. One site encouraged her to link to her Facebook page so potential swappers could learn even more about her.

Stella didn’t have a Facebook page. She had always been slightly scornful about them, maintaining they were for people without enough to do. But now she actually was one of those people, she might as well see what was involved. Facebook sidetracked Stella for ages. It was more fun than she might have imagined making a profile and posting pictures, then finding long-lost friends. The room was darkening and chilly by the time she looked up from her screen.

She stood and stretched, then turned on some lights and went to her small kitchen to put together a quick salad. As she chopped vegetables and whisked together vinaigrette, she thought about a stranger living in her space and what they might think, and what they might do. Would they prefer to shop at the market like she did instead of going to the big Sainsbury’s? Would they love the flamenco nights at her old favourite Bar Gansa and drop in to eat Padron peppers and tomato bread? More importantly, would they be tidy or mess up her place? Would they keep the pots in the courtyard watered in a dry spell and double-lock the front door when they went out? It seemed a huge risk to leave some person she had never met in charge of the most valuable thing she owned. Still, Stella thought it worth exploring a little further. There were lots of websites after all, and so many people seemed to be signed up to them; surely it had to be OK?

When she had finished eating she texted Birdie. I think you may be on to something.

Two minutes later a reply came back. Oh my God, are you really going to do it?



The moment she woke Stella checked Facebook to see who had accepted her friend requests. Then she spent half an hour catching up with what everyone had been doing before forcing herself to set the screen aside and make some coffee. She was beginning to see how this might be addictive.

After breakfast she had another trawl through the home-swap sites. She still wasn’t ready to commit but was definitely warming to the prospect. In the meantime there were things to do – drafting a profile and considering how best to describe her neighbourhood, fluffing up the flat so it looked good in pictures and deciding who would shoot them. Stella was busy again; she felt as if she had a purpose.

First she walked through her home trying to look at each room through a critical stranger’s eyes. When she bo. . .