Love Falls by Esther Freud Read Free Book Online Page B

it Jane, or Sarah? I get them muddled up, but then the word came through – no, the quiet one – Diana.’
    Lambert stared into the picture in just the same way he might scrutinise a train crash or the aftermath of a bomb. ‘Quiet she doesn’t look. No, she’s going to be lively. I’m not sure they know quite what they’re letting themselves in for.’
    ‘The Royal Family? They arranged it?’ Lara was aghast.
    They both looked at her.
    ‘No,’ Caroline’s eyes were twinkling. ‘Charles’s girlfriend picked her out.’
    Lara was so shocked she chose not to believe her. Surely the whole reason Prince Charles had been unmarried for so long was that he couldn’t get a girlfriend! ‘But . . . if . . .’ she spluttered. ‘Why . . . I mean if he’s got a girlfriend why doesn’t he just marry her?’
    ‘She’s . . .’ Caroline looked at Lambert as if the truth might be too shocking for her seventeen-year-old ears. ‘She’s unsuitable.’
    Lara picked up ¡Hola! again and looked with more interest at the photos of Diana. No – she scanned each identical one – she could see it in the quiet confidence of her face, in the hopefulness of her smile, even in the hair that flopped over her face: Diana had no idea.
    That night Lara dreamt of Charles and his black Jamaican girlfriend searching for his trousers in her room. They giggled and flirted and made lustful, lascivious comments, somewhere between Ray Cooney and Macbeth, and she had to hide under the covers for fear they would fall on to her bed.
     
     
    The next morning they all drove into Siena. Caroline had an appointment with the doctor at ten. ‘I’ll meet you here in an hour or so.’ She indicated an outdoor café and moving delicately, clutching her handbag, she walked away.
    Lara stood on the edge of the Piazza del Campo and stared. They were in a medieval square, a circle really, surrounded by stone buildings, so tall and ancient they formed a shelter from the sun.
    ‘Is this where they have the horse race?’ she asked, and she stepped out from the coolness of the wall.
    The Piazza, like all of Siena, was built on a hill. It was in the shape of a half-moon, or of the sun setting, its rays spreading up towards them from the bottom of the slope. All around the edge of this half-moon was a strip of flattened concrete and at its highest end was a row of cafés, their tables and chairs shaded by umbrellas.
    Lara began to walk downhill, stepping between the people sitting on the ground, dodging children who ran, arms stretched, down the gullies of the rays. In every groove, between each dark-red brick, there was a scattering of confetti, and she imagined a whole spring and summer of wedding parties bursting out from some dark courtyard, followed by well-wishers, sprinkling them with shreds of colour.
    Above the rooftops, beyond the square, was a striped black-and-white tower. ‘The Duomo,’ Lambert told her. ‘It can’t be far away.’ Marking it with their eyes, they chose a lane that led off the Piazza.
    The lane was narrow, its high walls creating alleyways of cool, with shops like caves hidden entirely from the sun. There were delicatessens, their windows decorated with packets of pasta, curled and coiled, striped like candy, formed into multicoloured bows. There was dried fruit arranged in doorways, apricots so plump Lara could hardly resist, nuts and seeds and packets of dry biscuits made from almonds and vanilla sugar, just waiting to be softened in a cup of tea. There were tiers of handbags, just as beautifully arranged, and a pharmacy, its walls covered in gilt mirrors, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, its cabinets as ornate as a museum.
    By now they’d lost sight of the striped tower, and so they hurried on uphill until they came to another square, and found they were above it, that it had somehow swapped sides. They turned downhill, glancing into stone alleyways that sliced between tall buildings, their windows strung with washing,