Lucia on Holiday by Guy Fraser-Sampson

Author:Guy Fraser-Sampson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907642524
Publisher: Elliott & Thompson
Published: 2012-03-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Lucia arrived alone for lunch, Brabazon Lodge having departed to Milan for an important business meeting. As she entered the lounge she felt her social antennae beginning to vibrate. There was a strange air of expectancy about the place, a sort of pleasurable tension, she was sure of it. She sensed that somehow something was afoot, and her instincts rarely let her down.

She walked towards the terrace, and stumbled upon Georgie and Olga in conversation with a rather nondescript-looking man, whom she took for a bank manager, or perhaps a passed-over civil servant.

‘Oh good, there you are, Lucia,’ Georgie greeted her. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to go into lunch.’

‘Yes, I have passed a perfectly pleasant morning, thank you, Georgie,’ she said a little sharply.

‘Oh yes, well now,’ he replied, affecting to ignore the implied rebuke, ‘may I introduce maestro d’Annunzio?’

His eyes sparkled at her expectantly. He knew her penchant for rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.

‘Signora Pillson,’ d’Annunzio murmured, leaning over her hand. ‘A pleasure, madam.’

‘Very nice to meet you,’ Lucia said distractedly. ‘Olga, dear, I trust you had an enjoyable morning?’

This with a sharp glance at Georgie.

‘Yes, thank you, Lucia,’ Olga replied. ‘I do so enjoy flying.’

‘Flying?’ Lucia echoed. ‘Yes, I saw an aeroplane earlier. Don’t say that was you?’

‘I had the great honour of flying Miss Bracely to Como,’ d’Annunzio announced, handing Olga her wrap, which had been lying over the arm of her chair. ‘Shall we go in, ladies?’

Lucia noticed that Giuseppe bowed very low as they stepped outside on to the terrace, and the waiters scurried around in a most obsequious fashion. She wondered if Georgie had over-tipped the previous evening. Really, lira were so difficult; all those zeros taxed even her agile mind.

They sat down and Giuseppe handed them menus. Then, with a flourish, he presented the wine list to d’Annunzio and said ‘Altezza’.

Lucia’s ears pricked up and she gazed at d’Annunzio in some confusion.

‘Am I mistaken,’ she asked hesitantly, ‘or did Giuseppe just refer to you as Your Royal Highness?’

The great man waved a hand magnanimously, graciously, condescendingly.

‘The King made me a prince,’ he acknowledged, ‘but I rarely use the title. The name Gabriele d’Annunzio is honour enough for anyone to bear.’

‘Your name is familiar certainly, Your Highness,’ Lucia temporised, glancing meaningfully at Georgie. He detected her difficulty at once and rode to the rescue.

‘I should jolly well think so,’ he cut in. ‘Why, you hear his poetry when Olga sings those wonderful Tosti songs we love so much.’

‘Of course!’

Lucia smiled warmly and clasped her hands in joyful remembrance.

‘What an honour to meet the poet of “Ideale”. It has always been my favourite.’

This was true, since it also happened to be the only one she could remember. She viewed Tosti’s songs with some mistrust, partly because they were Italian and might for all she knew contain all sorts of vulgar references if only one could understand the words, and secondly because they were something which Olga and Georgie pursued together, and

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