Funny, really, how she had words to write for her characters and words for artists dead for hundreds of years but no words for herself. She blushed at how tongue-tied she’d been with Frederick Ashton. Her shyness—self-consciousness really—embarrassed her.
Camilla believed that for some reason her fate was to always be an outsider. She had felt different—had been different—from the rest of her family. Then, as a scholarship student from a working-class background, she’d been singular, distinct from the other girls at the convent school. Afterward, at college in America, she had felt unlike the Americans—who seemed somehow younger and more carefree than she. Now, living in Italy, although she’d made a few Italian friends and had certainly been passionate about her Italian lover, Gianfranco, she knew that, once again, she was different, an outsider. They all had the strong ties of family, of homes they had lived in for generations, of allegiances to the city in which they were born. Being an outsider had made her self-conscious and had helped her to write. In a way, it cleared her vision. But it certainly didn’t make for a warm and pleasant personal life.
Despite living alone she could never be totally lonely if she had a good book. Books spoke to her, more directly, more deeply, than most people did. Her greatest pleasure had been reading, and now she found that she could write as well. Not well, not really well, not as well as Beryl Bainbridge or Kay Gibbons or Anita Brookner, but well enough to entertain herself—and maybe others.
The secret she had discovered, known to all other writers, was that when she wrote she wasn’t lonely. It did more than just fill her mind and empty pages. It also seemed to be a communion, a communion between her feeling self and her observing self, a communion with her future reader—if there ever would be one.
Now, thinking of the publishing business, she realized that once again she was an outsider. How in the world would she manage to break into that elite group? Who in London did she know? Camilla was good at slogging and perseverance, but she was simply useless at putting herself forward, at pushing herself on anyone. What would she do now that she had finished her little book? In some secret part of her heart, she had written it hoping that it was a way out. Because she knew she had hit a dead end, here in sunny Italy. But what if the book was simply another dead end?
At noon she put the Forster away along with her dark thoughts and energetically walked out of the town and down to the plain below. She’d wanted both to escape her anxiety and to admire San Gimignano’s unique skyline—its crazy towers, so odd against the Tuscany backdrop. She ate a sandwich she’d brought with her, but it was unseasonably hot and she was thirsty. After picking a handful of irresistibly red poppies, she walked back up to the hill town and found a taverna in which to sit and drink white wine. She had to keep away that question, that feeling of fear that accompanied the thought “Now what?”
She didn’t want to eat much because of the dinner that evening, but she also didn’t want to get tipsy. After a second glass of wine, Camilla made her way back to the hotel, where she bathed and then, in the luxurious thoughtlessness of the wine’s embrace, slept through the rest of the afternoon. She awoke at a little after six and stretched, idly watching the light reflected on the ceiling. Then her mind turned to the immediate problem of what to wear.
Last night when Frederick Ashton had suggested dinner he said that they could “dress up a bit” to celebrate. But in fact, she had been wearing her best clothes yesterday evening.
She dressed in the other skirt she had with her and looked at herself in the glass. She smiled ruefully. You could take the girl out of the convent, but you couldn’t take the convent out of the girl. Mrs. Clapfish had sent Camilla to Sacred Heart rather than the local school simply because Lady Ann Beveridge had kindly arranged it. Once or twice, when Mrs. Clapfish had been called to the Beveridge home in an emergency, she had been forced to bring little Camilla, who was told “to sit very still and not touch nothing.” This Camilla did. She had been awed and enchanted by the proportions of those fine Georgian rooms. She loved the light that poured in and the sheen of the furniture. And Lady Ann noticed.
“She seems a bright child, if a bit quiet,” Lady Ann had said. “It would be a pity to have her bullied by the children from the council houses at school.” The fact that Camilla Was bullied by those same children at home—after all, they lived in council housing—seemed not to have occurred to Lady Ann. But she had sent a note to Sister Agnus, which was enough for Camilla to have been brought for an interview to the convent. From her first walk down the long stone entrance hallway, the convent had changed her life, and Camilla would always be grateful. Even at six years of age she had responded to the hush, to the light, and to the compelling beauty of the stone. The convent school, in all its peace, austerity, and magnificent organization, had given her something important.
But it had also separated her forever from the rest of her family. Because, although she was only a day girl and went home to chez Clapfish every night, once she had seen another way of being, she took to it. The uniform allowed her to gratefully lose herself among the other, wealthier, more confident students. And, if she applied herself, the nuns gave constant, if cool, approval, a commodity as lacking at home as order.
Of course she had been a bit of a joke, a curiosity. To start with, there was the name. Working-class girls in Birmingham were named Tracey or Sharon, not Hermione or Jemima or Camilla. Truth was, her mother had named her Camilla after one of Lady Ann’s dogs. The name was so clearly upper-class that its appearance in her humble family made it laughable. How many times had she seen a new sister eyeing the class register and raising her eyebrows as she came to what Sister Agnus had dryly called “the girl with the highly unlikely name of Camilla Clapfish.” Because of her background and patronage, she was expected to do well but not too well. On Visitors’ Day, when Camilla had won a prize. Lady Ann—an old girl—had raised her brows and told her she’d done very well “for a Clapfish out of water.” Everyone who heard her had laughed. Camilla had just shrugged and supposed she had.
Now, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she realized she looked the perfect postulant. Well, it would have to do. She left the hotel at exactly half-past seven, her hair still slightly damp. It took her only a few moments to get to the square, but once there, she was dismayed not to see Frederick anywhere about. She Would have to sit down, and that would wrinkle her skirt. Of course, she would have to do that at the restaurant, but by then he would have already seen her at her best, such as it was.
Dismayed, she lingered beside the well for a few self-conscious moments. How long could a girl stand beside a stone well and look interested? A thought chilled her. What if Frederick didn’t come? What if his mother had refused? A proper Gorgon, she was. What, Camilla asked herself, if she had wasted the whole day in silly anticipation of an evening that wasn’t even going to happen? And she didn’t have the dosh for a restaurant dinner. A blush heated her face. It was at that exact moment that Frederick tapped her on the shoulder.
“Do you need some money?”
She looked at him, startled. She knew Americans were much franker than the British, but it took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t reading her mind, nor was he quite as daft as to be inquiring into her bleak financial situation. He was only asking if she needed a coin to throw into the well! Wordlessly, she shook her head. Still, he handed her a coin.
“Well. Squander your lira,” he suggested. “Make a wish.”
Camilla looked into the well. I want my book published, she thought and dropped the coin. And maybe, someday, to own a great painting.
“Well done,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded and realized she hadn’t yet spoken a word. She was a wordless writer. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. I’m famished.”
“Great. I’m just the guy who knows just the place where they’ll serve just the meal you need.” And with that, he gently took her arm and led her across the square.
Perhaps his mother wasn’t going to join them. Camilla was glad, but while she would enjoy dinner more if she were alone with Frederick, she would also have to be more on her guard. After all, he was