The Italian Matchmaker by Santa Montefiore

from the earth with the medicinal smells of the wild herbs that grew among the long grasses. He took pleasure from the coming and going of the little blue boats as the fishermen went about their business. His skin soaked up the sun’s rays by the pool and he lost his city pallor. He slept more than he had in twenty years and his dreams grew less troubled until he no longer dreamed at all. He took twilight walks on the stony beach reached by a path that meandered down the hill from the palazzo. Crickets chirped in the undergrowth and the rustle of grass gave away the odd rabbit or snake. It felt good to be alone, blanketed by the night.
    He thought of Freya with a yearning for the comfortable and familiar, regret for what he had been too young and foolish to hold on to. He thought of Annabel and their soulless coupling, and the dull stream of similar meaningless encounters that blurred into a grey fog of pointlessness. He thought of Claire and the girls and how he had let them down.
    When he hadn’t been working, his life had been like a merry-go-round of glamorous parties, dinners in expensive restaurants, knocking back cocktails in fashionable clubs, weekends in Saint Tropez, waterskiing off fully-staffed yachts, skiing in the Swiss Alps, forging relationships on the fragile foundations of wealth and status. The merry-go-round had got faster and faster, louder and louder, until his divorce had brought it to a sudden, mortifying halt. In the quiet that followed he was at last able to stand back and examine his life. The extravagance and waste disgusted him. His friends had separated into two camps, those supporting Claire and those supporting him, but most just blew away to the next party like pretty petals on the wind. Picking up the children from school once a week was like running the gauntlet through a crowd of disapproving mothers and, to his shame, he recognised himself reflected in their eyes. Here in the silence of Incantellaria, he realised he didn’t want to be that man any more.
    It was early morning when he returned to his senses. He blinked and stood up stiffly. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. He stretched and felt the blood rush to his muscles. He stood, watching the sunrise. Its beauty filled his spirit with longing. He felt a tremendous desire to dig the soil with his hands, plant a seed and watch it grow – to create something tangible. Yet, he didn’t know how or where to start.
    When he returned to the palazzo his mother was doing yoga on the terrace. ‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ she asked, without moving from the lotus position. She was dressed in a long white shirt and white linen trousers, her feet bare, her scarlet toenails shocking against the serenity of her clothes.
    ‘I could ask you the same thing.’
    ‘I do yoga every morning before anyone gets up. It clears my head and settles my spirit. Ready for the day ahead.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t believe in that rubbish.’
    ‘It’s a form of exercise like any other.’
    ‘Not if you start levitating.’
    ‘I don’t think I’m likely to defy the force of gravity. I’m too earthly minded.’
    He laughed. ‘I’ve been down on the beach.’
    ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ she gushed. ‘Incantellaria is so magical. I never want to go back to dreary grey London.’
    ‘I can see why. You live in paradise, Mother.’
    ‘And it’s being photographed by the Sunday Times .’ She beamed with pride. ‘Leyton Hughes came for the weekend and fell in love. And you know what?’ Too distracted to continue her yoga she stood up, tossed the mat against the wall and took the chair next to her son. ‘Guess who’s going to photograph it?’
    ‘I don’t know, who?’
    She took a breath, articulating each syllable with relish. ‘Panfilo Pallavicini.’ Luca looked blank. ‘Darling, you don’t know who he is?’ She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘He’s the most famous interiors photographer in the whole