‘That’s the man,’ said Rosa, her pale eyes appraising him appreciatively. ‘Cosima said he was tall, dark and handsome.’ ‘I’m glad she noticed,’ said Alba. ‘It’s time she moved on. It’s been three years.’ ‘He’s gorgeous! If I wasn’t married . . .’ ‘The way you and Eugenio behave it’s a miracle you still are. You two fight like cats and dogs.’ ‘But the making up is so delicious,’ Rosa countered, with a smile. ‘Who’s he with, I wonder? His father?’ ‘The old man? He’s English. He’s been here before – from the palazzo.’ ‘You’d better serve them, Rosa. Don’t leave them to Fiero. I want details.’ Alba withdrew to the kitchen where Alfonso sweated over a cauldron of soup while his son, Romano, in a clean white apron and hat, chopped vegetables at the butcher’s block in the centre. She sat at a small wooden table in the corner and rubbed her forehead wearily. At fifty-six she was still beautiful. Her hair was lustrous, tumbling down her back in thick waves, her skin the colour of rich honey, though the bloom of youth had been replaced by a more worldly hue.
