Crossing the line - 26. Ercole Redux

My phone pinged and I looked at it, a message from Dan ‘Check your email!’ When working I often turned email off, or switched off the Wi-Fi, so that there were fewer distractions. Checking now, I found that there was an email from an address I did not recognise, with the title ‘Vacanza in Inghilterra’. It was from Ercole, from his business email address. He was coming to London next week for a conference and was planning a few extra days here, were we around and could he come to stay?

There was no mention of the late, late notice, and Dan cynically suggested that Ercole had worked his way down a list of potential friends. I was inclined to agree. I phoned him, it was going to be easier to work things out.

“Hi, so what do you reckon, are we free?”

Dan laughed, “We could be. Thing is, does he just want to stay or is he expecting to get fringe benefits too?”

“Oh, definitely the latter. And I’m certainly not hosting him unless you are there.”

“You mean, you need a chaperone?”

I answered in my best Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara impression.

Dan, however, did not sound very impressed, “I can be around. Nothing major happening that weekend, what about you?”

“A couple of exhibitions and a deadline for some copy. I could cope, the exhibitions could slip a bit, I’d just have to be organised.”

“Thing is, where would he sleep? I’m certainly not spending the weekend à trois in your bed, it’d do me back in for one thing.”

“Ah, so romantic. The little sofa in the library converts to an OK bed. When Mother makes one of her occasional state visits, I sleep there, and she uses my bedroom. It would be tight for two, so Ercole could sleep there. We’d have to move all the clutter and shut the doors between the library and my study.”

“There’s one other thing.” Dan’s voice had taken on a severe tone.

“What?”

“He’d better not bring us a present or anything.”

“Present. Oh, the last night? White powder.”

“Yeah. Precisely.”

“No question. What do you think?”

“Head it off dead on, knock it on the head.”

I ended up phoning Ercole, it seemed easier to arrange things, and besides I hardly liked to email saying please no illegal drugs. I’d barely got through my circumlocution about his hospitality the last night we were at the Villa, when he apologised profusely, said that Mamma had chastised him for forgetting that Dan was a former policeman and that we would have nothing to worry about. Phew. Though as Dan pointed out when I recounted the conversation to him, that didn’t mean Ercole wasn’t bringing stuff into the country, just not into our house.

His conference was in Watford of all places, but I suppose one modern hotel is much like another. I sorted out a route on Google Maps and emailed it to him. He would arrive late on the Friday evening.

We’d been to an evening showing of an exhibition of new Iranian art. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to write about it, so was pretty poor company as we walked home. But it was a companionable silence, Dan even held my hand for a bit, as he commented on cars, driving standards (lack thereof) and gardens. We were on our second drink at home when Ercole appeared. Charming as ever. Clearly ‘happy’, after post-conference drinks, he said he was tired, gave each of us a sloppy kiss and a grope (clearly a kiss and a promise) then retired. Dan looked at me and we laughed. So much for the idea of something à trois! We retired upstairs and fell asleep delightfully cuddled together, à deux.

Next morning, Dan and I were sitting over coffee, radio silent, wondering when Ercole would surface. I had been working on my laptop in the kitchen when Dan had woken up. I was in a good mood; the Iranian question had, I think, been solved. Suddenly, we heard movement, the patter of feet, the toilet flushing, and then Ercole appeared. Tousle headed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, rather sexy and entirely naked.

“Well, there’s bold”, Dan mouthed it, but it was clear he was amused, and the corners of his mouth twitched; I had to look away otherwise we’d both burst into laughter.

Ercole, however, was well worth looking at, slim and trim, not excessively hairy and fairly well endowed. Entirely at ease with being naked, at no point did he ask if this was OK, were we comfortable with it. I got him some coffee and by the time I turned to give it to him, he had got Dan’s cotton pants round his ankles. Ercole gave me a grin and well, why not?

Breakfast was late!

--oOo—oOo—

To my surprise, Ercole had no plans, no list of people to see. After a breakfast so late it was brunch, we took ourselves off to the new exhibition at Tate Modern, sort of work and pleasure. We walked part of the way, showing Ercole what was fast becoming Our London.

“You walk much?”

“Quite a lot, yes. When I first knew him, Dan moaned that his new job was more sedentary”, (there was a pause to explain the word, though in fact the Italian was very similar once Ercole got his head around the rather different English pronunciation), “so we started walking. It’s possible to walk from my house to the centre of London, but usually we do a bit of walking and a bit of bus.”

“You don’t drive?”

“Dan drives to work, and my car sits outside the house. Too expensive to drive into London now, with the congestion charge, and parking is hell.”

Ercole laughed, admitting that he could not be without his car and that walking any great distance was anathema. His parents were the same, the doctor had told both Mamma and Papa to walk more but they did not. Walking around the garden at the Villa was the extent of their exercise. Ercole, it seemed, was a gym bunny, he might not walk for pleasure, but he’d run and more in a pointless way at the gym.

We parted in the Museum, leaving Ercole with a map to go exploring and we went to the exhibition. Saturday afternoon is not the best time and we skimped it. There were too many people crowding round too few exhibits, and we retired to a profoundly unpopular section of the galleries exploring aspects of conceptual art. We had a great running argument about the works and about the concepts behind them; good natured yet strongly meant. Dan’s ideas were coloured by his reading, his sense of history; all those books of Father’s that I’d begun but never finished. It made me think; I hadn’t received a classic academic training, but I had dutifully read texts and background material. Perhaps, I was the one constrained by my training. I could feel an article stirring.

By the time Ercole found us in the Friends Room, I was making notes. Ercole and Dan went off to look at the view (stupendous, of course). Over tea and cake, we first discussed what Ercole had seen, but polite as ever he asked about the exhibition. Then we talked about the evening; what to do?

When Ercole said that he had no plans, Dan laughed and commented that Ercole would be the type of guy to have a friend in every port. He had taken the comment well, smiled and commented that for friend, Dan meant bed. Dan had coloured but agreed. Ercole admitted that usually he did, but that London was different. Papa worked here and they met people from London. Too many times Papa had become annoyed that Ercole was flirting (or more) with men who were important contacts of Papa’s. Ercole looked at us, sideways,

“You know him, Francis Heyward.”

I smiled, “I’m not surprised, his eyes are everywhere and…” I shrugged.

Ercole laughed, “Not just his eyes, his hands on my rear and more. Papa was annoyed. I had led him on! He was an important man, not some fun for the evening. Why cannot he be both, I wonder, but Papa does not understand. You know Francis well?”

Dan shrugged, “He is my boss, he has taken a fancy to Vaughan here.”

Ercole’s eyes widened, “You and he?”

I laughed, “Not at all. Perhaps you could say that he is interested in my mind; I advise him on his art collection.”

Ercole gave an expressive shrug, “And maybe more?”

Dan smiled, “We don’t know. Vaughan thinks Heyward fancies my arse.”

“Which he has now seen twice!”

“And I think he’s interested in more than Vaughan’s mind, after all he’s seen the goods.”

So, of course, we had to explain and Ercole retailed the stories that he had heard of Francis Heyward’s rather more predatory habits.

It was as we were walking home that the thought occurred to me, “So, how come you helped entertain us at the Villa”, entertain was clearly in quotes, “and took us back to your playroom?”

Ercole looked a bit abashed, he had behaved sensibly that first night, though his Father had given him a stern warning. But his parents had had an argument, and next morning his Mother had sent for him. She felt that perhaps we, Vaughan and Dan, would be receptive; if it happened, it happened.

Wow, Paola using her son to entertain guests. It was a fascinating glimpse into the efficiency, style, and sheer ruthlessness that she presumably brought to her business. And the cutting of corners. Like her Father, I suspected. Paola appeared to be just as much an operator as Francis Heyward. I looked at Dan and we exchanged glances, the same though occurring to both of us.

Ercole joined us for a lively evening in a Brazilian cantina in Brixton Market, chosen for availability rather than cuisine, but an evening full of colour and movement, and that was just the food.

Ercole got very ‘handsy’ as we walked back to the house. It was general, and rather sexy. We had a great time when we got back home, but Ercole slept in his own bed, thankfully. Sunday morning was something of a repeat of the delightful Saturday morning, and we were just beginning to think thoughts of lazy Sundays when Ercole announced that a friend was unexpectedly in London, so he would like to meet up. I’m afraid that we both read that as him having gone and fixed himself a hook-up. I have to confess that we weren’t sad. Entertaining Ercole was tiring, even if the sex was great.

An early start for all in the morning meant that the evening was quite low key; perhaps the hook-up had finally succeeded in tiring Ercole out. He left, saying that we must come and stay with him in his apartment in Milan. Would we, I wondered; Dan whispered to me, ‘If we have the energy!”