Was that Captain Darnley’s—？
Yeah, said Ulysses. Des got hold of a case. Not the 1902 because the 1929 was better. That right, Des?
What, lad?
The wine. The 1929 better than the 1902?
Heaps better. Five hundred quid a bottle.
Everyone stopped what they were doing.
Des, you’ve done it again, said Poppy.
What, love? said Des.
The money thing.
Two words, said Des. Disposable syringes.
Ah, they all said and Pete asked Massimo to stick a bottle aside so he could sell it later.
The doorbell rang and Alys went out. Moments later the elderly contessa shuffled in and said, I found this man wandering about outside.
At which point—
Glen Mollan! they all said when he appeared.
What the bloody ’ell you doing here? said Peg （still as romantic as ever）。
I’ve never met anyone who’s ninety-nine before, Peg! How could I miss this?
Nice jacket, Glen, said Ulysses, and Glen said, This old thing, Temps? I got it in New Orleans.
And there they sat. For hours. Across chestnut-and-ricotta-filled ravioli. Across peposo for the carnivores and Massimo’s famous rice-stuffed tomatoes for Col.
You a vegetarian, Col? said Des.
Ten years and counting, said Col.
What made you change? said Penelope.
Bowels? said Des.
The most incredible woman, said Ulysses.
And the intricate flavours of Indian cuisine, said Col. Nothing like onions caramelising in ghee, green chillies, ginger, garlic and turmeric to make my mouth and eyes water every time.
Massimo came up behind him and kissed his head. You’re cooking for us tomorrow night, my friend, he said.
He’ll be doing yoga next, said Romy.
Already am, said Col.
Me too, said Pete. Helps my moods.
And that was the cue for Pete to get up and play his new song called ‘Ninety-Nine Is the New Hundred’。 It was upbeat and funny for Pete, and had more than a touch of the Beach Boys about it.
Suddenly, Romy leant down and reached into her bag. She pulled out Cressy’s copy of A Room with a View and said, I’m reading this, Evelyn.
Good God! said Dotty. What is it about that bloody book?
It’s terrific, said Jem.
But the people are quite unlikeable, said Dotty. Ask her, and she pointed to Evelyn. She was there.
You were—？ began Glen Mollan, but he was cut off by Dotty.
Small-minded snobs, she said. An endemic English quality, believing only the educated middle class know the secrets of art.
But they come to love in the end, said Jem.
But is that enough? said Dotty.
Yes! they all said.
Go on, Lynny, said Dotty. Tell them everything.
Yes, tell us! they all said.
Do we have time? said Evelyn.
We have all the time in the world, said Ulysses and he went around the table and refilled the glasses.
Evelyn sat back and took a sip of wine. She closed her eyes and the thunderous weight of age gave way to the lightness of youth. Well, she said …
All About Evelyn
It was October. And the year was 1901.
Evelyn was days shy of her twenty-first birthday when she came out of Santa Maria Novella station for the first time and exclaimed, Firenze! Amore mio!
The slow journey down from Lake Como had been made under an unrepentant, overcast sky but here, the sun was exceptionally bright. There was a strong smell of horse in the air. Omnibuses were waiting to transport tourists to hotels and now the sound of bells!
To look at her, she was dressed as any young modern English woman of the time might be. She had shunned the corset in favour of a naturalistic silhouette. Long dark linen skirt complemented a tonally matching blouse. Her bonnet she carried. She had developed an ungainly gait due to a sudden growth spurt, but it would disappear by the time she was twenty-four. On the plus side, though, she had the air of good breeding （mother’s side） and bohemian outlook （father’s side） to excuse whatever indiscretions might befall her throughout her life. Of which there would be many.
She looked back to check that the railway porter still had hold of her trunk. Hurrying after her were the newly married couple she’d met on the train. They were the Luggs, Hugh and Miranda, and it was their first time in Italy. Hugh was moving up the ranks in a private bank and he was a shining example of a certain type of Englishman abroad who hated everything foreign. He was dragging along his new wife as if she was a wet blanket. Her pale face and large haunted eyes were symptomatic of a lymphatic temperament unsuited to a European diet. They had been travelling for ten days already, and tripe had been the last straw. Even the word propelled Miranda Lugg towards an open window. In her arms she clutched a small portable medicine-case, prepared and stocked with tabloid drugs by Messrs. Burroughs, Wellcome & Co, Holborn Viaduct, London. On her breath was the faint whiff of camphor and indigestion.