Page 35 of Too Busy for Love

‘Hola, ¿cómo puedo ayudarte?’ a disembodied female voice says after I press the buzzer by the gate.

‘Hola, soy Beatrice de Casterbridge Media. Creo que estás esperándome,’ I reply.

‘Sí, sí, pasa,’ the voice cries enthusiastically as the huge gates silently start to swing open.

Once inside the gates, I find myself on a gravelled track which seems to go on for ever. I must have been driving for at least five minutes past paddocks containing sleek-lookinghorses, stables and cottages before the main house finally comes into view. I remember Gus mentioning that it was sumptuous, but this is something else. The driveway widens into a sweeping circle in front of the house, with a fountain in the middle of it. When I pictured the villa in my mind, I envisaged something like you see when you search online, but this is enormous. The rough stone walls and red tiled roof help it to blend into its landscape, as if it’s been here forever. It must be hundreds of years old.

I’m barely out of the car before a diminutive woman comes hurrying out of the house to greet me. She must be under five feet tall and looks like she’s somewhere in her mid-fifties.

‘¡Madre de Dios!’ she exclaims when she catches sight of the minibus. ‘Why is it so big?’

‘The TV company insisted,’ I tell her in matching Spanish. ‘I’m Beatrice.’

‘Rosa. Your Spanish is excellent!’

‘Thank you.’ Although I told Sandra and Gus that I was fluent, it’s a while since I’ve actually spoken Spanish, so I’m relieved that it’s come back so easily. ‘My mother is Spanish, so she made sure I grew up able to speak the language. Is this your house, Rosa?’

She laughs. ‘Goodness, no. It belongs to an Italian businessman called Salvatore Mancini. He comes each year with his family for a month early in the summer, before it gets too hot, and lets it out the rest of the time. My husband, Pedro, and I look after the house for him, welcome guests and so on. Come inside, let me show you around.’

Although the sun is high in the sky and the temperature outside must be nearly thirty degrees, it’s deliciously cool in the house, courtesy of the thick stone walls, I’m sure. It’s also surprisingly dark.

‘We close the shutters during the day to keep the heat out,’ Rosa explains as she flicks on the lights. We’re standing ina double-height hallway, with a gorgeous open-beamed ceiling above us. There are doors on both sides and a magnificent curved staircase at the far end with another large doorway underneath it that I guess leads out into the gardens.

‘The place was pretty much a ruin when Mr Mancini bought it,’ Rosa tells me as she leads me through one of the doors into an enormous sitting room with sofas and chairs arranged around tables. There must be seating for nearly thirty people in here. ‘The roof had fallen in and everything was rotten. But he loved the location and saw the potential. It took five years to get the house restored. Everything had to be correct. Mr Mancini is a stickler for detail.’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I observe.

‘It is. He has done a beautiful job. Come and see the dining room.’

She leads me through to another huge room with a long table down the middle.

‘We can seat twenty in here comfortably, or twenty-six at a push,’ she informs me. ‘However, most of our guests prefer to eat outside. I’ll show you in a minute.’

The next room is the kitchen, which is beautifully appointed but surprisingly compact compared to the grandeur of the other rooms I’ve seen. Rosa smiles as she sees my confusion. ‘You are thinking that this room is too small to be able to prepare food for so many guests, yes?’

‘I am,’ I agree.

‘This is what we call the family kitchen,’ she explains. ‘Guests can come in here to make themselves a snack if they wish. We keep the fridges fully stocked with fresh fruit, water, and whatever other alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks they request, so they can help themselves whenever they want. The main kitchen is through here.’ She leads me through another door, where I’m confronted by the kind of kitchen that I imaginewould get Jock salivating. It’s a sea of pristine stainless steel with a full-sized pass.

‘Wow,’ I breathe.

‘This is my kitchen,’ Rosa states proudly, stroking the pass. ‘Before we moved here, Pedro and I had our own restaurant in Palma. Mr Mancini used to visit every time he came to check up on the house and, how can I put it, he made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. I loved the restaurant, but it’s a hard business to be in. So when Mr Mancini told me I could design the kitchen just as I wanted it, plus we could have accommodation in one of the cottages and a generous salary guaranteed, it wasn’t an easy decision, but we both knew it was the right one.’

‘What does Pedro do?’ I ask.

‘He’s the main caretaker of the house and gardens. He’s very clever with his hands; there’s almost nothing he can’t fix, and I think he’s the only person in the world who truly understands the filtration system for the swimming pool. He’s gone into Palma to get some things, but you’ll meet him when he returns. There’s lots more to see; follow me.’

By the time the tour is complete, nearly an hour later, I can completely see why Casterbridge Media chose this house. The rest of the ground floor is made up of a games room with a full-sized snooker table, a home cinema room, a TV room, a study and a library, all beautifully appointed. Upstairs, the twelve large bedrooms all have king-sized beds and ensuite bathrooms. Rosa watches me with amusement as I flick automatically into professional mode, checking under the duvets and pillowcases to make sure everything is spotlessly clean and perfectly pressed, ensuring that the bottles of shampoo, shower gel and conditioner in the bathrooms are properly filled and that there is at least one spare toilet roll. Everything passes muster, including the beautifully fluffy towels and bath robes.

‘I can see you’ve done this before,’ Rosa remarks as we make our way back downstairs.

‘I come from the hotel business,’ I tell her. ‘Sorry, I hope you weren’t offended.’

‘Not at all. It shows that you’re a professional. I just wish I’d known this about you before you came.’

‘Why?’

‘I would have hidden something to see if you found it,’ she tells me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘Before I show you where you will be sleeping, let me take you outside.’

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