Free The Sweetness of Liberty James by Janey Lewis

part than his wife. He had given her this special treat and now she just seemed to be doing everything wrong and was acting like a failure. She must make more of an effort. Maybe she had been too self-absorbed recently.
    She didn’t speak Italian as fluently as he, but she understood ‘names wrong, stupid man’ and ‘phone ahead’ being snippets from their conversation. Oh dear, I hope the hotel hasn’t made a mess of our booking, she thought.
    â€˜Come on, get in the car. I just wanted to check the rooms were ready before we arrived. You know what a fuss these hotels make, even if I did book the rooms bloody six months ago.’ How did he know six months ago they would be cominghere for this particular weekend? An alarm bell started ringing, but she decided to ignore it. This was going to be the most wonderful, romantic weekend of her life.
    They drove through the cobbled streets of the old town in silence, Liberty struck dumb by the beauty and symmetry of the buildings. The sun was dazzling and made the contrast between grey London and roseate Florence even more noticeable.
    As they drove up the steep winding road to Fiesole, Liberty realised they were staying at the Villa San Michele, where she had been as a teenager with her father. It had been converted from an ancient monastery into a five-star luxury hotel, cleverly done in a relaxed but grand way, as though it was a private house full of lovely things rather than a designed ‘space’. The staff were always waiting to attend to the guests’ every wish or command, but they carried out these wishes in a discreet, subtle way, and therefore were never intrusive. Staying at the hotel was like being a guest of very good friends in their grand family home, with the best food in Tuscany served on the loggia overlooking the city of Florence. There were huge white hydrangeas blossoming in large terracotta pots on a terrace just below them, interspersed with lemon trees, also in pots, hanging with fragrant fruit.
    As Liberty glanced around, savouring the clarity of the light and the cypress trees reaching up in columns to the sky, a man came dancing down the steps to the car.
    â€˜Mr Cholmondly-Radley, welcome; Luca di Campo, manager of the most wonderful hotel in Italy, if not the world,’ he said by way of introduction as he stuck out his hand. Percy took it, and said, ‘That’s quite a claim. I hope you can back it up,’ and then sotto voce to Liberty, ‘Bloody Italians, arrogant little Eyetie. They should stick to pinching bottoms and making handbags.’
    â€˜Come on, darling,’ replied Liberty. ‘He seems charming, and this hotel is very beautiful.’ She gazed up at the facade of the building.
    â€˜Attributed to Michelangelo,’ announced the managerproudly. ‘Please come with me, we will get you settled on the terrace with a refreshing drink while we take your luggage to your suite.’
    â€˜I would rather check in first,’ stated Percy.
    â€˜No need, we don’t do things like that here,’ explained the manager kindly. ‘We have your booking, no need for any more formality, you are here to rest! Come to the terrace and relax.’
    Percy professed himself disappointed to find there was no real bar, just a table set on the loggia, laid with a linen cloth holding a few bottles and glasses and a fridge for the peach juice and Prosecco in case anyone wished for a Bellini.
    â€˜Giovanni will look after you from here,’ said Luca. ‘Welcome again and enjoy your stay. Anything you need, let me know. Our little bus will take you into town, it leaves every half hour, or we can arrange a taxi.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Liberty, gazing out at the heavenly view towards Florence in the distance, and entranced by the hilltop setting of the hotel.
    The maître d’ appeared as if from nowhere. ‘The best table has been reserved for you for dinner,