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Authors: Clare Curzon

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BOOK: Last to Leave
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‘But of course. Let me show you the garden. It will be my pleasure.'
So escort duty was to be maintained. But at least a tour outside the house might give some idea of the fastness she was to be confined in.
There were dogs. As the women left by a side door into a terraced walk they appeared silently and stood watching at a distance of some ten yards. Giulia murmured a few words and they fell in behind, not at heel but maintaining the same distance, two sleek Dobermans with beautiful movement.
The garden was small, as on all the islands, but skilfully laid out with pergolas, twisting walks and steps to connect its three levels. There was the constant sound of water where it gushed from the mouths of three
putti
into a pool edged with yellow iris. The air was scented with lavender, box, and a small red flower shaped like a hop but redolent of sage. At the far end from the road the garden met a high stone wall interrupted by a wrought iron gate with a formidable-looking lock. Beyond and below it Jess caught the gleam of dark water and the lagoon's quiet slap and cloop.
As she walked Giulia brushed the surrounding shrubs with her fingers letting off fresh scents at every turn. She was far too much in control, Jess decided. ‘When are you expecting Charles to arrive?' she demanded.
They had reached the end of a circuit, and light from a window illuminated the older woman's face as she turned. It was smooth and calm, almost featureless.
‘You supposed you were to meet him here?' she questioned. Her elegant shoulders rose as she shrugged the possibility away.
‘No, signorina. It is not for an assignation that you have come. It is to prevent your being killed.'
Last night, after the garden tour with Giulia, they'd returned to the drawing-room and she'd met the two men. Stefano, sprawled on a
chaise longue,
shirt unbuttoned to expose a long, bronzed torso, had languidly waved a bare leg towards Giulia, then sprung upright at sight of their guest.
‘Signorina,' he'd said with extravagant adulation, and mocking her.
Then, on being introduced, she'd recognized Franco, (stolid and stocky while the other one was willowy) as the almost silent young man who had met her at Lepanto. He advanced from his chair and offered a firm handclasp. ‘It is a pleasure to have you with us, signorina.' His English was almost perfect. She guessed he would be about eighteen and possibly Giulia's son. They had the same high, wide forehead and slightly hooked nose, but he was shorter by some three or four inches.
‘Can I get you a drink, signorina? Mama?'
‘Laura?' Giulia prompted, raising an eyebrow.
‘Thank you. A mineral water would be lovely.'
‘And a sambuca for me, then.' She moved across to a sofa by the open window and arranged herself theatrically while her son poured and Stefano brought their drinks to them. Close to, Jess saw that he was some ten years older than the other young man, so perhaps the woman's lover? Certainly his casual informality suggested something close.
‘My son and my nephew will be delighted to entertain you, Laura,' Giulia said silkily, as though she had guessed what was in the girl's mind. ‘Between them they must know all there is to know about the islands, and unless you stop Franco he will lecture you until you die of boredom. Also, Laura, you will find both are quite adequate at tennis and swimming. The pool here is tiny, but we have a cabin
on Lido's south shore where you may swim in the Adriatic.'
‘That's very kind, but I'm not sure how long I'll be staying.' Giulia was assuming too much, and Jess resented the repetition of the new name she had to go under. It implied she wasn't capable of remembering that precaution herself. In fact the whole business of her enforced removal from old Carlton's home and the journey here smacked too much of the press-gang. The moment had come when she must stand on her hind legs and make it clear she would please herself what she did.
Giulia's suggestion in the garden that her life might be in danger was ridiculously melodramatic. Roger Beale had explained that for the moment her presence in England could be embarrassing for Charles. That much she'd accept. She knew he was involved in some big, multinational deal with political undertones, and while negotiations hung in the balance a breath of scandal could tip the scales. Even that consideration seemed over-correct in these permissive days; but presumably he knew the prejudices of the important foreigners he had to haggle with.
‘Let me show you the lights,' Franco had offered, cutting through her thoughts. He led her through double doors on to the balcony. Like the one jutting from her own bedroom above, it was on the lagoon side of the villa and overhung a little jetty where a small white powered craft tilted gently at its mooring.
‘There are more trees in Venice than in any other city in Europe,' he told her.
Jess pictured the tortuous alleys, the
palazzi,
galleries, crowded boutiques and humped bridges – nothing green except a glimpse here and there of a branch reaching out from some secret, walled garden.
He had laughed at her puzzlement. But of course the trees were below the marble floors. They were the timber piles that supported the proud
campaniles:
underwater forests petrifying over the centuries, but still sinking,
because all these islands were a continuation of the miles of offshore swamp. And the sea, that had brought Venice its ancient glory, would finally suck all its magnificence away.
Even her ghost wouldn't linger here. She had no time for nostalgia. Go for it, she always told herself: she had things to do, a life to live.
Franco pointed. ‘Over there, to the left, that dark mass is the Isle of Dogs. All strays from the islands are taken there. You can hear them barking at mealtimes. And ahead is the island of the Armenian Brothers. If you wish to visit their chapel they will row across and fetch you. And those distant lights, strung out …'
‘Are
venezia,
from
San Marco
down to
Arsenale,
with the island of
San Giorgio
in front.'
‘Ah, you know our tiny world already. This isn't your first visit.'
She was aware of having cut him off and was sorry. ‘One can never know enough about such a magical place,' she granted.
‘So what would you care to do tomorrow?'
She took her time answering while they stepped back indoors. There was no question what she would prefer to do: go home. Find out what Charles was actually up to. And have that word with Eddie which she'd not found time for at old Carlton's.
‘Tennis?' she suggested. There wasn't a court in the garden, so it would mean going outside, testing how closely she was guarded. Maybe she could buy some postcards, send a message to say where she'd ended up.
She was conscious of Stefano and Giulia exchanging glances, then the woman's barely perceptible nod.
Stefano turned his brilliant smile on her. ‘So that's what we will do, before it gets too hot.'
‘Yes,' Giulia agreed. ‘The forecast is for 38 degrees Celsius tomorrow. Breakfast will start at seven. Stefano shall book a court for 8.30.'
 
 
So this morning's programme had already been mapped out for her. She showered, practised speaking her new name in front of the mirror, slid into a short, yellow sundress and went downstairs. She followed voices to the large, airy kitchen. There a dumpy, fat woman looked up from filling a cafetière, her dark face one shining smile.
‘Signorina, I Rosalba. I cook,' she announced proudly. She pointed to the other, who appeared to be Chinese. ‘He, Ping Pong.'
The little man bowed. ‘Not true name, but it amuse people. Rosalba, that is all the English she know. She learn it for you.'
‘I'm honoured,' Jess said, ‘Thank you. I'm Laura.'
She took a place at the scrubbed, square table. ‘Where are the others?'
‘The signora take coffee in her room. The young men go sailing. Perhaps we get fish for lunch,' the man said.
Rosalba might have little English, but she was more than able in Italian. While Jess helped herself to fruit and rolls her voice went on relentlessly, passionately, with an extravagant sweeping of arms and rolling of eyes as she related some dramatic story quite incomprehensible to the girl.
‘What was all that about?' Jess asked in a brief lull while the cook went to answer a bell's summons.
Ping Pong shrugged. ‘Her son. He have this woman she do not like. Families,
aiiigh!'
Before Jess had finished her coffee Stefano and Franco were back, smelling of the sea, with salt crusted on hands and eyebrows. Franco flung a hessian bag at the Chinese who peered in and declared, ‘Not enough. Tomorrow you do better.'
‘Two minutes,' Stefano promised, ‘and we shall be ready for you, Laura.'
‘He lies,' Franco said, following him to the door. ‘He will
spend at least twenty minutes on just spraying his perfume.' Joshing each other, they went flying upstairs.
 
The tennis courts were on the Adriatic side of the narrow island, protected by a surround of shrubbery and palm trees. They played singles, Jess the first set against Franco, losing to him four-six. She did better against his cousin who slammed the ball fiercely from the baseline but had less finesse. At six-all he declared they should leave it so, well matched.
‘Now you must play each other,' Jess said, ‘while I watch.' She let them battle on for a game or two, then quietly made for the gate of the little park. Before she could make her escape Franco was there beside her.
‘Have we bored you?' Stefano called from the net. He had started to wind it down.
‘Not at all. Please carry on. I just thought I'd have a look at some shops, perhaps get some postcards to send home.'
She'd said too much. ‘We'll come too,' Franco insisted. ‘Here, borrow my sun glasses. The light is too much for your English eyes,'
They let her choose the view cards, even reminded her what euro stamps were now required, but she knew she was under arrest, the wrap-around shades protecting her from public gaze much as the police at home covered their suspect with a blanket. It was beginning to get to her that Giulia's warning had been serious.
They would never let her post those cards. She knew that, and she couldn't see any way she could smuggle them out. When she checked her things after breakfast she'd found that the return half of her flight ticket had been removed from its envelope, although so far the money was intact. In the villa there was always someone on duty. In the garden there were the Dobermans.
All the same, she wrote three cards during siesta time: to Claudia and Carlton, doing the thanks thing; a vague greeting to Kate; a longer one to Eddie, quoting the temperature
here and warning him not to eat the cake she'd left in his freezer until she was back to share it with him.
She signed them all with the letter J, still hoping it might pass muster with her guards. But if she imagined she'd be allowed further freedom she was put right when they all met up at four o'clock for iced tea.
‘My beautician is to come later,' Giulia said, stroking back her blue-black hair. ‘You may wish to make use of her. With such a lovely fair complexion, Laura, have you never thought of becoming a blonde? It would suit you so well. Don't you think so, boys? A new Marilyn Monroe.'
They agreed instantly, Franco perhaps with less enthusiasm. Anyway it was clear that they'd been put up to it. Not a suggestion, but a command.
‘No way!' Jess protested. ‘Bleach is out of the question.' Giulia wasn't impressed. ‘Oh, but I think it would be best. More tea, signorina?'
Jess started to get up from her chair but was strangely lethargic. The heat and the tennis were taking their toll. She slid back. Giulia leant forward. Her face came so close, peering in, that her two eyes became one, like a shiny, black beetle.
Jess awoke on a sofa an hour and a half later, bottle-blonde, with an urchin cut gelled into spikes.
She was outraged, trembling with inexpressible fury. Giulia remained calm, totally in charge: Franco silent but unable to meet her eyes. Stefano kept his distance, shrugging his angular shoulders. In the kitchen Rosalba and Ping Pong carefully pretended they noticed no difference.
Alone at last in her room she examined herself in the mirror. A pert bimbo stared defiantly back. Every surface of her face had taken on a different, upward slant. When did she ever have a retroussé nose?
Her whole persona seemed changed, and surely with it her mental tectonics had realigned. She
knew
this character she now stared at, had passed her in the streets of London,
been crushed against her in the Underground, shared a cloakroom mirror with her in restaurants, watching her slam on more black eyeliner. She'd be shallow, mouthy, confident, voicing secondhand judgments, her slang – like the spiky hairstyle – just that bit
passé.
If this one couldn't fix a bloke to take her out of Italy on his pillion then she'd march out as a backpacker. You could lose her ten times over in the swarm of tourists boggling at the Bridge of Sighs.
Good. So that was the way she'd leave. Her mind was made up. She had suffered the final humiliation at Giulia's hands.
Her present passport was useless. This trollop was no Laura. What ‘celebrity' name would her mother have saddled her with? Patsy? Charleen?
Giulia had said nothing about updating the passport to her new appearance. The reason wasn't hard to imagine: she had no intention of letting Jess use it again. Return to England was off the agenda. All this hoopla about instructions from Charles was beginning to wear thin. His original intention had been to protect her, or at least distance her from his present situation. Jess suspected Giulia of adorning it with her own fancies, or even of running a separate agenda in parallel. Behind that perfectly turned-out hostessing she sensed a hint of malicious invention, because under it lay instinctive hostility.
So I'll run my own game, Jess decided. However long Charles had originally intended her to be kept away, if she turned up despite all the humiliating frustrations, he'd have to admit she had initiative.
She returned downstairs for dinner preserving the expected mood of high dudgeon, making the cousins work hard to bring her round to a better mood. Tomorrow, Stefano said, they would take her across the lagoon and she could do the tourist round, go wherever she fancied – Doge's Palace, churches, museums, the Peggy Guggenheim Modern Art gallery. Next day Murano for the glass factories, Burano for
linens. It seemed there was no limit to where she could safely go, now that she was disguised.
BOOK: Last to Leave
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