by Liz Fielding
‘It’s clear that she sees you as a connection with her mother. You’re English, you can speak the language with her as her mamma did, and that will comfort her until she’s ready to let go. If you can do that, there may be something I can do for you. Is it a deal?’
‘Yes,’ she said, dazed. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Good, then it’s all settled.’
‘Not quite. How long do you see this arrangement lasting?’
He frowned, as if puzzled by the question.
‘For as long as I say,’ he replied at last.
Of course, she thought wryly. What else?
‘Now, to details,’ he continued briskly. ‘As far as anyone else is concerned you’re a distant relative of my wife, paying us a visit. Liza calls you Holly, but I see from your passport that your name is Sarah.’
‘Yes. Holly’s a nickname that my mother gave me when I was five. I put a bit of holly in her bed one Christmas.’
‘It’s useful. Since the police are looking for Sarah Conroy, you won’t attract attention.’
‘But if they keep looking-’
‘That train was their best chance and they fumbled it,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Now let us be practical. Take this money. It’s your first week’s wages. You’ll be paid in cash because the less paperwork the better. Is there anything in your purse that has your real name?’
‘A credit card.’
‘Let me see.’
As soon as she produced it he took it from her and cut it up.
‘Hey!’ she cried indignantly.
‘Anything that connects you with your real name is dangerous.’
‘If I’m prepared to take that risk-’
‘But you might reflect that the risk isn’t only for yourself.’
The words were lightly spoken but they made her pause. He was a judge, concealing a woman fleeing the law. She wasn’t the only one in danger.
‘You need clothes,’ he continued. ‘Sit down over there.’ He indicated an extra, smaller desk by the wall, on which stood a laptop computer, connected to the internet.
‘You’re online to a store in Rome,’ he said. ‘Go through it and select some items, then I’ll arrange for them to be delivered.’
She could see that it was open at women’s wear, and connected to an account in his name. All she had to do was add things to the shopping basket. Slowly she began to go through the pages, trying to believe what she was seeing. This was the most expensive store she’d ever come across. Just looking at the prices made her eyes cross.
She grew even more distracted studying the clothes. Underwear, dresses-everything seemed to be made of silk. It was intimidating.
‘I’m really looking for something a little more ordinary,’ she said. ‘More like me.’
‘You call yourself ordinary?’ he enquired.
‘Well, look at me.’
‘I am. You make nothing of yourself. You are tall and slim-’
‘Skinny, you mean. And flat-chested. Like a board.’
‘Give me patience! Is that any way for a woman to talk? There are women modelling on the catwalk shaped exactly like you, and all you can do is run yourself down.’
‘I’m not running myself down,’ she said huffily. ‘I’m being realistic. I’m no beauty.’
‘Did I say you were?’
She gaped. ‘You said-’
‘I said you had a shape you should make the best of, but you don’t think that way. You say “thin” when you should say “slim”. Your mind-set is askew.’
‘Well, pardon me for thinking incorrectly. Obviously an Italian woman would do better, but I can’t help being the wrong nationality.’
‘You must learn not to put words into my mouth. Don’t blame your nationality. My wife was also English, and she was as conscious of herself and the effect she made as any Italian woman. It’s something in here.’ He tapped his forehead.
‘Oh, I’m conscious of the effect I make,’ she said, in a sudden temper. ‘Homely is the word. And that’s the kind version.’
‘No woman with a twenty-two-inch waist is ever homely,’ he retorted.
‘And my face? It’s nothing.’
‘All right, it’s nothing,’ he conceded. ‘That’s better than being bad.’
‘Homely,’ she repeated, raising her voice. ‘Look, it’s my face, I know more about it than you do.’
Why were they having this quarrel? It had sprung up from nowhere and made no sense. But from the deep well of tangled emotions inside her came a tension that had to release itself somehow. So she had turned on him.
Something in his eyes told her it was the same with him. His nerves were as taut as her own, and he too had exploded irrationally.
‘I doubt if you know much about it,’ he said now, ‘or about the person behind it.’
‘I know her all right,’ she said with bitter emphasis. ‘She was so used to being a little brown mouse that she fell for the first pack of lies she was told by a man. There’s nothing else to know.’
He didn’t reply at once, but considered her for a while before saying slowly, ‘I doubt that’s true. You’ve never explored the possibilities, so try to see your face as a blank canvas on which you will write whatever you want to.’
‘Is that what your wife did?’
His mouth twisted, though whether with humour or with pain she couldn’t have said.
‘Now you mention it, yes. She wasn’t a great beauty, but she could make every man believe that she was. When she walked into a room, heads turned.’
‘And you didn’t mind?’
‘No, I-I was proud of her.’
‘But I’m not her. I could never be like that.’
‘Nobody could ever be like her. Now, let us return to business.’
His tone had become practical again, like that of a man announcing to a meeting that it was time for the next item on the agenda.
‘In this house you’ll need a decent wardrobe, so forget the kind of thing you’re used to and choose clothes that will help you fit in with…’ He made a gesture indicating the luxurious surroundings. ‘Please hurry up, I have a lot of work to get on with.’
The last of the tension was diffused. She could concentrate on the screen and even enjoy the dizzying array of delightful garments that danced before her.
‘Do the job properly,’ was his only comment as he seated himself at the other desk.
He had prepared everything efficiently, accessing the English version of the site and calling up a conversion table showing both English and continental sizes.
Her puritanical self made one last effort, pointing out remorselessly that cheap materials had always sufficed in the past. But then she told it to shut up and let her concentrate. After that it was easy.
First, casuals, blouses, sweaters, trousers, all cut with deceptive simplicity, all costing a fortune. After the first shocked glance she didn’t concern herself with prices.
Underwear. Satin panties, slips, lacy bras, in white, black, ivory. Here she tried to be a little abstemious, cutting the order down to her barest needs.
She lingered over cocktail dresses, tempted to desperation over a garment in silky chiffon, cut tight and low both back and front. She could buy it in black or deep, dark crimson.
But she wasn’t going to buy it at all, she reminded herself sternly. She was just taking a look.
Coats. Yes. Think sensible! She could justify a light summer coat. This colour. No, that one. But perhaps this one was better.
‘Get them both,’ said a bored voice passing behind her. She looked up quickly, but he was already re-seating himself at the desk.
She got them both. She was only obeying orders.
‘I’ve finished choosing,’ Holly said at last. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Leave the rest to me. Now, it’s late and you’ve had a long day. I suggest you go to bed.’
‘First I should like to see Liza, and say goodnight.’
He checked his watch.
<
br /> ‘She should be asleep by now, but she’s probably stayed up in the hope of seeing you. Very well. Turn left at the top of the stairs, and it’s the second door.’
‘Are you coming with me?’
There was a touch of constraint in his manner as he said, ‘I’ve already said goodnight to her.’
‘But if she’s waited up, I’m sure she’d love to see you again.’
She sensed him about to make an impatient reply. Then he gave a brief nod, as though settling something within himself, and rose to lead the way out of the room.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THEY emerged into the hall they heard the sound of argument coming from above. There was Berta’s voice, but above that was Liza’s, shrill and insistent.
‘They’re coming, I know they are.’
‘But your father has already said goodnight,’ Berta protested. ‘He’s a busy man-’
‘He’s not too busy for me, he’s not, he’s not.’
The last words shook Holly to the depths. They were a cry of desperation, as though the child was frantically trying to convince herself of something she needed to believe.
She glanced at the judge, who was standing as if frozen.
‘Perhaps this isn’t a good idea,’ he murmured.
‘On the contrary, it’s a great idea,’ she said quickly. ‘Your daughter has just proclaimed her faith in you, and when you go up those stairs she’ll know she was right, and that you’re not too busy for her.’
She waited for his face to brighten at this simple answer, but he didn’t move, and she realised that he was at a total loss. He was a judge, schooled in order, method, decisiveness. And he didn’t know what to do with his own unhappy child.
‘It’s a fantastic chance for you to make her feel better,’ she urged. ‘If only all life could be that easy. For pity’s sake, stop and think.’
In her eagerness she took his arm, realising too late that he would see this as impertinence. But he only glanced at her hand in the second before she snatched it away.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
She thought his voice sounded oddly defeated. But she must surely have imagined that.
‘Poppa,’ came Liza’s delighted shriek from above them.
He looked up, and his mouth stretched in an effortful smile as he began to climb the stairs with Holly.
‘Not so noisy, piccina,’ he said. ‘You should be asleep by now.’
‘I have to say goodnight to Holly.’
‘You’ll see plenty of her now that she is staying with us.’
Liza gave a shriek of delight and tried to do a little dance, but her bad leg got in the way, and Holly grasped her to stop her falling. Liza immediately hugged her.
‘You’re staying for ever and ever,’ she crowed.
‘No darling, not for ever. Just for a little while.’
‘But I want you to stay,’ Liza said.
‘Holly will be here for some time,’ her father put in quietly. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
Holly flashed him a look, which he met with a quiet, implacable one of his own. There was nothing she could say in front of Liza.
‘Now, come on, back to bed,’ she told the child in a rallying tone, reaching for her.
‘Poppa!’ Liza reached for him over Holly’s shoulder.
He took her hand and they all moved into the bedroom together. Holly laid her in her bed and gave her a hug. Then her father leaned down and kissed her cheek.
‘Be a good girl and go to sleep,’ he said briefly, and left the room.
Liza was still holding on to Holly’s hand. ‘Don’t go,’ she said.
Berta slipped quietly out of the room, leaving the two of them together. Now Liza snuggled down, contented. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was becoming more even. At last her fingers relaxed enough for Holly to draw her hand away, and tiptoe from the room.
It was dark outside and she almost missed the figure standing there, silent and still. She waited for him to speak, but he only looked at her from the shadows before turning away.
When Holly reached her room she found a buxom young woman turning down her bed.
‘I am Nora, your maid,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have set fresh water by your bed for tonight. Do you prefer tea or coffee in the morning?’
‘Tea. Thank you.’
‘Then I will wish you buona notte. Do you wish me to help you undress?’
‘No, thank you.’
She was suddenly desperate to be alone with her thoughts, but she found that they were troublesome companions. What had happened tonight was impossible. It hadn’t happened because it could not have done.
Yet in this incredible house all boundaries seemed to fade. If she could only talk to an outsider she might recover her sense of proportion.
She had no close family, but an acquaintance would do, someone back in England who knew her in her real life, maybe even someone who would send help.
There was a telephone by the bed, and, with a sense of relief, she lifted the receiver.
It was dead.
Next morning Nora appeared, bearing a tray with a pot of tea, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar and a saucer of lemon slices.
‘I didn’t know how you like your tea,’ she explained, ‘so I brought everything.’
‘Thank you,’ Holly murmured, trying to pull the sheet up so that Nora wouldn’t see that she had slept naked, having no nightgown.
‘Shall I run your bath, or would you prefer a shower?’
‘I’ll take a shower. It’s all right, I can look after myself.’
Nora left the room, having first given something that was perilously like a curtsey.
Holly drank the tea, which had been perfectly made, and went into the bathroom. A shower refreshed her, and when she returned, wrapped in a huge towel, Liza was there, in her wheelchair, with Berta.
‘She wished to come here and make you welcome,’ Berta said, smiling.
‘I could have walked,’ Liza insisted.
‘Not so early in the day,’ Berta said. ‘It takes time for you to be strong enough.’
Holly seized her clothes and vanished hastily back into the bathroom. When she emerged the three of them breakfasted together. It was a cheerful meal, but Berta seemed to be working herself up to saying something. At last she found the daring to say,
‘Would you mind if I went away for a few hours? I need to do some shopping, and now Liza has you…?’ She spread her hands in a pleading gesture.
So this was the reason Berta had accepted her intrusion so easily, Holly thought, amused. She saw the chance of a little extra freedom. She hastened to declare that she and Liza would be fine together, and Berta departed, humming.
‘What are we going to do now?’ Holly asked when breakfast was over.
‘Come and meet Mamma,’ Liza said eagerly.
Carol Fallucci’s memorial had been erected in a shady corner of the grounds. The first time Holly saw it she had a feeling of something not quite right. She could not have defined it, except to say that she would have expected more restraint from the judge. There was something romantically gothic about this fountain with the marble angel, wings extended, that didn’t quite fit with the coolness she had encountered from him.
He must have been deeply in love with his wife to have erected such a monument. She tried to picture him consumed by passionate feeling, but she couldn’t do it. Nor could she imagine this self-possessed man in the abandonment of grief.
And yet it must be so. Nothing but the most terrible love and yearning could explain such an extravagant monument. And perhaps it was all the more painful for being so fiercely controlled.
Now Holly understood Liza’s reference to ‘meeting Mamma’. As with many Italian gravestones, this one carried a picture of the dead person. It showed a woman of about thirty, with fine features that were as exquisitely made-up as her hair was elegantly arranged. She looked exactly the kind of wife that a judge ought to have: sophisticated, assu
red, beautiful.
A million miles from me, Holly thought wryly. Now, she could really have worn those cocktail dresses.
To Liza this place was the nearest thing to happiness. She could come here and sit on the step, or dip her hands in the cool water, and talk about the mother she missed desperately, and who had died just before Christmas.
‘“December 21st,”’ Holly said, reading the inscription. ‘That’s the worst possible time. Not that any time would be good, but to happen then-’
She felt a small hand creep into hers and Liza nodded in silent agreement.
‘Do you have a Mamma?’ she asked after a while.
‘Not now. She died almost a year ago.’
‘Was that just before Christmas, too?’
‘It was last October, but Christmas was my first one without her.’
The silent house, the sudden unwelcome freedom for one whose life had been all duty, the aching emptiness-
‘Wasn’t there anyone else?’
‘No, just the two of us. She’d been ill for a long time.’
Holly didn’t want to talk about the long, agonising years watching her mother die by slow degrees. Words rose to her lips, all calculated to divert the conversation down another path and kill it with platitudes.
Then she saw Liza’s eyes on her. They were innocent and had a quality of kindness that seemed strange in a child. But this one knew more than any child should, and she deserved honesty.
‘The doctors couldn’t cure her,’ she said. ‘So I looked after her.’
‘Until she died?’
‘Yes, as long as she needed me.’
‘But you knew she was going to die,’ Liza said with an understanding that was too mature for her years. ‘She didn’t just vanish-suddenly, when you thought everything was all right.’
‘Was that what happened to you?’
Liza nodded.
‘We were going on holiday,’ she said in a slightly husky voice. ‘I remember Mamma packing lots of cases because she said we were going away for longer this time. It was going to be a special Christmas holiday, but we’d never been away at Christmas before.
‘It was funny because everything was different. Poppa didn’t come to see us off, and he didn’t say when he’d join us. I asked Mamma when he’d come but she didn’t know.