'No, I don't.'
'Then you're commendably trusting.'
It might have been a compliment; it sounded more like an accusation. Miserably Luisa turned away. She moved to the window, where she could look out to the open sea, and rested her forehead against the glass. Suddenly she felt exhausted, ill with tiredness. She wished she were alone. At least then she could cry; perhaps she could sleep. Confusion and pain welled in her heart, but she said nothing.
'Tell me,' she knew he was still watching her, though she did not turn her head, 'was it you who invited Kit this afternoon? Had you told him where we were coming?'
The question so took her by surprise that she whirled round to confront him, her eyes wide with incomprehension.
'I invite him? No.' She stared at him questioningly. 'I haven't seen Kit, haven't spoken to him—not for years…'
'Until this afternoon? You were quick enough to talk to him then.'
'What?'
Julius shrugged. 'It doesn't matter.' He turned away in the direction of the small sitting room. 'Would you like something to eat? Some champagne?'
'I'm not hungry,' she said in a small flat voice. 'I… I should like to go to bed.'
'Then by all means do so.' His voice was cold now, bitingly curt. Luisa hesitated, and he laughed.
'You'll be quite safe. I shan't touch you. You needn't look so worried.'
'But where will you… I mean…''
'I don't intend to sleep. I intend to get drunk. Goodnight, Luisa.'
Without a backward glance he went into the small sitting room and shut the door. A few moments later she heard the sound of champagne being opened, the clink of a glass. Then silence. Miserably, hardly knowing what she was doing, she unpacked the small overnight case she had brought with her on the plane. Like an automaton, she washed and brushed her long hair. Then, her hands trembling a little, she put on the nightdress she had brought with her. It had been a present from Claudia; she would never have bought such a thing, a confection of white lace and silk that curved over her breasts and floated, loose and semi-transparent, around her legs and thighs. She had intended to hide it, to leave it behind, but then, at the last moment, on some impulse—it was so beautiful—she had packed it. The silk felt cold and soft against her skin. Shivering slightly, she slipped between the white linen sheets and lay back on the pillows. When she turned out the light she could just see a thin band of gold light under the door to the sitting room; she heard the sound of a glass, a muffled phrase that sounded like a curse.
She closed her' eyes. Her wedding night. Tears, warm against her cold skin, coursed down under her shut eyelids. She thought of the moment on the boat, as they arrived, when for a brief time all questions had seemed irrelevant, when happiness had taken possession of her. In her exhaustion she felt now as if the boat, the waters of the lagoon, rocked her still. Julius would break her, she thought confusedly. It was only a matter of time. And she fell asleep.
She dreamed of Scotland. Of a day with the sun high in the sky, cloudless. They were on the moor, up beyond the house, where the peaty soil was starred with thousands of tiny flowers in midsummer; where you could see the long line of the loch, the point where its waters flowed out to the sea. No one went there; they were alone, she and Julius, and the air was infinitely still. But then they were always alone that summer, even when the others were there; their eyes and the knowledge in them excluded all others.
She had not seen him for years, not since that day at Aunt Con's. Then he had been a boy; now he was a man; he had left Oxford that summer. He had met her and Claudia at the station in an old Wolseley car, and as she climbed down from the train, lifting out suitcases, making sure Claudia had left nothing behind, confused, urgent, nervous, because she knew he would be meeting them, and though she didn't understand it all she understood one thing, that he hated her family, he had suddenly been there. His hand, over hers, lifted the suitcase she had been lugging. She had straightened up, dazzled a little by the sun which shone full in her face, and their eyes had met, and she had known.
They had said nothing then; just the usual polite banalities. Later that afternoon they had met again, just as if it had been arranged, in the cool echoing hall of the old house. 'We're going for a walk,' Julius had said, as if they had already agreed it. They had gone, and it had begun. Something had lit in Luisa's heart that day; a glorious secret knowledge, a sureness. She saw the same knowledge in his eyes whenever he looked at her. She had felt, that day, that summer, as if her life had suddenly begun. It stretched before her, sunlit, golden, glittering. Her future was Julius. There were no doubts, no darknesses. And now she lay back, on the grass cropped short by the sheep, feeling the warmth of an eternal afternoon warm on her eyelids. Julius was stroking her hair. It fanned out, over the grass, the heather, the vetch, the periwinkle.
'Your hair smells of the heather,' he said. It was the last afternoon they had been happy.
She was not sure when she wakened. The edge of the dream was so sharp, so strong, that it stayed with her, pulsing in the darkness of the strange room. For a moment she did not know where she was, then slowly memory came back to her. She felt the happiness ebb away from her heart like sand sifting through the fingers.
Slowly she stretched her arms out, across the wide cool expanse of the bed. It was empty, and the room was still dark, but beyond the shutters she could see a thin band of light. It was day.
She lay there quite still, quite calm, her mind suddenly alert, willing the past away. She did not want to remember; it was all too long ago, and too painful. She thought: I'm married to him now. And under the white sheets her fingers touched the wide gold band, cold against her skin.
She had married a memory, she thought suddenly. Once Julius had seemed so close to her that each had known the other's mind without speaking; it had never occurred to her before to question that understanding, to dismiss it, to think how young she had been, and to find, by way of erasure, words that would diminish the truth of what she had felt. First love; adolescence; infatuation. They came to her mind now, but still she knew they were curiously irrelevant, inexact and timorous. No. She had loved Julius, she thought. But now he was another man: cold, remote, unapproachable and unpredictable. When she looked in his eyes now she saw hate, or a sensuality so naked it frightened her. It was like a black fire, beyond all moral boundaries, and she flinched from it.
She sighed, and crumpled the cool linen sheets nervously between her fingers. It was no good, she thought, thinking about the past, no good letting events go so out of control that they took the course they had the previous night. And it would do no good to be bitter or distrustful. They were here; Venice was beautiful. And at that thought she felt an odd rebellious optimism lift her heart. She did not, she realised, surprised, wish she were anywhere else. The day and the city waited outside the windows, and in spite of herself she felt a quickening, an excitement.
She got up swiftly and crossed the room, pulling back the heavy curtains impatiently, pulling aside the tall shutters. Outside the sky was misty, pale, lit a soft rose by the veiled sun. Across the water the great basilica of Santa Maria rose, softened by the mist, shimmering, as if compounded of water. There was no sound from the next room.
As she looked out, there was a light tap at the outer door, and a maid entered, carrying a tray.
'Buon giorno, signora!'
She laid the tray by the bed, and turning, Luisa realised that she was ravenously hungry. There was breakfast for one, she saw—fresh orange juice, a tall pot of steaming coffee, warm milk, bread, croissants, honey. She thanked the maid, who withdrew as silently as she had come, hesitated for a moment, and then climbed back into bed. She ate her breakfast quickly, a little nervously, glancing occasionally at the door to the little sitting room. But she heard no sound beyond it, and suddenly she felt a dart of contrition. She had slept and dreamed and wakened refreshed. And Julius?
At that moment the door from the corridor opened, and he stood
there. She stared at him confusedly, instinctively reaching for the sheets and pulling them a little higher around her. He smiled and came into the room. He looked fresh, she saw, cleanly shaven, immaculately dressed. He was carrying an armful of boxes which he tossed on to a chair. Without hesitation, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he closed the door, came across, lent down and kissed her hair very lightly.
'You slept well? I've been up for ages.'
Cheerfully he helped himself to some coffee, then perched himself on the end of the bed, just as if the events of the previous evening had never happened, as if they were the oldest, most intimate of married couples. She stared at him for a moment, and then something in his eyes made her lips lift. She smiled.
'I think I probably slept better than you did. What did you do—was it one of those little armchairs, or the floor?'
He laughed.
'The armchair. If it makes you feel any better, it was damned uncomfortable.'
'And did you get drunk?'
Julius shook his head solemnly. 'Unfortunately not. I tried, but it eluded me. You slept disgustingly well, I take it?'
Luisa coloured, the memory of the dream stealing back into her mind.
'I know you did anyway.' He looked at her intently. 'I came through this morning, fell over the furniture, had a bath, unpacked. You never stirred once.' He smiled. 'I watched you, for quite a long time.'
'How unfair!'
'Not in the least. You looked very beautiful.'
His eyes met hers, lazily, mockingly, and Luisa felt something stir at once within her. She looked quickly away.
'If they really can't move us…' she hesitated, then met his eyes candidly. 'You can't spend every night in a little gilt armchair designed to sit down in for five minutes to take tea or write a letter…'
'You mean I could join you in that bed?' Julius raised his eyebrows mockingly, and stretched. 'We ought to have a sword to put between us, like Lancelot and Guinevere— isn't that the solution? Would pillows do, do you think? of course…' he paused, his eyes intent on her face, enjoying, she thought, the embarrassment he caused her, 'it is a very wide bed…' He broke off, teasingly, then stood up abruptly. 'Well, anyway, no doubt we'll find a solution. Now—' He put the coffee cup back on the tray, and stood looking down at her, tall, dark, curiously formal in his impeccably cut black suit and crisp shirt. The formality of his attire made her feel all the more naked. But he smiled, and she relaxed; the tension was all in her, she thought quickly, meeting his imperturbable gaze.
'You wanted to see Venice, or so you said yesterday when the mist clears it will be a beautiful day. A little cold, but clear, I think. So—when shall we begin?'
'A guided tour, you mean?' She smiled at him. 'You obviously know Venice very well.'
'Well enough.' He looked away. 'I've always been here alone before. I shall enjoy having someone to show it to.'
He spoke stiffly, and Luisa looked at him in surprise. Somehow she had never thought of Julius as being alone. In her imagination, she realised, he was always with someone— another woman, the kind he had said he preferred, experienced, sophisticated—everything she was not.
'So? Shall we begin? Today I thought we might walk around the city, have lunch… tomorrow I could take you to Torcello…'
'Torcello?'
'It's one of the other islands in the lagoon,' he said shortly. 'Very beautiful, few people go there, especially at this time of the year. You might like it.' He turned away. 'I'll leave you so you can get dressed. Will you meet me in St Mark's—in the square? The first café… an hour, half an hour? It's just around the corner from here.'
Luisa felt her heart lift again, with excitement, she told herself, with an odd happy dart of anticipation.
'Half an hour.'
He smiled, his hand on the door.
'Oh—by the way, I think we've had a problem with the luggage. How many cases did you bring?'
She stared at him in surprise.
'Two,' she said. 'And an overnight case I took on to the plane. But apart from that, two old ones. Rather battered.'
'I thought so.' He looked down at her, the grey eyes cool. 'In all the confusion last night I didn't check. But they seem to have sent only one; I've rung the airport—I shouldn't worry. It'll probably turn up—it often happens. You didn't have anything valuable with you?'
'No. Just a lot of rather old clothes. It doesn't matter.'
'Well—' he hesitated, looking suddenly awkward, 'I thought you might need some things meanwhile, so I went out this morning and bought you some. They're probably all wrong, of course, but they're over there. If you need them.'
With a quick, careless gesture he indicated the pile of boxes he had brought in with him. Then, before she could speak, he had opened the door.
'Don't worry if there's nothing suitable. I'm sure the case will turn up later today. I'll see you in the square, in half an hour.'
As soon as the door shut, Luisa pushed back the sheets and slid quickly from the high bed to the cool wooden floor. Swiftly she crossed the room and looked down at the boxes; there were several of them, large, tied with ribbon, and she stared at them in amazement. What an extraordinary man he was—and what an odd thing to have done. He was quite right. The larger of her two other suitcases was nowhere to be seen, and the one there, she knew, had been the second case she had packed. It was full of oddments, the fruit of indecisive packing, of nervousness. Inside it were a few old skirts—some thick jumpers because Claudia had started insisting it would be cold. Meanwhile… she looked at the beautiful white new boxes, their lids discreetly emblazoned with the names of famous shops.
She felt suddenly possessed with a stupid mad excitement, like a child's on Christmas Day. No one had ever given her such presents. With trembling fingers she undid them, pushing aside the layers of stiff white tissue. When she had opened them all she sat back on her heels wonderingly, dazed by what she saw. Unerringly, it seemed, Julius had chosen for her the things she might have chosen for herself, except that never in her life had she bought such things. There was a box full of shirts of the softest silk, another of jumpers of the finest, lightest cashmere. There was a bag of the most exquisite Florentine leather; a box spilling over with silk underwear all edged and embroidered with handmade lace, in another the most beautiful dress, of pale cream linen and silk, with a soft cashmere-lined jacket. Luisa stared at them in disbelief. One box remained, tinier than all the rest, made of leather. Now almost afraid, she opened it and caught her breath. Inside, laid on dark velvet, was the most beautiful necklace she had ever seen. It was old, of dark amber set in gold; it was the exact colour of her eyes, and when, with shaking hands she held it against her throat and looked in the glass, she saw the stones circle her neck with a mysterious beauty, ageless, soft, the colour of the water that lapped outside the windows.
Feverishly, on an impulse she could not explain, she suddenly turned back, and began to rifle quickly through the boxes. Julius must have put some message with this, she thought, agitation rising up unchecked in her. There must be some note some card… something. But she could find nothing. Then, as she let her hand fall, she saw it tucked inside the little leather box which contained the necklace, a small plain white pasteboard card. It said: To my wife, from Julius. There was nothing else. No date, no sentiments, no mark or word of affection. Just all this.
Involuntarily she pressed the card to her lips, and looked around her, sudden joy starting unbidden to her heart. It was not just that the things were so beautiful, so carefully chosen, that he should be so generous now, and so carelessly so, after his harshness the night before, it was that they were from him. With a quick exclamation she picked up the folds of silk and lace and pressed them against her skin. They were lovely, lovely. And they were from Julius.
Then, quickly, realising the time that had gone past, she stood up; soon, very soon, she must meet him. She suddenly felt wildly, inexplicably, uncontrollably happy. Her heart sang. Swi
ftly she washed, brushed her long thick tousled hair. With shaking hands she selected some of the tiny beautiful garments that foamed lace in the white box of lingerie—they fitted her exactly, as if they had been made for her, their silk caressed her skin, and she felt her cheeks colour deeply as she looked at herself in the glass. These were the kind of things Claudia might wear, the tiny bra, lifting her small rounded breasts, the silk stockings, the lacy camisole petticoat that brushed the tops of her long slender thighs. Quickly she bent and put on the cream linen dress, the light jacket that went with it, reverently her fingers brushed the label of the designer and for a moment she hesitated. All this must have cost so much; perhaps she shouldn't accept it, perhaps she should take them off, put them back in the boxes, refuse them…
But the temptation was too great; and besides there had been something in Julius's eyes when he had gestured so casually, had left her so quickly. Just a trace, a hint, of a vulnerability she had thought he no longer possessed. If she refused these, she knew she would hurt him. Turning to go, she looked back once in the glass, and stared at herself in astonishment. The clothes were beautiful, of course—the dress a little paler than her hair, its soft texture glowing against her skin, the thick aureole of her hair. But it was more than that: she looked alive, she realised, she, who always looked to herself so bloodless, so dulled, so shut somehow. Her eyes danced at her reflection, and she laughed happily. The necklace of amber and gold sang in the light; its soft weight against her throat was like a caress. She banged the door carelessly behind her and sped down the stairs, her heels clicking against the pale marble.
He was sitting outside the café, just as he had said, and they saw each other in the same instant. He stood up, formally, and although he controlled it, tried to mask it, Luisa thought she saw pleasure light his eyes. His eyes travelled over her with a frank admiration, but he said nothing, merely drawing out a chair. He took her hand, briefly, lightly, as if in greeting, and then turned away to summon the waiter.
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