by Joanna Hines
He kissed her, tenderly, and after a moment she responded, kissing him as she hadn’t kissed him since that night when her father found them in his little room. That had changed, too. These weren’t the kisses of the sheltered unworldly girl he’d first loved in Padua, but the kisses of someone experienced. At first he found it exciting, this newborn woman in his arms, then arousal gave way to doubt.
He drew back. ‘Where did you learn to kiss like that?’
‘Like what?’ she asked dreamily.
‘With the tongue. Like a whore. Like the foreign girls.’
She stepped back and looked at him directly. ‘In Florence,’ she said simply. ‘I have fooled around with some of the boys. But only kissing. Never more than that.’
He didn’t want to believe her. Inside the house, he could hear Annette’s voice, calling them in to supper. This whole family brought him nothing but pain, Francesca included. All he wanted was to break free of them. Maybe she had made up that story about her uncle to win his sympathy. How could he know if she was telling the truth about the photographs? About those boys in Florence? How would he ever be able to trust her? And when she found out about him and Annette…
‘How can I believe you?’ he asked coldly.
‘Because it’s the truth. Why would I lie to you?’
‘I can think of several reasons,’ he said, steeling himself to ignore the way her expression changed from bewilderment to hurt. ‘You want me to help you. Isn’t that why you’re making up to me now? So I’ll go along with your plans and help you get Simona to Florence? You’re using me, just like everyone else in your family.’
‘Using you? What are you talking about?’
Annette had appeared at the far end of the terrace. ‘Since you’re still here, you may as well join us in the dining room,’ she said acidly. Mario almost welcomed the interruption of her harsh voice. It made his task so much easier.
‘Oh, you know what I’m talking about, Francesca,’ he said.
‘But—’ She broke off. ‘Damn. There’s my mother. Mario, we’ll talk again. I don’t know what’s got into you, but… you’ve got it all wrong.’
He watched her as she hurried across the terrace towards the house. He felt as though he was falling into endless dark, the void of a world without Francesca in it. The worst part was that she didn’t realize this was more than a lovers’ tiff. She was so confident of his love for her—and why shouldn’t she be, after all?—that she had no idea that when he left tomorrow, it would be for the last time.
Numb with misery, he followed her into the house.
At dinner in the frescoed dining room, he was seated next to Francesca. She did not address a single word to him through the whole meal, but then, she hardly spoke at all. By contrast, Kate, who sat opposite, seemed to be enjoying every moment. If he hadn’t been so caught up in his own misery, he’d have been full of admiration. For once she was appropriately dressed: a green twinset which highlighted her strong colouring and a coral necklace she must have borrowed from Simona. She wasn’t beautiful in the way that Francesca was, but she radiated vitality and good humour.
Not only did she look good, she knew exactly the right note to strike with everyone. Sensing the tensions in the family, she was doing her best to make the evening a success. With Francesca’s father she was flirtatious just enough to flatter him but not enough for anyone, not even Annette, to take offence. Towards Annette she was respectful, but fearless also and when she disagreed she did not hesitate to say so, which was a combination Annette was not at all used to. She was warm, almost tender with Francesca: aware that her friend was unhappy and doing her best to cajole her into a better mood. Simona clearly adored her already. It was hard to believe the two girls were only months apart in age since Kate seemed so much older, but Kate was never patronizing towards Simona.
But it was her manner towards Zio Toni when they’d been up at La Rocca for a drink that had most impressed him. Mario had become accustomed to the way Signor Bertoni was simultaneously cosseted and kept at arm’s length by all those who were supposed to be closest to him, so it was almost shocking to see Kate treat him like what he was: an old man who was dying a slow and painful death. She alone expected nothing from him and by her compassion the self-interest of the others was exposed.
Mario didn’t bother analyzing her manner towards him: she must think he was crazy—to have insulted her the previous evening and tried to make her leave with him twenty-four hours later. The actions of a mad man—well, that wasn’t so far from the truth.
About halfway through the meal, just as the veal was being cleared away and salad and cheese passed around, Dino came down from La Rocca with a message for Annette: Zio Toni wanted to speak with her urgently. She stood up and left at once. No question of keeping the golden goose waiting. Mario was sickened by the speed of her response.
When the meal was over, the girls made their excuses and escaped upstairs, while Francesca’s father suggested they retreat to the sala and enjoy some brandy and a cigar. For a while they discussed Signor Bertoni’s favourite topics, cars and women, until Mario could bear it no longer and excused himself. He put on an overcoat against the chilly night and went out into the garden, following the cypress walk until he reached the point where the ground fell away in a precipice beyond the balustrade. For a minute he toyed with the idea of throwing himself over, but only for a minute: you needed to have a taste for melodrama to pursue such solutions and he’d seen enough botched attempts at suicide to know the crude ways are never the best. If he ever did decide to make an end, he’d do it quietly and efficiently, with the right combination of pills, a proper doctor’s death. Besides, filled with self-loathing though he was that night, he did not yet hate life itself.
But oh, Francesca…
He must have groaned aloud. A man’s voice in the darkness said, ‘Who is it?’ and then came the sound of a shotgun being readied for firing.
‘Il dottore,’ Mario called out swiftly.
‘Ah, dottore, buona sera. Good evening, doctor.’ A figure emerged from the cypress walk. He was carrying a shotgun and had a couple of dogs at his heels, but behind the torch Mario could not see his face. ‘Lucky I recognized you,’ said the stranger, his voice heavily accented with the local dialect. ‘Or you might have been shot!’ And he laughed uproariously at this possibility.
Mario knew him from his voice: Angelica’s son Dino who had been employed at the Villa Beatrice since he was a child. Of limited intelligence, he had the countryman’s love of killing things, but otherwise Mario reckoned he was fairly harmless.
They talked for a while in the darkness. Apparently there’d been reports of a lone wolf in the neighbourhood recently: some chickens had gone missing. ‘I thought that was you!’ Dino still seemed to think Mario’s near escape was highly entertaining. ‘Better bring a torch next time or else—’ he waved the gun and grinned—‘boom boom!’ And he roared with laughter again.
Mario pretended to laugh too. ‘I’ll stay here a while longer, Dino, Take care you don’t shoot me.’
It was a great joke. Dino was still laughing as he set off into the darkness, his dogs at his heels. Mario remained where he was, smoking and staring into the night. Remembering the weeks when he and Francesca had fallen in love, he cursed the day he’d allowed himself to be snared by her mother. Looking back at the house, he saw the downstairs lights being extinguished, one by one, then the lights on the first floor, until only two were left, those in the hall and on the landing. They must have left them on for him. Unless, of course, they thought he’d already gone to bed and had locked up for the night. In which case, he’d have the perfect excuse for driving back to Lucca right away.
He felt in his pockets and cursed. He had emptied his pockets when he changed into his suit for the evening. The keys to his car were on the chest of drawers in his room.
Aware now of the bitter cold, he walked back to the house. The front door was barred and bolted, as was the door at the
back that led into the passageway beside the kitchen. Then he noticed lamplight shining through the large windows of the sitting room. Thank God, someone was still up. He walked quickly along the side of the house and looked in.
Kate was standing in the middle of the room with her back to him. She was wearing a borrowed man’s dressing gown of dark silk that came to just below her knees, and her feet were bare. In front of her stood Annette, still wearing that blue cocktail dress. She had her hands on Kate’s neck.
Mario rapped loudly on the glass. Annette looked over Kate’s shoulder towards the window. Her eyes were huge as if she’d seen a ghost and she dropped her hands. Kate turned, recognized him at once, and crossed the room quickly, pushing up the window to let him in. As she did so, the cord tying her dressing gown loosened, revealing the smooth, pale flesh between her breasts, almost to her navel. Under the man’s silk dressing gown she was naked.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he climbed over the sill. ‘I wasn’t looking forward to spending the night in the shed.’
‘It’s lucky for you no one can sleep tonight. What have you been doing?’ Kate smiled as she pulled the dressing gown more tightly round her waist and reknotted the cord.
‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright,’ he said to Annette, who had turned away and was lighting a cigarette.
Still with her back to them, she said in a low voice, ‘I assumed you’d gone to bed already.’
‘I must have lost track of the time.’
‘You should be more careful in future.’
‘Yes. I’ll try.’
Kate said, ‘You look frozen. I’m sure no one would mind if I poured you a brandy, would they, Signora Bertoni?’ She walked over to the side table where the bottles, hidden away by Angelica the previous evening, were now set out on a silver tray. Mario observed the way the dark silk shifted over her buttocks and hips as she moved.
‘I think it’s black coffee I need,’ he said.
‘Then you’ll have to make it yourself,’ Annette told him. ‘Angelica went to bed an hour ago.’
‘Mm, coffee,’ said Kate. ‘What a brilliant idea. Do you want some too, Signora Bertoni?’
Annette was watching them both as they moved towards the door. ‘No. I’m going to bed.’ They said good night to her and heard her footsteps going slowly up the stairs.
The kitchen was immaculate, everything scrubbed and polished, china and cutlery already laid out on the counter for the morning. They hunted down coffee and a pot and worked out how to light the stove, the practical activity breaking down some of the barriers between them. When at last the kitchen began to fill with a rich aroma, Kate said, ‘I can’t make Francesca’s mother out.’
‘Don’t try,’ he said, with feeling.
‘No, seriously. I know it sounds crazy, but I was really glad when you turned up at the window like that, even though it scared us half out of our wits.’
‘Glad?’
Kate nodded. ‘Relieved. She’s been acting weird all evening. When I came down she was sitting in that room, just smoking and staring into space. She didn’t even notice me at first, but then she was all over me, so friendly you’d think I was her long-lost best friend or something. Except you could tell it was phoney.’
‘What is phoney?’ He had not come across the word before.
‘False. Like she was pretending. She kept asking me all sorts of questions about my family, what I was going to do, how I’d got to know Francesca and everything.’
‘You are friend of Francesca. It’s natural she is curious for you.’
‘Yes, I suppose so…’ Kate stared at the coffee pot, not seeing it at all. ‘But it’s just…’
Mario waited. If he had his way he’d never have to think or talk about Annette ever again. But something had clearly made Kate uneasy and he was glad of any distraction from his own thoughts.
At length she said, ‘You’re right, mothers always want to know about their kids’ friends, but it wasn’t that. It was… she kept going on about the way I looked, my clothes…’
‘She is traditional, Kate. Old-fashioned. She does not understand your world of jeans and miniskirts.’
‘Yes, I understand that but… she wouldn’t let up. And… she wanted to talk about jewellery too, this coral necklace of Simona’s.’ She fingered the stones at her throat. ‘That I should try putting earrings with it. And… it was like it was all just an excuse to… to touch me.’ She looked up at him and laughed in her embarrassment. It was the first time he’d seen her so unsure. ‘You must think I’m nuts. Like I’m saying she’s a lesbian or something.’
‘Kate.’ He smiled. ‘You are very attractive, but even so…’
‘I know. Don’t tell Francesca I said that.’
‘When I see through the window—’
‘Yes,’ said Kate, still fiddling with the necklace. ‘She said she had a choker that would suit me. Pearls or diamonds or something like that. She thought it might fit… She was so creepy about it… Oh, I can’t explain.’ She gave up. ‘Let’s have the coffee.’
‘You want in here?’
‘No,’ said Kate. ‘My feet are freezing on this floor. At least there are rugs in the sitting room.’
They put the coffee on a tray and carried it back through the silent house to the sitting room. The fire had died down, all but a blackened log that was still smouldering. Mario put another log on and poked a few sparks into life. Kate poured the coffee, then sat on the pale leather sofa, tucking her feet up beside her and rubbing them to get warm.
‘Your poor foots,’ he said, sitting beside her. ‘They are too cold.’
‘Yes.’ She wiggled her toes at him. ‘My foots are frozen.’
He smiled and took one of her feet between his hands and began massaging gently, just above the toes. ‘Is change from hand,’ he said, almost to himself and began singing softly, ‘Che gelido piedino, se lo lasci riscaldar…’
‘I know that tune,’ she said.
‘I think so. Is La Bohème, most famous opera of all. Mimi’s hand is cold and Rodolfo make it warm again. You know.’
‘No. I’ve never seen an opera.’
‘Is because you are ignorant English girl.’
‘Now the other one.’
‘This one is not finish.’
‘But it’s freezing!’
‘Must wait.’
He was concentrating on the task, working the ball of his thumb in steady circular movements over her foot, and as he did so he felt a slight lessening of his own ache of grief at all he’d lost that day. It was what made him a good doctor, the relief of forgetting himself in reaching out to heal another’s pain. The friction of flesh on flesh was soothing, helping him to forget, and Kate had beautiful feet, a bit grubby, it was true, but strong and supple.
‘Now the other,’ he said, laying the first one on his knee and turning his attention to the second.
Kate didn’t answer, but allowed him to pick up her foot and massage it back to warmth as he had the first.
‘Is finish,’ he said eventually, and looked at her. She was lying back on the cushions at the end of the sofa, her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her eyes were huge. He had never seen anyone look so desirable as she did then. He wanted to hold her, just hold her, and escape from his solitary grief. ‘Ah, Kate…’ he breathed and without thinking what he was doing, he leaned over to kiss her.
‘Oh no, not a second time.’ She swung her legs round and sat up very straight. ‘No more of your games, Mr Dottore Bassano.’
‘Kate, I am apologize.’
‘Drink your coffee.’
‘Okay.’ He reached across and slid the neck of the silk dressing gown back onto her shoulder. She was sitting very still. He said, ‘Whose this is?’
‘It’s an old one of Francesca’s father’s.’
‘Is good for you.’ He rubbed a tiny piece of fabric between his thumb and forefinger, then touched the edge of her neck, just below her ear. She did not move away. Slo
wly, the silk began to slither off her shoulder again.
Mario turned and picked up his coffee. Kate turned to him. ‘What is it you want, Mario?’
He sighed. ‘I do not know.’
‘Well, you ought to bloody well work it out. I mean, you keep on doing this to me. One moment you come on strong and the next moment—either you are rude or—or nothing.’ Her voice was angry but he noticed that the tip of her nose had turned pink, as though she might be on the verge of tears.
He thought for a few moments, then set down his cup and said, ‘What I want, Kate, right now, more than anything else, I want to hold. Just hold, nothing more.’
‘Why?’
‘Is what I want, that’s all.’
She turned, to see if he was sincere this time. Whatever she saw on his face must have convinced her, because she said, ‘Then hold me, Mario,’ and slipped into his arms.
They made adjustments, then stretched out next to each other on the sofa, Mario on the outside braced to stop himself from falling. He breathed in the scent of her hair, relished the soft warmth of her body against his. After a while Kate said they should switch off the light in case anyone came downstairs and found them, and he put another log on the fire at the same time. Then they stretched out again and after a while, when she had not spoken for some time, he thought she must have fallen asleep. He began to stroke her hair, very gently, not wanting to wake her, then let his fingers trail along the silk surface of her robe, her shoulders and her upper arm.
Her voice came softly in the darkness. ‘Mario?’
‘Am I disturb you?’
She wriggled round between him and the back of the sofa so that her face was less than an inch from his. He leaned forward a fraction to kiss her, but she put her hand up between their mouths.
‘You do not want?’
‘What about Francesca? I’ve never figured out what’s going on between you. I won’t do anything that would hurt her.’
He was silent for a while, then he said slowly, ‘For a long time, I love Francesca. But now is finish. Finish for ever.’