A Florentine Revenge

by Christobel Kent

  ‘Lucas does a lot of work for the Russians,’ Emma said slowly, and Celia saw a little frown, saw her begin to wonder about her husband. Had this kind of thing happened before, perhaps on their trip to Milan, had he shut himself away there? It seemed to Celia that this was new to Emma, that she’d been happy with Lucas until they came here, to Florence. Was it the pregnancy that had changed things? Or was there something else? From the street outside there came the sound of a discreet touch on a car’s horn, and Celia turned to see the low, dark shape of Gabriele’s Mercedes.

  The traffic crawled in the snow; the Via Nazionale was at a standstill and Gabriele took a meandering route the half-mile back to the hotel. Around them the streets were filling up again; on the soft white pavements people slid and laughed, leaning against one another for support.

  They hardly spoke in the car. Once Lucas leaned forward and said, ‘The Palazzo Ferrigno. It’s – very private, is it? Secure?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Celia, aware that he’d already asked her this. She wondered what it would take to make Lucas Marsh, with all his money, feel safe. ‘They’re used to conferences, politicians, even royalty, I think.’ Although of course tonight, as far as they knew, they were simply entertaining a wealthy lawyer and his wife; would they have any security to speak of? She could tell Gabriele was listening beside her, although he was looking straight ahead, and suddenly she wanted to be away from the Marshes, to sit and talk to Gabriele about it all. What had Lucas Marsh been afraid of in the library? It came to her that they’d been hiding in there, that since he met them in Frollini Lucas had wanted to keep them out of sight. Her neck was stiff with tension from the day, and her back ached, and she had a feeling she couldn’t ignore that something here was wrong.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, this evening?’ she ventured cautiously. She knew how much the dinner had cost them but it seemed to her the Marshes were rich enough for that not to matter. She turned to look at them in the back of the car.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lucas Marsh, but he seemed distracted, looking out of the window, scrutinizing the passers-by from below.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to it for months,’ said Emma, squeezing his arm.

  ‘When shall I ask Gabriele to collect you?’ Celia said. ‘A quarter to?’

  ‘No,’ said Lucas quickly. ‘I can arrange something. Or perhaps we’ll walk. In the snow.’

  ‘But perhaps you’d like to be on your own, at least,’ Celia said, hearing that edginess in his voice she’d noticed, on and off, since they’d arrived. It suddenly seemed to her that it would be so much easier if she could just say goodbye to them now, put them behind her. They came out into the piazza, where the snow was settling as the temperature dropped, and Celia peered out through the window in wonder at the transformation. The little green and gold carousel was turning slowly with its load of booted and mittened children, and the grandiose, nineteenth-century facades were softened by the falling white. The car glided to a halt at the front of the Regale, and a green-frogged doorman was there, leaning down to Emma’s door; Celia saw his face peering in, a brief flare of curiosity quickly erased.

  ‘No, no!’ Emma’s protest was robust. ‘We can’t say goodbye yet! And besides, there’s something – no, you must come.’ There was even a hint of pleading in her voice.

  ‘Please come,’ said Lucas Marsh from the dark corner where he sat, and for a moment, before his face came into the light, Celia was reminded of their first conversation, the effect on her of the voice that seemed to reveal so much more of him than his face. He leaned forward and now his tone was formal. ‘Please.’ He opened his own door, climbing out without waiting for an answer.

  ‘That’s settled,’ said Emma, taking the hand the doorman offered her. ‘Lucas never asks twice.’ She leaned to climb out then, and momentarily all Celia could see was the curve of her waist in the red woollen coat and the slender, stretched tendon of her ankle, stockinged pale. ‘Just a minute,’ Emma said, and Celia saw her run into the foyer of the hotel, saw her leaning across the reception desk to ask something. She saw the receptionist shake her head, and Emma ran back out, her shiny dark hair falling back from her bright face. Celia heard her say something like, ‘I’ll have to send it over,’ to Lucas, and then she leaned back in. ‘Are you going home now?’ she asked, her eyes bright and inquisitive. ‘Or are you two off for a drink?’

  ‘I’m going home,’ said Celia, wondering if Emma thought they were a couple, darting a glance over at Gabriele to see if he’d picked up on it. If he had, he showed no sign, gazing through his windscreen at the snow. ‘Thank you,’ said Emma, pulling off a glove and holding out a hand across her to Gabriele; Celia saw him look up at her in surprise, charmed. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, shaking the small white fingers. Celia was aware of Lucas behind his wife, standing stiff and silent with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘We’ll see you there at seven, then,’ said Emma, and straightened, disappearing. Celia could see her hand reach out for Lucas, but he turned and she couldn’t see whether he took it or not. They walked through the door side by side, silhouetted against the luxurious golden light of the lobby.

  Celia leaned back for a moment on the soft leather of Gabriele’s passenger seat and closed her eyes, and for a moment she felt blissfully, perfectly at ease, cosseted, protected, warm and safe. She was aware of him at her side, saying nothing, and aware too of not having felt like this for a long time. She opened her eyes, and there was Gabriele, looking at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘Just tired out, somehow. Now they’ve gone. Give me a minute.’

  ‘Let me give you a lift home,’ he said, serious suddenly, and intent. She sighed, looked out at the snow. ‘I think I should walk,’ she said. ‘My head needs clearing, if I’m going out again later. A bit of exercise. And it’s so pretty, isn’t it?’ Gabriele shrugged, eyeing the snow sceptically. ‘Whoever said Italian men were romantic?’ said Celia, laughing as she began to button her coat; out of the corner of her eye she saw Gabriele frown a little at what she’d said. Then he leaned towards her, put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her mouth against his.

  ‘Romantic enough for you?’ he said, letting her go abruptly and still frowning. Celia felt her cheeks burn, not sure whether to be shocked or delighted, her heart pounding. ‘Gabri —’ she began, holding out a hand to him, but she realized she didn’t know what she wanted to say. ‘I’d better go.’ She pressed her cheek against his, feeling the tiny prickle of stubble, smelling his aftershave, breathless. ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated, feeling stupid that she could think of nothing else to say. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ said Gabriele. She thought she saw amusement in his eyes, and felt foolish. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m at the Ferrigno from seven till, oh, I don’t know, about nine.’ She realized she was gabbling, realized he didn’t need to know any of this, and to cover her confusion stepped out of the car quickly, slamming the door; she saw him looking up at her through the glass. Celia lifted a hand, and slowly the car moved off; she stood there for a while, dazed. She was still half in a daze as she walked away, out of the bright square and down the nearest side street, pulling on her gloves, absently feeling for her bag, purse, mobile, the snow falling soft and cold on her cheeks. She was thinking about Gabriele, thinking, as it all fell into place, about his visit late last night, the looks he’d given her, how slow on the uptake she’d been. She only became aware quite suddenly that it had grown dark and she had taken a wrong turning when she felt her arms seized, both of them at once, from behind.

  It had taken Luisa longer than she would have liked at the dressmaker’s, and there was a queue at the bank; the longer it was postponed, the more she wanted to see Lucas Marsh again. As she waited it began to seem to Luisa that he held the answer to something, to everything that had gone wrong in her life; he was bound up in the loss of their child as well as his. After half an hour in the queue – an argument about documentation at one of
the cash-desks – her impatience got the better of her; she stowed the takings at the bottom of her bag and left. I could run away with this kind of money, she thought absently as she waited for the security airlock to open. When the door opened she pushed her way out in a hurry, in her mind some confused desire to have it out with them.

  Have what out? My husband, she wanted to say to Lucas Marsh, look what you’ve got him into. And what about his wife? She’d have to say this in front of the young wife who knew nothing. Luisa didn’t want to think about his wife. She hurried past the Venetian facade of the Orsanmichele, lovely in the snow, but she was heedless; the stiff bags swung against her legs as she hurried, their sharp corners bumping her calves, but she hardly felt it. The piazza opened in front of her, the grand frontage of the Regale came into view and she slowed, straightened, tidied her collar. You had to look decent before they’d even let you through the door; as she approached, Luisa saw the doorman shaking his head as he looked down into the face of an old woman all bundled up against the cold. Under the coats you could tell she was poor, and thin as a rail, her hair hennaed and thin. He’d never let her past him.

  The doorman nodded Luisa through as he stood, impassive, blocking the beggar’s path; Luisa glanced back as she passed through the door, and looked into the woman’s face. She wasn’t even that old, just ill-fed, her skin coarse and grey from poverty or drugs, her eyes too big, glazed and sunken, and her cheeks startlingly hollow. Their eyes met for a moment and Luisa thought, with horror, Do I know her? She looked away, moved on towards the bright, warm interior of the hotel’s foyer, but behind her she heard the beggar pleading, obsequious, ‘La pregho. I implore you. You don’t understand, he will speak to me.’ The doorman murmured in response, soothing but giving no ground, then the revolving door turned with a soft shush and shut them out.

  Inside it was hushed and warm. Luisa hurried :o the reception desk, thinking with a kind of relief, Of course I shan’t even see them, I’ll leave the bags here. She raised them to the desk and the receptionist nodded straight away in recognition. ‘Ah, what a shame, yes. For Signora Marsh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luisa, not quite understanding.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Marsh have just returned,’ said the receptionist. ‘She was asking for the bags.’

  ‘Mrs Marsh said by six,’ said Luisa in alarm, looking at her watch. It was just after five.

  ‘I’m sure, Signora Luisa,’ said the receptionist, politely reassuring. Luisa knew the girl, she shopped at Frollini, often asked for advice. They had to be smart, working in this place; a cheap chain-store suit would be noticed. Luisa felt tired, a little relieved that all she had to do was leave the boxes and walk away. She turned to go.

  ‘Just a moment, Signora,’ said the receptionist, lifting the telephone receiver. ‘I’ll tell them you’re here.’

  Luisa felt a prickle of alarm. She waited, looking away, keeping her coat buttoned. I’ll go, she thought. Outside the door she could see the thin woman pleading with the doorman in the dark; the woman put her hands to her temples in a gesture of desperation, the tendons in their backs strung like wire, and her mouth was moving but Luisa could hear nothing. The receptionist spoke into the receiver.

  ‘Would you mind?’ Replacing the phone, the receptionist was respectful, and Luisa felt her face frozen, unable to respond. ‘They would like you to take the bags straight up. I’m sorry.’

  Emma Marsh opened the door for her, smiling. She was still wearing the red dress but had unbuttoned it a little way at the side; Emma saw her looking and lowered her eyes, a flush on her cheeks. She looked pretty, like a painting Luisa remembered from somewhere. ‘Come in,’ she said eagerly, and with some reluctance Luisa obeyed. The honeymoon suite, the receptionist had said meaningfully; something about that shocked Luisa, the privateness of it. She and Sandro had gone to his mother’s in the Abruzzo for their honeymoon, two days by the sea in Pescara. She remembered the view from their room; there had been an ancient matrimoniale, a double bed piled with mattresses that looked out to sea. It had been the first time she’d slept in a double bed.

  Slowly Luisa lowered the bags to the shiny parquet and stood and looked around the room. It was as big as a ballroom, the ceilings as high and ornate, and the long windows hung with net gave out on to the Orsanmichele, rooftops and a great dark skyful of snow. Three dresses were hanging from what Luisa took to be the bedroom door; it was ajar but she couldn’t see more than the corner of a dressing table and a spillage of cosmetics boxes and bottles. The dresses were all beautiful, she could see that even on the hangers – money and taste, Emma Marsh had them both. There was a red one, with chiffon at the neck, a flowered silk in green and blue, and a black dress that stood out, austere and grown-up in a way she hadn’t associated with Emma Marsh, the kind of dress a beautiful widow might wear in a film.

  At the centre of the room Lucas Marsh was sitting at a large mahogany table in shirtsleeves with a newspaper spread out in front of him, although something struck her as odd about the fixed way he was looking down at it. Beside it his hand rested on a mobile phone, as though he was about to make a call or had just received one. He was a handsome man, thought Luisa, there was a combination of strength and nerves about him that drew her, and she realized that all the anger she had felt as she walked up from the shop, all that wild resolution to challenge him, had quite evaporated. She just felt a kind of heartsinking, miserable pity for him, him and Sandro both. Where would it end?

  Emma Marsh crossed to the table and leaned over her husband from behind, pressing her cheek against his. ‘Look at him,’ she said. ‘Always working.’ Luisa saw his hand move across the newspaper, and it seemed to her he was as tense as a stalking animal sitting there. For God’s sake, thought Luisa, imagining the humiliation of being kept in the dark about this, the story’s in the newspaper, it must be. He has to tell her. Would there be a picture of the child? Luisa wondered if he kept one hidden away, just to have it there, you didn’t have to look at it. Should she have done that, taken a photograph of that tiny, wrinkled face? Emma frowned down at something over her husband’s shoulder and he shifted suddenly, dislodging her. It was an unmistakable gesture of rejection and Luisa saw the confusion in Emma’s eyes as she turned away. Luisa held up the bag of shoeboxes, pretending she’d noticed nothing.

  ‘You are kind to bring them up,’ said Emma, and slowly she pulled at the ribbon tying the bag. ‘I’m trying to work out if I should wear the red ones tonight.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ Luisa said carefully. She saw that Lucas Marsh’s hand, held up to the side of his face at the table and shielding it, was trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry, would you like a cup of – tea, or something?’ Emma said, stopping midway through opening the bag, eager. ‘It’s so cold outside.’

  ‘Tea?’ Now Luisa had seen them together, she wanted to go more than ever. ‘I – no, no tea, thank you.’ Emma Marsh looked downcast. ‘Perhaps a glass of water?’ said Luisa, relenting, and Emma brightened. ‘Sit down,’ she said, ‘please.’ There were too many places to sit in the room, two great sofas, a leather armchair, an upholstered bergère; at random Luisa lowered herself gingerly on to a corner of the nearest sofa. Emma Marsh brought her a glass of water with some ice in it, and stood beside her as she sipped at it. She folded her arms tight against her waist as she sat there.

  ‘Lucas has arranged a dinner for me,’ she said, sweet and animated, smiling into Luisa’s face. ‘Just for me! I’m trying to decide what to wear.’ She nodded at the hanging dresses, and Luisa thought there was something not quite innocent in her gaiety, something forced. It was perhaps the contrast with her husband’s fixed silence at the table, the muscle in his jaw clenching as Luisa stole a glance.

  Emma Marsh went on determinedly. ‘I think you always need something new, don’t you, for a party? And it is my birthday’

  Luisa smiled, remembering what that had felt like, Saturday for shopping, a new dress and a party in the evening. Emma crouched sud
denly at Luisa’s feet and took out the shoeboxes; it felt curious to Luisa to have the roles reversed, however briefly. The shoes came out and Emma laid them side by side. She picked up the embroidered one with its tiny curved heel.

  ‘The red ones,’ she said slowly as she looked down at the ornate object in her hands. ‘Isn’t there something about red shoes?’ There is, thought Luisa, some distant memory of a children’s story slipping into her mind. What had happened to the girl in the red shoes? She couldn’t remember. Emma slipped her feet into them, stood up and executed a little spin on the spot, poised and graceful. She held out her fine white arms for balance and the sliver of pale skin was revealed where she had undone the buttons, the thickening at her waist emphasized. At the table Lucas Marsh lifted his head and Luisa turned, detecting the movement, to see him gazing across the room at them. For a moment it seemed to her that he was looking at his wife as though she was a stranger.

  As Luisa watched, Emma completed her turn and she saw that as she came around to face him, Lucas had managed a smile, a fond look. ‘What do you think?’ said Emma, smiling back; her eyes, though, were anxious.

  ‘You’re lovely,’ he said gravely, and suddenly, radiantly, Emma beamed. She sank to the sofa, pulling off the shoes. Leaning down, she saw the second bag. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, frowning momentarily. ‘Maybe…’ She looked up earnestly at Luisa, who sat there still with her half-empty water glass on her knee. ‘Can you do me a favour? Darling,’ she said, turning to look over her shoulder at Lucas, ‘have you got her address? Celia’s address?’ She leaned back towards Luisa and said, ‘It’ll be such a surprise for her.’ Behind them Lucas Marsh got to his feet and went into the bedroom. Seeing Luisa’s face, which revealed her confusion, Emma said eagerly, ‘The dress, you know, the green dress. If I can only have new shoes,’ she glanced deprecatingly at her waist, ‘at least someone can dress up.’