The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  She sank down into the deep water, letting the fragrant scent relax away her tense feelings. She would be seeing Marco again soon. She would be sharing breakfast with him. It was all intimate, too close, as if they had spent the night together.

  Her desire for him swept over her in a great wave of emotion. It was unbelievable. Rivulets of heat tore through her veins. She had never felt like this for any man. She would not be able to bear to look at him, knowing that her skin longed for his touch, her lips longed for his mouth. She had never felt so wanton, so out of control. It had been such a long time.

  She stood up quickly, turned on the shower, and let the tepid water cool her thoughts. A cold spurt made her jump. That’s what worked in boarding schools, wasn’t it? She could see herself having a lot of cold showers.

  Her hair dried quickly into feathery wisps and she ran her fingers through it, shaping the strands into her usual disarray. The only money she ever spent on her hair was for a good cut. She always went to Vidal Sassoon’s salon and was never disappointed by their expert work.

  She looked out of the window onto the Grand Canal below. It was misty, adding mystery to the elegant and decorative palaces that edged both sides of the canal. The canal was already busy with vaporetti and high-prowed gondolas churning the water. Even though it was December, it didn’t look cold outside. Boots and scarves were being worn, yes, but they were more of a fashion statement, not a necessity.

  Emma went downstairs and peered into several rooms, each high-ceilinged with extravagant carvings and cornices. But the rooms were not museum pieces. They had modern furniture. One was obviously a study with a partner’s desk, several computers, a printer, fax machine, and wall-to-wall books. The dining room had a long rosewood table, high-back carved chairs and seating for twelve. Perfect for a buffet party, Emma thought, suddenly wishing she could throw a party in such opulent surroundings.

  She saw that the balcony led from the dining room. The weak winter sun was shining through the glassed-in roof. Marco was standing with his back to her, watching the river traffic, shutting out everything. He was wearing dark slacks and a dark cashmere polo-necked jersey, his thick hair still wet from his morning shower.

  He turned. For a moment he basked in the wonder of her, the untamed hair, the gorgeous eyes, the enticing feminine figure. She was wearing a plain navy jacket and skirt and another crisp white shirt. So businesslike and so English. But it did not prevent him obliterating that demure material and seeing the shape beneath.

  ‘Emma. Buongiorno, signorina. You have slept well?’

  She had momentarily forgotten the power of that deep voice, the grave tones, the delightful accent. It burned like a brand, again almost rendering her speechless. She was acting like a teenager.

  She nodded. ‘I slept very well, thank you, Signor dell’Orto. The room is most comfortable. Everything is perfect.’

  Not quite perfect, she wanted to say, because this man was not for her. He must belong to someone else. Her heart steeled itself to this thought.

  ‘Please call me Marco. As we are to be thrown together for four weeks, we should address each other as friends. But if you are actually thrown, I shall certainly catch you.’

  Emma was not sure if this was a joke. She smiled, in case it was.

  ‘This is breakfast, Venetian style, prima colazione,’ said Marco, drawing out a padded cane chair for her. ‘Cappuccino and plain, cream or jam-filled croissants. But if you are even more hungry, there are rolls, ham and cheese. And, of course, always fruit in my house.’

  She could not believe she was sitting in this sun-filled balcony, having breakfast with this perfect man. Perhaps he was not so perfect in every way. Perhaps she would find out when she started work in his office. Her composure slipped another notch when she caught sight of his teeth as he bit into a croissant. They were white and even, but his right eye tooth was so slightly crooked. They were as nature made them, not the work of an expensive dentist.

  ‘So today we are going to your vineyards?’ she said, as she finished her second croissant, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin.

  ‘No, my vineyards are many miles away,’ he said. ‘But I will take you there one day soon. My offices are at the back of Venice, before the factories and smokestacks of Marghera start, past the Central Venice district.’

  ‘Factories?’

  ‘It is a big problem here. The pollutants, phenols, cyanides, detergents. But the worst is sulphur dioxide, which when mixed with the damp and salt air of the lagoon, eats away at the stonework. You will see the damage to my own palazzo. The stone face is crumbling. Even I can do nothing.’

  Emma could feel the love Marco had for his city. It was in his voice. For once he was not looking at her. She felt an urge to convey her understanding. But she dared not touch him. There were only trite words to say.

  ‘How awful,’ she said, bleakly. ‘What a problem.’

  It was early morning but already Venice was crowded with a stream of tourists. Every campo, bridge and walkway were thronged with people. Some hurrying, some with their noses glued to guidebooks, determined not to miss a single wonder.

  ‘Are we walking?’

  ‘Not today, my launch will take us to the end of the Grand Canal to the main station where a car is waiting for us.’

  Now that Emma saw the Grand Canal in daylight, she could not contain her delight. It was Marco’s pleasure to watch the joy on her face as each exquisite and lavishly ornate palazzo came into view along the winding waterway. She clapped her hands, like a child, as they went under the Ponte di Rialto.

  ‘It’s like in a film!’ she said. ‘I love it. I love it.’

  ‘We will walk Venice,’ he said. ‘I promise. I will show you every corner of Venice someday, maybe the four hundred bridges. When we have some time.’

  Emma remembered why she was here. It was not a holiday or a romantic liaison. She was here to work. She was here to find out why Marco dell’Orto was in such trouble. To find out why millions of euros had disappeared from his accounts. She was determined to help him. It was the least she could do.

  At the far end of the canal, the quayside began to change, became more commercial, crates of vegetables and fruit waiting to be delivered to the hotels, bars and restaurants. Baskets of freshly caught fish from the sea, frozen carcases of meat, piles of loaves from the nearby bakeries. Emma wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Food does not happen by magic,’ said Marco. ‘Restaurants need supplies for the hungry tourists. This is a way of life.’

  The Venezia Santa Lucia station was a huge building and dominated the area. Trains ran to all the cities on the mainland. Marco’s car was waiting for them, parked discreetly away from the commerce.

  ‘You are looking prim-and-proper English in your plain navy suit. So drab. And you look cold. It is enough to depress me,’ he said. ‘Wait here.’

  He disappeared into a small boutique, one of a row hugging a waterless side street. He came out with a tissue-wrapped parcel. But as he neared her, he tore off the paper and shook out a scarf. It was gold and red silk. He draped it round her neck, his fingers now brushing her skin with unbelievable tenderness.

  ‘Now you are wearing the colours of Venice,’ he said. The closeness was almost his undoing. He was grappling with a very real desire to cup that beautiful body close to him. He wanted to hold her in his arms for a few brief seconds.

  Emma read the conflict in his handsome face and drew back. He was watching her. No way. She was no trophy.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘A lovely souvenir of my visit to Venice.’

  ‘Where is your raincoat? You must wear a coat. It is winter here.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t know where it is. I remember having it when we landed and were walking through the airport. But I didn’t have it when we reached your home. Somewhere along the way I lost it.’

  ‘It was stolen,’ said Marco grimly. ‘The airport has many light-fingered boys and girls. Someone lifted it whe
n you were not looking.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage without a coat.’

  ‘I will get you a coat.’

  ‘Another souvenir of my visit?’

  She emphasized the word visit. She would be gone in four weeks, back to soggy London and her Brixton flat. Marco got into the front of the car, beside the driver. The driver’s name was Enrico. She sat at the back, fingering the scarf.

  The morning went by in a confused jumble of impressions. The dell’Orto accounts office was in chaos. It was housed in a modern brick building with no character. They had taken delivery of a new computer system earlier that year to make life easier for Signor Bragora, who was still a ledger-and-paper man. But the terminals kept failing. They had called in a series of so-called computer experts to sort them out. His two assistants, both pleasant young men, Rocco and Luka, were willing to learn but were as yet not ready for a complex system. Two female secretaries, Tina and Rosina, had electric typewriters and were learning to do emails on the computers. The whole accounts office was out of date for such a profitable organisation. It was unbelievable.

  Emma tried to put them at their ease. She was not there to accuse anyone of malpractice. They understood some English and seemed reassured. They brought her relays of aromatic coffee in mugs.

  Fortunately the Italian words for the various aspects of com-puters were the same as the English. So no language problem when discussing their system.

  Emma had her laptop. She unzipped the case and took it out. Luckily it ran on a battery and did not need recharging yet. She wondered if the electric sockets in the office worked.

  Signor Bragora was a charming man in his sixties with masses of white hair. He wore thick glasses and it was obvious that his eyesight was failing. He seemed to have peripheral vision and could get about, but anything close up was a blur. He used a torch with a strong beam and a magnifying glass to read.

  He spoke little English. It was impossible for Marco to keep translating every exchange. Emma could see he was getting impatient, his mouth changing into a stern line, his dark eyes growing darker.

  ‘I think it would be best if you left me here on my own,’ said Emma. ‘First I’ll go through all the paper transactions and see if they tally with the ledger entries. Figures are figures. I don’t need an interpreter for that.’

  ‘Thank goodness, at last, some sense. I have to go to the plant. It has a mechanical problem.’

  Marco strode out of the building, obviously relieved to get away. He did not even look at her. She did not know how far he was going. Perhaps he had a luncheon appointment. Perhaps he was keeping a beautiful woman waiting.

  Later, one of the assistants went out and came back with a box of snacks.

  ‘Pranza,’ Luka said. This was obviously lunch. Emma was happy to have a snack lunch of cheese and ham paninis and fruit. She declined the strange-looking fish pieces, though Venice was famed for its fish.

  By four o’clock, she was almost cross-eyed with pouring over columns of small figures, even with her glasses on. How long was Marco going to leave her here? But even as thoughts of rebellion and escape entered her mind, Marco returned, a jacket slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Finish for today,’ he said, brooking no argument. ‘Time for a Bucintoro,’ he said. ‘Or a Bellini, if you prefer it, but Bucintoro is definitely superior if lesser known. It is made with my own Prosecco so it must be far better.’

  Emma closed down her laptop, not looking at him. She tidied everything into neat order, ready for the next day’s work.

  ‘Please do not touch,’ she said to the staff.

  ‘No touch,’ they agreed. The men liked having such a pretty woman around. A woman who smiled a lot and took off her jacket so that they could glance at her breasts. Signor Bragora had already gone home. Half a day was enough for him.

  Marco held out her jacket. She was still wearing the gold and red scarf, draped on her shoulders. ‘So?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you expect me to have solved all your financial problems in one day?’ she said, stepping back.

  ‘No, but I expect progress.’

  ‘You are getting progress,’ she replied. ‘There are discrepancies that I can’t explain.’

  ‘Then we will go to the Café Florian in Piazza San Marco to celebrate this progress.’

  ‘I have heard of the Café Florian. And I saw it in a film.’

  ‘Is all your education from films?’ he mocked.

  ‘No, not all of it.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘So which of it is not from a film?’

  Emma was now out of her depth. Marco was making fun of her which was not fair. But she covered by saying goodbye to the staff in her newly acquired Italian. They were all packing up to go home.

  ‘Buona sera,’ she said.

  ‘Buona sera,’ they replied, grinning.

  The reverse journey was by car then vaporetto. Emma loved all the new sights, shrugging off the chill wind. She wished she had brought a coat. Venice was a bustling city, so many people in such a small space. No cars and no buses and she loved the lack of traffic noise. The vaporetti were noisy, but it was a water noise and seemed acceptable. It was like coming home when they reached the palazzo.

  Later, Marco was waiting in the hall. Emma had changed into jeans and put a thick sweater over her shirt. He had a long black cardigan over his arm.

  ‘For you,’ he said. ‘You must keep more warm.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She wondered if it was his but it did not seem masculine. It seemed feminine with gold buttons. But Italian men wore quite stylish clothes.

  They walked to the Café Florian in Piazza San Marco. The crowds were horrendous, even in winter. San Marco was the number one tourist spot with so many cafés and shops, and the magnificent Doge’s Palace and the famous Campanile nearby.

  The Doge’s Palace was a symphony in pink and white Verona marble, perched on lace-like Istrian stone arcades. The Campanile towered above everywhere, its famous five bells ready to toll the end of the day.

  ‘Would you like to sit inside?’ Marco asked. ‘There is an orchestra playing inside. I believe it is too cold for outside in the evening.’

  There was an immense forest of small tables in the piazza. Yet everyone was occupied, people drinking and talking, waiters hurrying with trays of drinks and small snacks.

  But it was evening and Emma felt a chill from the sea. ‘Inside, please,’ she said. ‘It’s a cold wind even with this cardigan.’

  ‘Of course, we have a lot of visitors now, even though it is winter. St Nicholas Day is on 6 December. You will be here for the celebrations? All the children have gifts, whether they have been good or bad.’

  ‘A carnival?’

  ‘Oh yes, no work. Everything closed.’

  ‘But I shall still work,’ said Emma firmly. ‘I have my laptop.’

  ‘Sometimes we have no electricity. There are many cuts. Does your laptop work on a candle? Always keep it charged.’

  A waiter recognized Marco and ushered them to a table inside. It was not easy, following Marco’s tall figure through the café, wanting to clutch his sleeve, ask him to slow down, wait for her. She hid the lurking hunger deep in her eyes.

  ‘Now I will explain,’ he said as they sat at a small, white-clothed table. There was a fresh carnation in a vase. ‘Bellini is the most famous cocktail. It is made of champagne, maybe French, often Prosecco, and peach juice.’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ Emma murmured. It might warm her up.

  ‘But Bucintoro is a mixture of Prosecco and strawberry juice. It is remarkable. It is a cocktail that you will never forget. It is my champagne, Italian grapes from Italian soil. You will always remember your first taste. Believe me.’

  As if she would ever forget anything of this first time in Venice. It was like an unreal world. A million miles from the greyness of Brixton.

  She nodded, wishing everything was different. Wishing she was here in this magical café with a love
r of her own. Not this powerful but gorgeous millionaire, who only wanted her to solve his money problems so that he could return to his customary lifestyle, buy a few more villas.

  ‘Bucintoro, grazie,’ she said, trying to pronounce it correctly.

  ‘Si.’ He waved the waiter over for their order.

  It was the most delicious drink. As Marco said, his champagne was crisp and slightly bitter, taking away the over-sweetness of the strawberries. Emma wondered if she could order it for breakfast. The taste flowed over her in waves of purity.

  She didn’t know the word for wonderful, but it was there in her clear hazel eyes and her voice. She was no good at hiding her feelings. Marco was delighted by her reaction, his eyes darkening as they locked with hers. He wondered when he could cross this strictly-business-only bridge and find the real Emma.

  ‘So, Emma Chandler, when are you going to take off this so orderly prim face and tell me about yourself? It is warm in here, is it not?’

  It was warm inside the crowded café. The orchestra was playing Gershwin tunes which Emma recognized but could not name. She slipped off the cardigan and jersey and hung them over the back of the chair. She knew her white shirt fitted, but it was not that revealing and now she had the Venetian scarf. It fell round her shoulders in a cascade of colour.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Where did this girl learn about complicated figures?’

  Emma laughed. It was a sound he loved. ‘I always liked maths at school. I could do it. Figures made sense. I always got top marks in every exam, but I couldn’t go on to university. There were too many problems, money especially. My foster mother worked and there was never much money to spare.’

  ‘But your father?’

  ‘He’d walked out many years before. A sailor, I think.’

  ‘Then it was not easy for you and your foster mother?’

  ‘No. But I went to evening classes, got some useful accreditation and was accepted into Irving Stone Accountants’ training scheme. It was a stroke of luck.’