She laughed, and her hair fell over her face.
‘Oh, hang it,’ she said, flicking it back over her shoulder. Looking around, she noticed a length of string lying on the floor, reached for it and used it to tie her hair back.
‘That’s better,’ he observed. ‘It’s nice to be able to see your face.’
‘Yes, people with my sort of forehead should never wear their hair long,’ she agreed.
‘What’s wrong with your forehead?’
‘It’s low,’ she said, showing him. ‘Most people have foreheads that are high and curve backwards, so if they grow their hair it falls down the sides of their face. But mine’s so low that long hair falls forward over my face.’
He assumed a mock serious air, making a play of inspecting her. ‘Yes, I see what you—’
‘What is it?’ she asked when he fell silent abruptly.
‘Nothing—that is—I don’t know.’
Once more he’d been assailed by the odd feeling he’d had the first night, that something about her was mysteriously familiar.
There were sounds coming from outside, voices from the stairs. The next moment Piero appeared, and with him a man carrying a bag of tools.
‘At last,’ Vincenzo said, getting to his feet.
‘Mio Dio!’ Piero exclaimed, looking around him.
‘Yes, it could have been a disaster but for Julia. Take her downstairs, Piero, and get her warmed up.’
Julia let herself be led away to the place where there was warmth, and fresh clothes, and hot coffee. Piero laughed heartily at her story, especially the tale of how she’d criticised ‘the owner’.
‘It’s too bad of Vincenzo not to have told you the truth,’ he said. ‘He is the owner. His full name is Vincenzo di Montese.’
‘What? You mean he’s the count? But I thought he was one of us?’ she cried, almost indignant.
‘So he is. What do you think makes us as we are? Is it simply not having a roof over our heads, or is there more?’
‘There’s much more,’ she said, thinking of the last few years when she’d had a roof over her head, and still been poorer than she was now.
‘Exactly. Vincenzo has his ghosts and demons, just like us. In his case it’s virtually everyone or everything he’s ever loved. They betray him, they die, or they’re taken from him in some other way. As a boy he worshipped his father. He hadn’t seen the truth about him then.’
‘What truth?’
‘Sheer brute selfishness. He was a gambler who cared about nothing and nobody as long as he got his thrill at the tables, no matter how huge his losses. People say he went to pieces after his wife died, and it’s true he got worse then. But it was always there.
‘The old count stripped this place of its valuables, so that now all Vincenzo owns is the shell. He lost the woman he loved. They were engaged, but the marriage fell through because her family said they didn’t want to see her dowry gambled away, and who can blame them?’
‘Didn’t they put up a fight if they loved each other?’
‘Vincenzo couldn’t put up a fight. He felt that he had so little to offer that it wouldn’t be fair. He’s a Montese, which means he has the pride of the devil.’
‘But didn’t she fight?’
Piero shrugged. ‘Not really. She may have loved him in her own way, but it wasn’t a through-thick-and-thin kind of way.’
‘What about him?’ Julia wanted to know. ‘Did he love her in a through-thick-and-thin kind of way?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s an all-or-nothing person. When he gives it’s everything. I remember their engagement party, in this very building. Gina was incredibly beautiful and knew how to show herself off. So she climbed those stairs and posed there for everyone to admire. And he stood below, looking up at her, almost worshipping. You never saw a man so radiantly happy.
‘But that same night his father left the party and went to the casino. The amount of money he lost in an hour triggered the avalanche that followed, although I suppose it would have happened anyway.
‘The count took his own life soon after. Having created the mess, he dumped it all on Vincenzo and made his escape. The final selfish betrayal.’
‘Dear God!’ she said, shocked. ‘You must have known Vincenzo well if you were at the party?’
‘I was there in my capacity as Europe’s greatest chef.’
‘Again?’ she warned. ‘You’re repeating yourself.’
‘Ah, yes, I’ve been a chef before, haven’t I? Well, whatever. If you could have seen the look on Vincenzo’s face that night—the last time he was ever happy. He loved that woman as few women are ever loved. And when she turned from him something in him died. That part of his life is over.’
‘You mean he’s given up women?’ Julia asked with a touch of disbelief.
‘Oh, no, quite the reverse. Far too many, all meaningless. He attracts them more easily than is good for him, and forgets them the same way.’
‘Maybe he’s the wise one,’ Julia murmured.
‘That’s what he says, but it’s sad to see a man bury the best of himself beneath bitterness. And it’s got worse these last few months since he lost his sister, Bianca, the one person left that he could talk to. They were twins and they’d always been very close.
‘She and her husband died in a car crash, only a few months ago, leaving him with her two children to care for. They’re all the family he has left now. Everyone and everything gets taken away from him, and now he seems to feel more at home with down-and-outs.’
They heard Vincenzo and the plumber coming down the stairs, the plumber leaving, and Vincenzo approaching. Julia was standing by the window and he went straight to her, arms wide and eager. Then she was swallowed up in a huge hug.
‘Thank you, thank you!’ he said fiercely. ‘You’ll never know what you’ve done for me.’
‘Piero’s just told me who you are,’ she said, struggling to breathe. ‘You’ve got a nerve, keeping a thing like that to yourself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘I just couldn’t resist. Besides, think how much good you did me with that frank assessment of my character. Thank you for everything, Julia—or whoever.’
It was the first time he’d openly hinted that he doubted her name, and he backed off at once, saying hastily, ‘I’m taking you both to supper tonight. Be ready in an hour.’
He vanished. Julia stood there, wondering at a tinge of embarrassment that had appeared in his manner.
Her clothes were all six years old, but she was thinner now and could get into them easily. She found a blue dress that was simple enough to look elegant.
She had almost nothing in the way of make-up, a touch of pink on her lips, and no more. But it had a transforming effect.
‘That’s better,’ Piero said when he saw her. ‘Let him see how nice you can look.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Piero!’ she said, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I’m not going on a date. What about you? Are you dressing up in your Sunday best?’
‘Top hat and tails,’ he said at once. ‘What else?’
But when Vincenzo, smartly dressed in a suit, called for them Piero was still in his coat tied up with string.
‘Are we going to your own restaurant?’ he asked.
‘We are.’
‘Are you sure you should be taking me there, dressed like this?’
‘Quite sure,’ Vincenzo said, with the warmest smile she had ever seen from him. ‘Now let’s go.’
Chapter Four
VINCENZO’S restaurant was called Il Pappagallo, the parrot, and stood down a street so narrow that Julia could have touched both sides at once. The lights beamed out onto the wet stones, and through the windows she could see an inviting scene.
It was a small place with perhaps a dozen tables, lit by coloured lamps. A glance at the diners showed Julia why Piero had been reluctant to come here among those well-dressed people. But Vincenzo had overruled him for friendship’s sake, and she liked him for it.
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He led them inside and right through the restaurant to the rear door, which he opened, revealing more tables outside.
‘Normally we couldn’t eat outside at this time of year,’ he said, ‘but it’s a mild night, and I think you’ll enjoy the view of the Grand Canal.’
She had partly seen it before through the palazzo windows, but now she saw the whole wide expanse, busy with traffic. Behind the vaporetti and the gondolas rose the Rialto Bridge, floodlit blue against the night sky.
‘Let me take your order,’ Vincenzo said. ‘I think we’ll start with champagne because this is a celebration.’
She’d forgotten what champagne tasted like. She’d forgotten what a celebration was.
‘We serve the finest food in Venice,’ Vincenzo declared, and a glance at the menu proved it.
She returned it to him. ‘Order for me, please.’
The champagne arrived and Vincenzo poured for them all in tall, fluted glasses.
‘Thank you,’ he said, raising his glass to her. ‘Thank you—Julia?’
‘Julia,’ she said, meeting his eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of confirming or denying her name.
Piero was looking gleefully from one to the other. She guessed he was imagining a possible romance. She shrugged the thought away, but she supposed his mistake was understandable. Many women would find Vincenzo irresistible. It wasn’t a matter of looks, because strictly speaking he wasn’t handsome. His nose was a little too long and irregular for that.
It was hard to tell the shape of his mouth because it changed constantly, smiling, grimacing, always reflecting his mood, which wasn’t always amiable. There was a touch of pride there, and more than a touch of defensiveness.
No, it wasn’t features, she decided, but something else, an indescribable mixture of charm, bitter comedy and arrogance, something unmistakably Italian. It was there in his dark, slightly sunken eyes, with their gleam that was so hard to read. A woman could drive herself distracted trying to fathom that gleam, and doubtless many women had. There was a time when she herself might have been intrigued.
But the next moment, as if to tell her to be honest with herself, she was assailed by the memory of lying beneath him on the attic floor, so that the hot, sweet sensation began to rise up in her from the pit of her stomach, threatening to overcome her completely.
She drew a long, ragged breath against the threat, refusing to give in. She was stronger than that.
Piero provided a kind of distraction, rejoicing in the champagne, pronouncing it excellent.
‘Only the best,’ Vincenzo said.
‘Yes, it is,’ she agreed, for the sake of something to say.
Vincenzo nodded. ‘I thought you’d know about that.’
She pulled herself together, refusing to let him overcome her, even though he had no idea that he was doing so.
‘Maybe I don’t know,’ she parried. ‘Maybe I only said ‘‘Yes’’ to sound knowledgeable. Anyone can do that.’
‘True. But not everyone would know about Correggio and Veronese.’
‘I was guessing.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ he said quietly.
She was getting her second wind and was able to say, ‘Well, it’s not your concern, and who are you to lecture me about people concealing their identity?’
‘Can’t you two go five minutes without bickering?’ Piero asked plaintively.
‘I’m not bickering,’ Vincenzo said. ‘She’s bickering.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’
‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ Piero commanded.
As one they turned on him.
‘Why?’ Julia asked. ‘What’s wrong with bickering? It’s as good a way of communicating as any other.’
‘That’s what I always say,’ Vincenzo agreed at once.
He met her eyes and she found herself reluctantly discovering that she was wrong. There was a better way of communicating. The look he was giving her was wicked, and it contained the kind of shared understanding she knew she would be wiser to avoid.
Piero raised his glass.
‘I foresee a very interesting evening,’ he said with relish.
‘Can we eat the first course before we have to fight another round?’ Vincenzo asked.
It was her first experience of Venetian cuisine, with its intriguing variety. A dish described simply as ‘rice and peas’ turned out also to contain onions, veal, butter and broth.
They drank Prosecco from hand-blown pink, opalescent glasses.
‘They come from home,’ Vincenzo said. ‘There were some things I was damned if I was going to sell.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, turning a glass between her fingers. ‘I can understand you wanting to keep them.’
‘My father gave me the first wine I ever tasted in one of these,’ he remembered. ‘I was only a boy, and I felt like such a big man, sitting there with him.’
You idolised him, she thought, remembering Piero’s words. And he betrayed you.
‘Isn’t it risky using them in a restaurant?’ she asked.
‘These aren’t for the ordinary customers. I keep them for special friends. Let’s drink a toast.’
They solemnly raised their glasses. Somewhere inside her she could feel a knot of tension begin to unravel. There were still good times to be had.
‘Are you warm enough out here?’ Vincenzo asked her. ‘Would you prefer a table inside?’
‘No, this is nice.’
‘We have the odd fine night, even in December. It’s after Christmas that it gets really bad.’
When the rice and peas had been cleared away she saw Vincenzo look up and meet the eye of a very pretty waitress, who returned a questioning smile, to which he responded with a wink and a nod of the head.
‘Do you mind doing your flirting elsewhere?’ Piero asked severely.
‘I’m not flirting,’ Vincenzo defended himself. ‘I was signalling to Celia to bring in the next course.’
‘And you had to do that with a wink?’ Julia enquired humorously.
‘I’m trying to appeal to her. She’s going to vanish next week, just when I’m going to need her most.’
‘But I thought you didn’t need too many staff at this time of year,’ Julia said.
‘It’s true the summer rush is over, but in the run-up to Christmas there’s a mini-rush. I shed staff in October and increase them in December. In January I shed them again, then increase them in February just before the Carnival. A lot of workers like it that way—a few weeks on, a few weeks off. But Celia’s going off just when I need her on. I’ve begged and pleaded—’
‘You’ve winked and smiled—’ Julia supplied.
‘Right. And all to no avail.’
‘You mean that this young female is immune to your charm?’ Piero asked, shocked.
‘His what?’ Julia asked.
‘His charm. Chaa-aarm. You must have heard of it?’
‘Yes, but nobody told me Vincenzo was supposed to have any.’
‘Very funny, the pair of you,’ Vincenzo said, eyeing them both balefully.
Celia appeared at the table bearing a large terracotta pot, in which was an eel, cooked in bay leaves.
‘This is a speciality of Murano, the island where the glass-blowing is centred,’ Vincenzo explained. ‘It was once cooked over hot coals actually in the glass furnaces. I can’t compete with that. I have to use modern ovens, but I think it’ll taste all right.’
When Celia had finished serving the eel he took her hand, gazing up into her eyes, pleading. His words were in Venetian but Julia got the gist of them without trouble, and even managed to decipher, ‘My love, I implore you.’
Even if it was all play-acting, she thought, it had a kind of magic that a woman would do well to beware. Celia seemed in no danger. She giggled and departed.
‘I guess I can’t persuade Celia.’ He sighed. ‘Tonight’s her last night. She’s about to get married and go on her honeymoon. Th
at’s her fiancé over there. Ciao, Enrico.’
A burly man grinned at him from another table. Vincenzo grinned back in good fellowship. Julia concentrated on her food, trying not to be glad that Celia had a fiancé.
As they ate the eel, washed down with Soave, her feeling of well-being increased. She had forgotten many things about the real world: good food, fine wines, a man who had dark, intense eyes, and turned them on her, inviting her to understand their meaning.
She was too wise to accept that invitation, but the understanding was there, whether she wanted it or not. It tingled in her senses, it ached in her heart, so long starved of the joyous emotions. It told her that she must risk just this one evening.
After the eel came wild duck. While it was being served she turned to look out over the canal.
‘Have you ever been to Venice before?’ Vincenzo asked.
‘No. I always meant to, but somehow it never happened.’
‘Not even when you were studying art? Please, Julia,’ he added quickly as she looked up, ‘let’s not pretend about that, at least. You recognised a Correggio and a Veronese at the first glance, and you can’t turn the clock back to before it happened. You’re an artist.’
‘An art restorer,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘At one time I fancied myself as a great painter, but my only talent turned out to be for imitating other people’s styles.’
‘You must have studied in Italy. That’s how you know the language, right?’
‘I studied in Rome, and Florence,’ she agreed.
‘Then I’ll enjoy showing you the whole house, although it’s only a ghost of itself now. I wish you could have seen it in its glory days.’
‘You’ve lost everything, haven’t you?’ she said gently.
‘Just about.’ He glanced at Piero and lowered his voice. ‘Do I have any secrets left?’
‘Not many.’
‘Good, then I needn’t bore you with the whole story. Now let’s eat. With duck we drink Amarone.’
He filled their glasses with the red wine that had just been brought to the table. Julia sipped it with relish and looked back at the canal.
‘I should like to see Venice in summer,’ she said, ‘when it’s bright and cheerful, not dark and menacing as it is now.’ She glanced at him, smiling. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude about your city.’
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