‘Take the waterbus. It’s about a twenty-minute journey. I’ll show you the exact place. Are you going to look at some of the glass-blowing factories?’
‘No, I’m looking for a man. His name is Bruce Haydon. He has relatives there and they’ll know where he is now.’
‘Is he Italian?’
‘No, he’s English. He had some Italian family on his mother’s side, but he’s lived mostly in England.’
She knew he was hoping to hear more, and she was foolish to keep silent. She should simply say that Bruce Haydon had once been her husband; that he had betrayed her vilely and condemned her to hell. But just now she wasn’t ready to say the words.
When she’d changed back into her jeans he led her to the San Zaccaria landing stage, and waited with her while the boat arrived. Passengers poured off, more passengers poured on. As she was about to turn away Piero tightened his grip on her arm.
‘Come back safely,’ he said.
‘Yes, I will,’ she promised him in a gentle voice.
As the boat drew away from the landing stage she looked back and saw Piero standing where she had left him. He remained motionless, growing smaller until she could no longer see him.
At last the boat reached the landing stage at Murano. It was a small island, constructed, like Venice, of canals and bridges, famous for its glass-blowing, but without the glamour of the main city.
With the aid of the map she was able to discover a row of houses beside a canal, and began to make her way along, searching for one front door.
Then it was there before her, the front door with a brass plaque proclaiming that here lived Signor and Signora Montressi, the name of Bruce’s Italian relatives. Luck was with her.
She rang the bell and waited. But there was no reply.
She told herself she must be patient.
She found a café and ordered coffee and sandwiches. From her bag, she took a small photo album in which she kept pictures to show people who might have seen him. It wasn’t very up to date. None of the photographs was less than six years old.
The first one was a wedding picture, showing a handsome man, grinning with delight. There was no sign of his bride. Julia had cut her out of the picture.
He had dark hair and eyes, but, although his Italian ancestry was visible, his face was slightly too fleshy for the kind of dramatic looks that Vincenzo had. He lacked Vincenzo’s intensity too, parading instead an air of self-satisfaction.
She stopped and gave an exclamation of annoyance at herself. Forget Vincenzo! Comparing every other man with him was futile. For many reasons.
But there was no way to forget Vincenzo. Piero had said, ‘He’s an all or nothing person. When he gives it’s everything.’
After last night she knew that it was true.
But Piero had also said Vincenzo had too many women, ‘all meaningless’.
So he was like herself, she thought. Nature had shaped him one way, and hard lessons had shaped him differently.
In that hot, dark night he’d become his true self again, giving generously, endlessly, revealing himself to her with no defences, nothing held back.
And it shamed her that she’d only half responded, revelling in the physical pleasure that he gave so expertly, returning it with every skill at her command, but giving nothing else. Her heart was still safely hoarded in her own control.
She remembered the scene in the kitchen that morning. He’d been tender and affectionate, seeking to evoke the same in her. She’d disappointed him because she was unable to do anything else.
Blurting out that she’d been in prison had been an impulse, instantly regretted. After that she hadn’t been able to get away from him fast enough, and he’d sensed it, and let her go, saying little.
She returned to the pictures, trying to concentrate on them and forget Vincenzo.
After the wedding snap came a selection of photographs taken over the next four years, during which the man put on a little weight, but continued to be good-looking and pleased with himself.
‘Whatever did I see in you?’ she asked the grinning head. ‘Well, I paid a heavy price for it.’
He filled the first half of the book. In the second half there was a different set of pictures.
They showed a baby, starting with the day it was born. Then the child became gradually larger and prettier, with curly blonde hair and shining eyes. And always she was laughing.
Julia slammed the album shut, closing her eyes and fighting back the tears. For a moment she sat there, rigid, aching, while heartbreak tore her apart.
At last the storm passed, and she forced herself to return to reality and behave normally.
‘Not much longer,’ she promised herself. ‘Not much longer.’
The weak moment was behind her.
Her second visit to the house was equally fruitless. It was dark before she returned a third time.
As she turned into the canal-side street she could see the lights in the windows. The door was opened by a pretty young girl.
‘Signora Montressi?’ Julia asked.
‘Oh, no, she and her husband have gone until after Christmas. They’re taking a Caribbean cruise. They left three days ago. I’m afraid that’s all I know. I only come in to feed the cat. They’ll be back in January.’
She almost ran away, needing to be alone to absorb the shock. To have got so close and then have the prize snatched out of reach.
She walked about aimlessly for a long time before catching the boat back across the lagoon. It was late but there were still plenty of travellers, and she stood looking over the rail at the black water. It would be a relief to get home.
Home. How strange that she should think of the palazzo as home. Yet there would be a warm welcome for her there, and what else was home but that?
‘Scusi—scusi—’
She moved as someone squeezed past her. At the same moment the boat ploughed into an extra high wave, causing it to lurch. As she grabbed the rail the strap of her bag began to slide down her arm. She twisted, trying to save it, and lost her grip.
As she watched the bag went sailing down into the water, carrying with it her precious album of pictures.
Vincenzo would have liked to get out of the dinner party at the Danieli Hotel, but he had promised and must keep his word. So he did his duty, sat next to an heiress who’d plainly heard of his circumstances, smiled, behaved with charm, concealed his boredom, and forgot her the moment the party was over.
From the hotel it was a short walk home, past San Zaccaria, and across St Mark’s. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he’d actually walked past the landing stage before he realised what he’d seen. He turned sharply back.
‘Piero,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for her boat,’ the old man said.
Vincenzo’s heart sank. It was usually in the afternoons that Piero came here on his fruitless mission. If he’d started coming so late at night, he must be getting worse.
‘I don’t think there are any more boats tonight,’ he said, laying his hand on Piero’s shoulder.
‘There’s one more,’ Piero said calmly. ‘She’ll be on that.’
‘Piero, please—’ It tore him apart to see the frail old man standing in the cold wind, clinging onto futile hope.
‘There it is,’ Piero said suddenly.
In the distance they could see lights moving towards them. Sick at heart, Vincenzo watched as it made its slow journey.
‘She went to Murano,’ Piero said. ‘I put her on the boat here this morning.’
‘Her? You mean Julia?’
‘Of course. Who did you think I meant?’
‘Well—I was a bit confused. I probably had too much to drink. What’s this about Murano?’
‘She went there looking for someone called Bruce Haydon.’
After a moment they both saw her standing by the rail. As the boat drew nearer she seemed to notice them suddenly. A smile broke over her face and she waved.
At last it reached the landing stage and passengers came streaming off. Piero went forward, his arms outstretched, and Julia hugged him eagerly.
‘You’re back,’ he said. ‘You came home.’
‘Home,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking.’
‘Thank goodness you got back safely,’ Vincenzo said. ‘We were a bit concerned.’
She seemed to see him for the first time.
‘There was no need,’ she replied. ‘I wasn’t lost.’
‘We didn’t know that. Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re safe now.’
The three of them began to walk back across St Mark’s Piazza and into the labyrinth of canals and little alleys that led home. Vincenzo kept firm hold of her arm, until she firmly disengaged herself.
She was angry with him again for knowing her secret—that she’d been in prison—even though she herself had disclosed it. And she was angry with herself for doing so.
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t need help.’
‘Yes, you do. Even prickly, awkward you. And don’t walk away from me when I’m trying to talk to you.’
‘Don’t talk to me when I’m trying to walk away.’
‘If you aren’t the most—’
‘It’s no use trying to reason with her,’ Piero said. ‘I’ve tried, but it’s pointless.’ He added in a deliberately provocative tone, ‘After all, she’s a woman.’
Julia turned and walked backwards, her eyes fixed on him.
‘I’d stamp on your feet if I had the energy,’ she teased.
Piero’s answer to this was a little dance. ‘You couldn’t do it,’ he asserted. ‘I used to dance leading roles with the Royal Ballet in London.’
She began to imitate him, and they hopped back and forth while passers-by gave them a wide berth, and Vincenzo watched them, grinning.
Later, as the three of them sat by the stove Vincenzo said, ‘Did things go well?’
‘No,’ she said robustly, ‘things went just about as badly as they could. The people I went to see are on a cruise. I missed them by three days, and they won’t be back until January. I had an album of pictures of the man I’m seeking, and on the way home it fell overboard. So now I don’t even have that.’
Vincenzo frowned. ‘For someone who’s just lost everything you’re astonishingly cheerful.’
‘I’m not cheerful, just mad. Mad-angry, not mad-crazy. I’ve been acting like a wimp, but now I’m done with weakness. When the pictures went overboard I was devastated for a whole minute, but then something inside me said, ‘‘That’s it! Time to fight back.’’’
‘The man you’re looking for,’ Vincenzo said carefully, ‘is he anything to do with—what you told me last night?’
‘Anything to do with my being in prison? Yes, he put me there. He cheated and lied and managed to get me locked up for his crime.’ She surveyed them both. ‘He’s my husband.’
Piero turned his head slowly. Vincenzo stirred.
‘My name isn’t Julia. It’s Sophie Haydon. My husband was Bruce Haydon. My mother warned me against him, but I wouldn’t listen. We were always a little uneasy with each other after that.’
‘What about your father?’ Piero asked.
‘I barely knew him. He died when I was a baby. Bruce and I were married over nine years ago. We had a daughter the next year, a gorgeous little girl called Natalie. I loved her to bits. She—she’s almost nine now.’
Her voice shook on the words, and she hurried on as though to prevent the others noticing.
‘Bruce had a little business, import, export. It wasn’t doing well and he hated it that I earned more than him. I was working as an art restorer, getting plenty of clients, starting to be employed by museums and great houses.
‘And then there was a spate of art thefts, all from houses where I’d been working. Of course the police suspected me. I knew all about the keys and burglar alarms.’
She fell silent again, staring into space for a long time. Then she jumped to her feet and began to pace up and down, her feet making a hollow, desolate sound on the tiles.
‘Go on,’ Vincenzo said in a strained voice.
‘I was charged and put on trial.’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Bruce made me a wonderful speech about fighting it together. And I believed him. We loved each other, you see.’ She gave a brief, mirthless laugh. ‘That’s really funny.’
She fell silent. Neither of the other two moved or spoke, respecting her grief.
‘In the last few days before the trial,’ she went on at last, ‘my mind seemed to be working on two levels at once. On one, I just couldn’t believe that they could find me guilty. On the other, I knew exactly what was going to happen. I knew they were going to take me away from Bruce and Natalie, and I spent every moment I could with them. Bruce and I—’
She stopped. It was better not to remember those passionate nights, his declarations of undying love, lest she go mad.
‘We took Natalie on a picnic. On the way back we stopped in a toy shop and she fell in love with a rabbit. So I bought it for her and she hugged it all the way home. When the trial began I’d say goodbye to her in the morning and she’d clutch that rabbit for comfort. When I came home she’d still be clutching him. The neighbour who was looking after her said she never let go of him all day.
‘On the last day of the trial I got ready to leave home and Natalie began to cry. She’d never done that before, but this time it was as though she knew I wasn’t coming back. She clung to me with her arms tight about my neck, crying ‘‘No, Mummy. Mummy, don’t go, please don’t go—please, Mummy—’’’
She was shuddering, forcing herself to speak through the tears that coursed down her cheeks.
‘In the end they had to force her arms away from around my neck, while she screamed and screamed. Then she curled up on the sofa, clutching her rabbit and sobbing into his fur. That was the last time I ever saw her. All she knew was that I went away and never came back. Wherever she is now, whatever she’s doing, that’s her last memory of me.’
She swung around suddenly and slammed her hand down on the back of a chair, clinging onto it and choking in her agony. Vincenzo rose quickly and went to her, but she straightened up before he could touch her.
‘I’m all right. Where was I?’
‘The trial,’ he said gently.
‘Oh, yes. They found me guilty. Bruce came to see me in prison a couple of times. He kept promising to bring Natalie ‘‘next time’’, but he never did. And then one day he didn’t come. My mother told me he’d vanished, taking our little girl.
‘I don’t remember the next few days clearly. I know I became hysterical, and for a while I was on suicide watch. That was six years ago, and I haven’t seen either of them since.
‘It was him, you see. He’d copied my keys, picked my brains. He’d drive me to work and ask me to show him around, ‘‘Because I’m so interested, darling.’’ So he knew what to look for, how to get in, how to turn off the alarm. Sometimes there were security staff, but they trusted him because he was with me. And everything he learned he sold to a gang of art thieves.
‘All the thefts happened over the same weekend, then they vanished abroad, leaving me to take the blame like a tethered goat. By the time I realised how Bruce was involved he’d vanished too.’
‘But surely you told the police?’ Piero asked.
‘Of course, but even I could hear how hollow it sounded—clutching at straws to clear myself. My sentence was longer because I’d been ‘‘unco-operative’’. I couldn’t tell them anything, because I didn’t know.
‘And all the time I knew he had my little girl somewhere. I didn’t know where and I couldn’t find out. She was two and a half when I last saw her. Where has she been all that time? What has she been told about me? Does she have nightmares about o
ur last moments, as I do?’
Her voice faded into a despairing whisper. After a moment she began speaking again.
‘Then a couple of the pictures turned up at an auction house. The police managed to trace the trail right back to the mastermind, and he told them everything. He hadn’t long to live and he wanted to ‘‘clear his conscience’’, as he put it. He said Bruce used to laugh about how I trusted him, and how easy I was to delude.’
‘Bastardo!’ Vincenzo said with soft venom.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but I suppose I should be glad of it, because that story was what cleared me. It meant that Bruce and I hadn’t colluded. My conviction was quashed and I was released.’
She paced a little more before stopping by the window.
‘My lawyer’s fighting for compensation, but my only use for money is to pay for a proper search for Bruce, if I haven’t found him by then.’
‘Aren’t the police looking for him?’ Vincenzo suggested.
‘Not as hard as I am. To them he’s just another wanted man. To me he’s an enemy.’
‘Yes, I see,’ Vincenzo said, almost to himself.
Her voice mounted in urgency.
‘He wrecked my life, left me to rot in prison and took my child. I want my daughter back, and I don’t care what else happens.’
‘Have you no family to help you?’ Piero asked.
‘My mother died of a broken heart while I was in prison. She left me a very little money, just enough to come here and start searching for Bruce.’
‘So you came to Venice to find his relatives?’ Piero asked.
‘Yes. They’re only distant, but they might know something that could help me. I had some good friends who visited me in prison, and they used to bring stories about how Bruce had been ‘‘seen’’. Some of them were wildly unlikely. He was in Arizona, in China, in Australia. But two people said they’d spotted him in Italy, once in Rome, and more recently in Venice, crossing the Rialto Bridge.
‘That’s why I went straight to the Rialto that first night. Don’t ask me what I thought I was going to do then, because I couldn’t tell you. The inside of my head was a nightmare. Luckily the Rialto is near this place and Piero found me on his way home. If my friend really did see Bruce it may mean nothing, or he may be living only a few minutes away. You might even have seen him.’
A Venetian Affair Page 40