Sophie's Secret

by Anne Weale

  ‘From what I hear, he’s spending big money on one of the islands,’ said Paolo. ‘Billions of lire, so they say. They’re dangerous people, the rich, Kit. You want to watch your step with him.’

  She could see it was going to take time for him and his relations to adjust to calling her Sophie. ‘What makes you say that? Have you heard bad things about him?’

  After a pause, he said, ‘Not that I can remember offhand—except that his mother’s family were a decadent lot and his father was a dipso. Not genes I’d want in me.’

  ‘We have more than our parents’ genes in us. Sometimes people are throwbacks. Marc may take after his grandparents or great-grandparents. Anyway I’m a big girl now. I can look after myself.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you can. You don’t look as streetwise now as you did when you were a kid. Look, we still have a lot to catch up. If you’re not working tomorrow, I’ll take the day off as well and we’ll spend it together.’

  ‘Can you afford to take days off just like that?’

  ‘Oh, sure. I’m doing well. It helps to be a good-looking fellow with a nice line in sweet talk,’ he said, with a mischievous grin.

  By now they had reached her hotel. Sophie said, ‘It’s been an exciting day. I shall sleep like a log. It’s been wonderful seeing you all again. Goodnight, Paolo. Thank you for a very happy evening.’

  ‘I’ll come for you about ten. That will give you time for a lie-in, if you want one. Goodnight.’ He kissed her once, on the cheek, before turning away to walk in the direction of the piazza.

  An elderly night porter was on duty. He took her room key from a board and reached under the counter for an envelope.

  ‘This was left for you, signorina,’ he said, in English.

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  As Sophie walked up the staircase she looked at her name on the envelope, written in a boldly incisive hand which could only be Marc’s. He must have had it sent round. She wondered why he had written to her when he could have left a telephone message.

  In her room, she slit open the plain white envelope and was surprised to find the writing paper inside bore the albergo’s letterhead. On it was written: ‘Change of plan. Report for duty at Palazzo Cassiano at 0900. M.W.’

  The extreme terseness of the note, unprefaced by any Dear Sophie and signed only with his initials, made her feel faintly uneasy. But why, since she hadn’t been expecting him to call round this evening, should he have been annoyed at finding she had gone out?

  Even if she hadn’t met Paolo she wouldn’t have chosen to eat in the pavement caffè, which was the hotel’s only restaurant. It did good business by day when the sun was hot, and would be busy on summer nights, but at this time of year after sundown somewhere more sheltered was preferable. If Marc had been displeased at not finding her on the premises he was being rather unreasonable.

  On impulse she went downstairs to ask the night porter if he knew when the note had been left.

  ‘It was already here when I came in at half past seven, signorina.’

  ‘Thank you. Buena notte.’

  If she hadn’t set her alarm clock Sophie would have overslept. Because her body clock was six hours behind Venetian time, she had fallen into bed with her system still geared to late afternoon in New York—not the right time to be sleeping. She had slept eventually, but not long or soundly enough to feel fresh and clear-eyed at seven.

  She got up and opened her window and the dark green shutters which must have been closed by the maid who’d turned down the bed. There was no one about on the Riva to see her in her nightdress, leaning out to adjust the clips which secured the shutters to the wall.

  Out in the channel, between the deserted waterfront and the little island of San Giorgio Maggiore, a delivery barge was heading towards the Guidecca, a long strip of land most people outside Venice had heard of only because it had one of the world’s most luxurious hotels on it—the Cipriani.

  She had a shower and dressed, choosing a straight grey skirt with a generous kickpleat at the back, an ivory silk shirt and her navy blazer. It wasn’t part of her job to make fashion statements, but rather to look acceptable wherever her working day might take her. With Marc as her boss that could cover a wide range of venues.

  Downstairs, she asked the proprietor, ‘How do I get to the Palazzo Cassiano?’

  There was a blown-up map of the city on the wall near his desk. He put his finger on the outline representing the palace.

  ‘To walk…about twenty minutes—if you don’t lose your way,’ he said, twinkling at her. ‘But we make sure our visitors are never lost for long. Everywhere there are arrows pointing to the Accademia, San Marco and the Rialto. Once you know where those are…no problems.’

  Outside, in the caffè, Sophie ordered a cheese omelette with toast and tea. By now the Riva was beginning to bustle with groups of students going to their classes. A newsvendor was selling papers to workers on their way to the vaporetto stops. A few souvenir-sellers were beginning to set up their stands, although it was too early for there to be organised groups of tourists about.

  Her appetite stimulated by the fresh breeze from the lagoon, she would have enjoyed watching all this activity while she ate her breakfast but for an instinctive feeling of uneasiness about Marc’s summons.

  While drinking a second cup of tea she wrote a note to Paolo, apologising for not being able to spend the day with him.

  The palazzo’s somewhat forbidding street entrance was near the end of a cul-de-sac leading only to the edge of the wide waterway which was the city’s principal thoroughfare. There was an old-fashioned iron bell-pull, but also a discreet modern push-button.

  Within moments of pressing it Sophie was admitted to the courtyard by an elderly manservant. Even though it was unlikely that in past centuries the family and their equals would have used this entrance, there was an impressive doorway opening into a large hall with a wide staircase.

  In the hall, a maid was deputed to show her the way. When they had climbed several flights Sophie understood why the butler had handed her over to someone younger. For ageing joints it would be a strenuous climb to the upper floors of the huge building, with its high ceilings and lavish use of space. Her mind boggled at the thought of the heating bills.

  On the top floor she was shown into a large empty room. With a shy smile the maid went away. Sophie was drawn to the windows with their wide views over the city’s Roman-tiled rooftops and distinctive flowerpotshaped chimneys.

  As the great bell of San Marco began to strike nine, backed by a chorus of chimes from near and far belltowers, she sensed rather than heard Marc enter the room behind her.

  ‘Good morning.’ His tone was curt, his expression unsmiling. He was wearing freshly laundered jeans and an open-necked pale blue shirt with a navy sweater slung round his shoulders, the sleeves loosely tied on his chest. ‘I hope you found your accommodation satisfactory.’

  ‘Extremely comfortable, thank you, and the view from my window is superb.’

  ‘Good.’ He moved to an outsize desk, seating himself behind it and indicating that she should take the chair in front of it.

  The desk had a sheet of glass protecting the patina of its antique mahogany surface. On one side stood a smallfootprint PC, on the other a tray containing such things as a letter-opener, long-bladed scissors, pens and markers. There were no photographs, and none of the costly accessories found on most VIPs’ desks.

  ‘Did he make a pass at you?’

  The blunt question rattled her. How did he know she had spent the evening with a man?

  When she didn’t answer immediately, he said, ‘That’s the usual form with susceptible tourists. I thought you had more sense than to fall for a gondolier’s line of flattery.’

  Sophie began to recover herself. ‘Did you see us together? How did you know he was a gondolier?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see you. The owner of your hotel recognised him. There aren’t many gondolieri left. They’re a
diminishing species, most of them known by sight if not by name to the older inhabitants. The one who picked you up is one of the youngest…and a well-known Casanova.’

  His assumption that it must have been a pick-up made Sophie angry. For Paolo it had been that. Not for her. But if Marc was ready to jump to derogatory conclusions about her, let him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOPHIE said coldly, ‘Hearsay isn’t always reliable. Hardly ever, in my experience. He behaved with the utmost courtesy. We ate at a restaurant run by his aunt and uncle where the food was very much better than I might have eaten elsewhere.’

  ‘And where he wouldn’t have to pay,’ Marc said drily. ‘Are you seeing him again?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Common sense dictated that she explain the situation, but offended pride and resentment at his unjust assumption made her leave it at that, apart from adding, ‘I’d like to master the Venetian dialect while I’m here. A gondolier and his family are useful contacts.’

  His tilted eyebrow was sceptical. ‘You can do as you please in your free time. But don’t be surprised if there turns out to be some truth in what you dismiss as hearsay.’

  Still annoyed with him, but beginning to realise that the situation had lent itself to misinterpretation, Sophie said, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there if you needed me to work on something last night. If you’d telephoned, instead of coming to the hotel, you might have caught me before I went out.’

  ‘I came to take you out myself.’

  Disconcerted, she said, ‘Oh…well, that was kind of you.’

  Almost echoing Paolo, he said, ‘I thought you might be uncomfortable eating alone at night. Some women are.’ He rose from his chair. ‘Before we go over to Capolavoro I’ll show you where it is in relation to the other islands in the lagoon.

  ‘This shows the whole lagoon,’ he said moments later, when she was standing beside him in front of the large wall map.

  It was as familiar to her as the layout of Manhattan Island or central London. She was watching his hand, not the map, as he said, ‘All the islands in the lagoon were important once. They were only accessible by boat and each had its special function. Then Venice was linked to the mainland by railway bridge and a canal was dredged from the city to the Lido. After that the other islands weren’t important any longer and gradually most were abandoned.’

  Sophie was listening to what he was saying, but her visual attention was on the strong, sunburned hand pointing out the features he was telling her about.

  Suddenly she found herself wondering how many women had felt those long fingers on their skin, and if he had given them pleasure as well as taking it.

  Faintly embarrassed by the inappropriateness of this unbidden thought, she was slow in reacting when he said, ‘And the other map shows the valli—the traditional fish farms.’

  If her thoughts hadn’t been wandering, she would have anticipated his movement towards the other map. They would have both moved sideways at the same time. As it was, her delayed response caused him to bump into her.

  Although it was her fault, it was he who said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Startled by the effect of the contact between his chest and her shoulder and upper arm, she said nothing. Such light, unimportant impacts were frequent on the New York subway or the London Underground at rush hour. People might murmur ‘Sorry’ or they might ignore them. They certainly didn’t react the way she was reacting now.

  As he started explaining the locks and sluices controlling the fish ponds she felt a lingering vibration deep inside her, as if her nerves were harp-strings he had plucked and left quivering.

  It was a relief when he finished his explanation. It was not that she wasn’t interested in the ancient and intricate system of fish farming in the lagoon. But it was hard to concentrate when he was standing as close as he was at the moment.

  Perhaps this strange over-sensitivity was an after-effect of changing time zones. He did it all the time and his system was used to it. Hers wasn’t.

  As they went down the stairs it struck her that she hadn’t felt normal from the moment he’d entered her life. There was something intensely disturbing about him. She had never seen a tiger in reality. But sometimes, on TV, powerful zoom lenses allowed close-up shots in which the great beasts seemed to be looking directly into the eyes of the viewer.

  There was a connection between the way she had felt when Marc had been looming over her, his sleeve almost brushing hers, and her response to tigers. With their beautiful markings, the formidable power concealed by the dense velvet fur and their strange, enigmatic eyes, they exuded animal magnetism. They could also be deadly dangerous, especially those who were man-eaters.

  Instinct warned her that Marc had a lot in common with tigers and might be an incorrigible woman-eater.

  They left the palazzo by the main entrance. The launch which had fetched them from the airport was waiting, with the same boatman.

  ‘These are called pali,’ said Marc, indicating the tall posts, painted with spiralling strips, projecting from the water on either side of the well-kept, moss-free steps. ‘The colours are like the silks worn by jockeys. They tell anyone interested in such things to whom each palazzo belongs…or belonged originally.’

  Marc had just followed her inboard when a vaporetto came by, some of its passengers looking with curiosity at the two people in the launch moving away from the steps of the magnificent palace.

  Although it was already hot in the sun, Sophie knew there would be a cool breeze when they reached open water. She didn’t take off her blazer. For seeing the island jeans would have been more appropriate. She would have to ask Marc how he felt about her wearing trousers on duty.

  Last night it had seemed lucky to run into Paolo on her first day in Venice. Now she wished it hadn’t happened yet. She didn’t want to lose Marc’s good opinion of her, but nor did she want to explain her past to him. Not until after she had been back to her island.

  On the way to the island that Marc had leased he told her it had the remains of a fortress on it and the ruins of several small houses built by people who must have lived on what they could grow and fish from the surrounding lagoon.

  He unrolled a plan he had brought with him. It showed the shape of the island and the site for the house he planned, with architect’s visualisations of how it would relate to the fort, which his lease obliged him to restore.

  They spent about an hour on Capolavoro. Long before they left she had grasped how important the project was to him. To anyone else the place would look a desolate spot with nothing appealing about it. But, if he could realise his vision of it, in a few years’ time it would look very different.

  It was nearly noon when they returned to the palazzo. Marc said, ‘I’ll show you your office. It has the basic equipment common to all the other PAs’ offices, but you’re free to order anything you consider necessary from the shops where I have accounts. You’ll find a list of them on my PC. This week’s password is Constanzia. I rotate the names of my three aunts.’

  Her office was across the landing from his large room. It was small but, to her delight, it had a glass door leading onto a little roof garden with tubs of greenery and a table and chair with a furled parasol standing beside it.

  ‘If you like, while the hot weather lasts, you can have your lunch here. Alternatively, there’s a large garden at street level. You’re welcome to take your coffee and lunch breaks down there. But my aunts spend a good deal of time in the garden and they’re all extremely talkative. You could find them tiring. I do,’ he added drily.

  As he finished speaking a young female voice called in Italian, ‘Marc…Marc…where are you?’

  He returned to the doorway. ‘I’m here. Come and meet my new assistant.’

  It was difficult to guess the age of the girl who appeared seconds later, giving him a radiant smile. Her lovely skin was that of someone very young, but Sophie had never seen anyone of eighteen or nineteen who was so perfectly groomed or self-possesse
d.

  She was wearing a very short geranium-red tunic, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, with tights, shoes and lipstick of the same colour and huge silver earrings and bracelets. She might have stepped straight from the cover of Italian Vogue.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she said, laying a long-fingered hand with geranium-lacquered nails on his forearm.

  Marc said, ‘Sophie, this is my cousin Chiara Banti…Sophie Hill.’

  ‘Welcome to Venice, Ms Hill,’ the Italian girl said warmly, offering her hand.

  She spoke American English with only the faintest trace of an Italian accent, and was clearly au fait with modern forms of address.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sophie said admiringly. She had never seen a lovelier girl.

  Barefoot, their heights would be similar. But Sophie was wearing flat-heeled tassel loafers and Chiara was perched on absurdly high heels attached to her feet by a few narrow straps. They were obviously very fashionable, but for wearing in an old house and a city of numerous bridges they seemed strikingly impractical.

  ‘What did you want me for?’ asked Marc.

  ‘I can’t decide what to wear for the party tonight. I want you to help me choose.’

  ‘Later. Right now we’re busy. Ask me again after lunch.’

  She looked disappointed. ‘Oh…all right.’ With another smile for Sophie she left.

  Marc led the way back to his room. There, with the girl out of earshot, he said, ‘Don’t let Chiara make a nuisance of herself. She’s bored, having nothing to do but go to parties and amuse herself. She ought to be starting a career but she has a very silly, possessive mother who never trained for anything and sees no reason why Chiara should. I’m working on her to change her mind but Tia Caterina is a recent widow. Although she and her husband were often at odds while he was alive, she’s behaving as if the sky had fallen in.’