The Affair

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘When you’ve finished your chocolate, there’s something I’d love to show you,’ Jared was saying.

  Her peaceful drink had been ruined by his presence. Now she finished it almost unconsciously, desperate for something to do, something that would distract her from his charming smile. ‘I’m working, Jared. I can’t just swan off.’

  Ignoring her reproving tone, he replied, with a sly grin, ‘You don’t have to meet them till twelve, according to your client in the queue.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Twelve, yes. We’ve got tickets for the basilica this afternoon.’

  He raised his sunglasses and she was treated to those extraordinary eyes again. ‘This won’t take long. Half an hour, tops.’ He stood and held out his hand to her. ‘Please … it’s special.’

  She did not take his proffered hand as she reluctantly got to her feet. ‘OK. But I have to be back in good time.’

  She followed Jared as he wove in and out of the crowded piazza then chose the same street on the south side down which Gianni had earlier led her tour. They wiggled through the maze of alleys, crossed over one canal, then another, to an unassuming white-stone Renaissance building right up against the waterside, not heralded by any billboards or crowds.

  Jared pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside was a small chapel, only dimly lit. It took Connie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. But what she saw took her breath away. Around the room, above head height, was an array of vividly painted panels.

  ‘Vittore Carpaccio,’ Jared whispered, although the place was empty, apart from the shadowy figure who had sold them tickets. But the atmosphere was almost reverent. ‘Look, St George and the dragon …’

  Connie was no art expert, although she had seen a lot in her time, but she immediately appreciated the vibrant charm and humour, the drama and detail of the paintings: St George’s story on the left-hand wall, St Jerome’s on the right.

  ‘Don’t you love the horrible dragon?’ Jared said. And as they moved round, ‘Look at the terrified monks fleeing from St Jerome’s lion.’ And then further round, ‘Isn’t the little dog with St Augustine cute?’

  ‘They’re fantastic,’ she said, almost forgetting that her guide was Jared Temple, and that she was supposed to be working, as she studied the beautifully executed narratives. When they finally emerged into the blinding sunshine, she felt dazed.

  Jared was eyeing her. ‘Worth it?’

  She grinned. ‘Oh, my goodness, Jared. So worth it.’

  He beamed. ‘I knew you’d like them.’ He took her arm companionably and this time she didn’t resist as they walked back the way they’d come and crossed the bridge in the direction of St Mark’s Square.

  ‘Art like that is life-enhancing,’ he added quietly.

  When they reached the piazza, Connie immediately saw couples from her group, looking about, probably wondering where she was, and realized it was nearly twelve. They’d been much longer in the Scuola di San Giorgio than she’d intended.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, glancing up at Jared. ‘They’re waiting.’ He nodded. ‘Thank you for showing me the paintings. They were really wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve loved every minute,’ he replied.

  She thought, when he didn’t immediately move off, that he might dare to kiss her again and became slightly flustered. But he made no attempt to do so, and absurdly she realized she was disappointed. The memory of his lips on hers that night at Lake Como came back to her again and she caught her breath.

  ‘Bye,’ she said, turning quickly away and hurrying over to her charges, hoping they hadn’t seen her and Jared together. She didn’t want them reporting her for dereliction of duty.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of organization. Connie had to corral the group at the end of the day and pack them onto the train back to Desenzano. Not easy when everyone had dispersed into the crowds after the basilica tour. They only just made the train, one couple sauntering onto the churning water taxi, calmly licking ice creams as if they had all the time in the world.

  It was not until she shut the door of her room that night, and could finally dispense with the company lanyard round her neck, take off her shoes and wipe away her make-up that she could properly think about Jared.

  So strange, she mused, him turning up like that. Although these things did happen, she knew that. It was, as people were always pointing out, a small world. And, after the initial surprise, she had enjoyed seeing him. The Carpaccios were gorgeous and he was so knowledgeable, so interesting about the scuola and its history – she had been quite carried away in his company.

  About Jared himself, Connie wasn’t sure what to think. Was he flirting with me? she asked herself, as she climbed into bed. Or was he just being friendly and charming? Since she would never see him again, it didn’t matter either way: the tour managers, on pain of death, were required to delete passengers’ contact details when they returned from a tour, so she didn’t even have his phone number … not that she would have used it, if she had. But, still, there was this tingling in her belly when she thought about him. And it wouldn’t go away.

  Verona was only a twenty-minute journey from Desenzano, and the tour set off early on the last day. It had been cloudy when Connie had woken, rain forecast on her weather app at 33 per cent during the afternoon. It would be a shame, she thought, after the brilliant weather they’d had, not to be able to take full advantage of the beautiful city.

  She decided to join Serena – the Verona tour guide – on the walking tour today. She felt she hadn’t been present enough or paying proper attention to her flock, her mood initially too distracted by the problems at home, then by Jared’s sudden appearance two days ago. Though what she would really have liked to do today was wander round the super-chic boutiques hidden in Verona’s side-streets, where she could find things that would never make the crowded Via Mazzini and its designer stores.

  But she would do Juliet’s balcony – always a bit of a disappointment – and the first-century Roman arena instead. She would listen to the glamorous Serena – an actress by night – making jokes about Romeo, and watch tears fill her brown eyes as she told dramatic tales of Christians waiting in the dank, gloomy tunnels before walking into the sunlit arena to be slaughtered. She would bond with the group. Do her job.

  It did rain. Not hard, but drizzly and chilly enough to dampen the group’s enthusiasm for standing outside for long periods in their summer clothes. Serena, chic in a short cream trench coat, matching cloche hat over her shiny hair, soldiered on, but everyone – Connie included – was pleased when the traditional osteria and a comforting bowl of dark, rich Amarone risotto hove into sight.

  She had found herself glancing around as they stood in the echoing Roman amphitheatre, checking the tiers of stone seats raking sharply to the sky and the wide arena, as if she were expecting – ridiculously – to see Jared emerge from one of the tunnels. She was mortified by her imaginings, but couldn’t help feeling his presence, couldn’t help remembering with pleasure the morning they had spent together in Venice.

  Connie angled the magnifying mirror in the bathroom to put on her make-up, preparatory to the last dinner of the tour. As she gazed at her reflection, foundation stick in hand, she saw the anxiety etched in her eyes, and sensed the reluctance she always felt as home and Devan loomed. She’d only messaged him a few times over the past eight days. He had replied to each with a row of three kisses – the equivalent of a cop-out on WhatsApp. She had almost rung him one night as she lay in bed trying to sleep. But she didn’t want to start a conversation on the phone when he’d probably been drinking. It might only escalate the current tension between them. She knew, however, that once home, they would need a proper discussion.

  Dinner was fun, the long table that Bianca had constructed in the small hotel dining room becoming more and more raucous in the face of the delicious home-cooked food – platters of local salami and frico friabile (crispy-fried Montasio cheese); tortell
ini with a shallot, scallop, basil and white wine sauce; panna cotta wobbling delicately in a sea of raspberry coulis – and quantities of local wine. Connie, as she always did on the last night, drank more than she should. But no one else was in a state to notice or care. She even made friends with Martin from Cheltenham, who had come out of his shell over the week and become quite talkative, even if his conversation about local Gloucester politics was not entirely riveting.

  ‘Be glad to get shot of us, will you, Connie?’ he said, as the party wound down, people beginning to make their way up to their beds, some still lingering in the lobby, reluctant for it all to end. ‘Must be like herding cats, your job.’

  ‘It has its moments,’ she said, laughing. ‘Although cats don’t have wallets to steal.’

  Martin grinned. ‘Could have been worse, I suppose. My daughter says I’m so scatty I need a leading rein to stop me wandering off.’

  ‘I’ve never lost a passenger in all the twelve years I’ve been touring,’ Connie told him. ‘And I don’t plan to start now.’ She put her finger to her cheek in mock contemplation. ‘A leading rein? Hmm, not such a bad idea …’

  They were both laughing as they said goodnight. She waved to the others waiting by the lift, but she wasn’t tired.

  Sandro, Bianca’s younger son, stood behind the desk, punching away on his computer, a frown of concentration on his face. He was in his fifties and broad, well-fed, genial. She supposed he had a pleasant existence with his lovely mum, beautiful hometown and job for life.

  ‘It was a wonderful dinner, Sandro,’ she said, leaning on the counter. ‘Thank you, we’ve all had such a great time, as usual.’

  He grinned. ‘Prego! You know how Mamma loves you, Connie.’

  She yawned, peered through the open hotel doors. ‘I think I’ll pop out for a bit of fresh air. It seems to have stopped raining at last.’ She unfolded the caramel pashmina she’d brought downstairs and pulled it round her shoulders. ‘See you later.’

  The night was beautiful, the hot summer dustiness cleansed by the recent rain. Connie breathed deeply as she crossed the road and walked past the line of café tables, still occupied with a few chatting diners. Ranks of small blue and white boats bobbed silently on the water, people strolling the cobbled promenade beside the lake. She knew the main squares would be heaving with the young at this time of night – she could hear the beat of disco music in the distance.

  She leaned against the cold iron railing and looked out onto the lake. Lights lacing the peninsula of Sirmione twinkled to the east, dominated by the illuminated elegance of the Rocca Scaligera, the expanse of dark water stretching away from it like the ocean.

  Turning to walk back the way she’d come, tiredness sweeping over her, she heard the ping of a text on her work phone. Hoping it wasn’t something serious, she opened the screen.

  I’m outside the hotel, if you fancy a nightcap? Jared x

  She read the message and heard herself give a small gasp. For a moment she just stared at the words, glowing bright in the darkness. He’s here? She felt panicky.

  Worrying that he might go into the hotel and ask for her, Connie hurried the two minutes around the corner. She saw him before he saw her. He was waiting quietly, hands in his jeans’ pockets, staring out over the water, the street lamp under which he was standing lighting up the blond streaks in his hair.

  Reaching him, Connie said, ‘What are you doing here?’ She was angry. ‘You can’t keep turning up like this, Jared. It’s really weird.’

  Jared turned at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t seem offended by her words. ‘Hey, Connie. Sorry … You said you were staying here and I thought a glass of something might be fun. It’s such a beautiful night.’ He was smiling, and her heart seized in her chest.

  She frowned. ‘Did I say I was staying here?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t you remember? You told me all about Bianca and her sons.’ When she didn’t speak, unable to remember telling him, but knowing she must have done, he went on: ‘I was on my way to Milan for a meeting and had some spare time. I realized I’ve never seen Desenzano.’ He lifted his arms outwards, palms up. ‘So I thought, What the heck?’

  Connie was calming down. ‘It’s just a bit unsettling, you popping up out of the blue like this, twice in one week.’

  Jared looked abashed. ‘I can see that. I’m sorry. I don’t want to freak you out.’

  They stood in silence. Connie’s tiredness had vanished in the adrenalin hit of seeing Jared. Her heartbeat was hurtling round her chest, like a runaway train.

  ‘Now I have, though,’ he went on, unable to keep the amusement out of his eyes, ‘will you at least let me buy you a drink?’ He indicated a vacant table by the water.

  Connie hesitated. She was flattered by his attention, she couldn’t deny it. But she was also wary of it. There’s no harm in one drink, she told herself, unable to stem the pounding in her chest. ‘Not an Amaretto,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure I like that stuff.’

  Jared disappeared into the restaurant that owned the waterside tables, leaving her sitting nervously on a cushioned aluminium chair, which wobbled on the old stone of the harbour. She noticed the chill and drew her pashmina closer around her.

  The waiter set two small balloons of brandy and two tumblers of water on the table. Jared raised his glass, smiling at her as he waited for her to do the same. She touched her glass to his.

  Jared said, ‘To Italy. The country we both love.’

  Connie smiled and nodded her agreement.

  They sat in silence. Connie knew it should feel awkward, being there, late at night, in that magical setting with a virtual stranger. But Jared obviously didn’t feel the need to make conversation. And his ease made her relax too. She took a sip of brandy and felt the pleasant burn as it hit the back of her throat. It made her cough, though, and her eyes water.

  Jared raised his eyebrows.

  She laughed. ‘Not used to it.’

  ‘This is my favourite thing,’ he said. ‘Sitting outside on a beautiful evening, in my favourite country, with a wonderful woman.’ He accompanied his words with a slow smile that made her heart beat even faster.

  But Connie was taken aback. If he had used a word such as ‘gorgeous’ or ‘beautiful’ to describe her, it would have sounded flirtatious. But ‘wonderful’ – spoken so sincerely – implied a whole different level of admiration.

  ‘You barely know me, Jared.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Don’t you have people like that in your life? The instant you meet them you feel a powerful connection?’

  Connie thought of Devan, thought of Neil. ‘I suppose, yes.’

  ‘Well …’

  Those eyes again. He was gazing at her, his expression solemn and considering. She felt a tremor pass through her body as she gazed back, as if a touchpaper had been lit. Her breath was faint, like a whispering breeze … that kiss. And suddenly all she wanted him to do was kiss her again.

  She turned from him, looked out towards the dark lake, wanting to hide the heat bathing her cheeks. When she glanced back, he was laughing. Connie laughed, too, and somehow the tension dissolved.

  Still trying to control her pounding heart, she said, with as much firmness as she could muster, ‘Go away, Jared. Please, just go away.’ Although even she could hear the quiver in her voice.

  ‘Charming,’ he said good-naturedly, tipping the last drops of brandy into his mouth and standing up.

  For a moment she thought he was taking her at her word and leaving. But no. He came round to her chair and held out his hand, as he had two days ago in the piazza. But this time, hardly thinking about what she was doing, she took it.

  They didn’t speak, she didn’t question where they were going, but before she knew it his arm was around her waist and he was turning her away from the harbour and the lights into a smaller, darker street, narrow, lined with shops – closed and shuttered and silent at this time of night. She knew she was trembling. She knew what he was goi
ng to do.

  They’d walked only a short distance before he pulled her into a little recess between two buildings – not an alleyway, just a niche, really. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, breathless, insistent, as if he had waited a lifetime for that moment.

  She had no idea how long they kissed. She was gathered up in his desire, her body matching his, ready to fly into a million pieces as she felt his hand between her legs, his fingers pressing up inside her. She had no consciousness of her surroundings, no shame as she gave herself up to his urgent touch. Small, rapid gasps, then the world paused for a second, before release overtook her in a delicious surge. She moaned softly, heard Jared chuckle. Opening her eyes, she saw him smiling down at her. But she couldn’t speak as she leaned against him, suddenly exhausted.

  ‘What on earth are we doing?’ she whispered, drawing back from his embrace, biting her swollen lips as she attempted to adjust her crumpled dress. She was suddenly acutely aware that they were in a public place, pressed up against a cold wall, making out like teenagers in a bus shelter. But the realization could not erase the intense pleasure of Jared’s touch.

  His hand pressed into her back as they stepped onto the deserted street. But the spell was broken. Connie pulled away in panic as she glanced at her watch. ‘Shit!’ She thought of Sandro at the desk. Will he be worried, wondering where I am? ‘I’ve got to go back.’ The cold hard fact of what she’d just done made her almost desperate to get away from Jared.

  They hurried the five minutes to the hotel in silence, Jared making no attempt to touch her. When they reached the door, it was locked, but a small polished-brass bell push was labelled ‘Night Bell’. Connie had never noticed it before. She looked up at Jared as she pressed it, in trepidation of who might come.

  ‘Go,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’ They mustn’t see him with me. Bianca knew all about Devan and her family, always asked to see the latest photo of little Bash.

  ‘OK … but will you –’

  ‘No.’ She pushed her palm flat to his chest, not wanting to hear what he was asking of her, just desperate for him to leave. ‘This was so wrong. I’m sorry, I –’