A Fever In The Blood

by Anne Mather

  'So why did she not buy herself a breathing space elsewhere?' his mother countered harshly. 'As you say, money is not in short supply. She could have moved into an hotel, or leased herself a house or an apartment. Instead of burdening you with her problems.'

  'Perhaps I don't regard it as a burden,' replied Ben tersely. 'And she needed—needs—support, not criti­cism.'

  Sophia's nostrils flared. 'And you expect me to let her come and stay here without asking any questions, is that it?'

  Ben bent his head. 'What questions are there to ask?'

  'Well, I could ask what your reaction was when she came to you. She did come to you, did she not? Which means you have been writing to her while you were away, while I received only a postcard.'

  'Oh, lord!' Ben stared at her now. 'Yes, she came to me, but no, I haven't been writing to her while I've been away. I haven't been writing to anyone. It was just good fortune that I happened to get back a few days earlier than I expected.'

  'And you expect me to believe that?'

  'Quite frankly, I could care less what you believe,' responded Ben angrily. 'It's the truth. Why would I lie?'

  'Why, indeed?' His mother's lips twisted. 'So—where is she now?'

  Ben hesitated. 'In Florence.'

  'At your apartment?'

  'At my apartment, yes.'

  'I knew it.' Sophia threw up her hands in frustration.

  'Well? Will you allow her to come here?' Ben was not prepared to rise to any more remarks of that kind, and Sophia's fingers went to the ruffled bow that held the neckline of her cream silk blouse in place.

  'And if I say no?'

  Ben expelled his breath tiredly. 'Don't make me say it, Mother.'

  Sophia's dark brows descended. 'Very well. As I ap­parently have no choice in the matter, you must do as you see fit. I cannot stop you.'

  Ben felt utterly weary. 'I didn't want it to be like this—'

  'Well, what did you expect? That I would welcome her with open arms? Do not forget, Benvenuto, she is still that woman's daughter. Aside from anything else, that alone does not endear her to me.'

  'I know, I know.' Ben reflected how little exaltation he felt at his victory. 'Well—thank you.'

  'Do not thank me!' His mother almost hissed the words. Then, squaring her shoulders, she visibly gath­ered her composure. 'So—let us not speak of this any longer. It is almost nine weeks since I last saw you, and we have much to talk about. I want to hear about your trip; about the people you met, and about your success in this field. Do you think they will invite you again?'

  Ben resisted for a moment, and then, deciding she did indeed deserve to hear about his journey, he sank back on to the swinging hammock. He couldn't go back to Florence tonight, no matter how anxious he might be to do so, so he might as well relax. After all, he did still love his mother, whatever complications she had created in his life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AFTER Ben had gone, Cass made an effort to pull herself together. But it wasn't easy. Despite her earlier deter­mination to fill the day with activity, it was inordinately difficult to find any motivation after Ben's departure. It was even an effort to drag herself into the bathroom and step into the shower cubicle Ben had so recently vacated, and she found herself wiping a smear of soap from the tiles and gazing at it in absent fascination. The cubicle was still warm from its previous occupancy, and she sank back against the wall without turning on the jets. She felt utterly bereft of either energy or enthusiasm, and all she really felt like doing was crawling back into bed.

  Eventually she did summon up the strength to turn on the taps, and the force of the water on her sensitised skin brought its own relief. With a return of resolution, she lifted the soap and massaged her languid body until it turned pink beneath her hands, attacking her breasts and her hips and her thighs with a thoroughness born of des­peration. She had to be decisive; she had to assert her­self. However difficult it was going to prove, she had to show Ben she could be independent.

  And, in spite of her morning blues, Cass got through the day without flagging. Mrs Cipriani did not appear, and she was able to dust the furniture and vacuum the rugs without any interruption. She wasn't very experi­enced when it came to housework, but she made a val­iant effort, satisfied with the results she had achieved when she saw the polished wood gleam. She did spend rather longer over tidying Ben's desk than she need have, but the distinctive script of his handwriting caused her no little sense of upheaval. It reminded her of when she was at school and he had written to her, of how anxiously she had waited for the post to be distributed, and how disappointed she had been if he had been late in replying to her letters. Looking back, there seemed no period in her life of which he had not been an integral part—except these years of her marriage, which had been so miserably unhappy.

  In the late afternoon, after making do with only an­other cup of coffee for her lunch, Cass left the apartment. The little bottega, that smelled deliciously of the cooked meats and cheeses it sold, wasn't far, and she spent a very satisfying half-hour choosing an assortment of foods to store in the refrigerator. She bought veal and ham and eggs, and several different cheeses, as well as bread and fruit and vegetables, and two more bottles of wine.

  However, with the food put away, she was at a loose end again, and she tried to summon up some enthusiasm over what she was going to eat for supper. But the idea of preparing a meal for herself was not appealing, and she eventually decided to make herself a cheese sand­wich, and leave anything more ambitious until Ben got back. Ben…

  Biting her lip, she trudged wearily into the living-room, flinging herself down on the tapestry-covered sofa and trying not to think about what she would do if he should fail in his mission. She needed this time in Italy. She needed to get away from London, Roger and her father, and Italy had always seemed to be her spiritual home. She was half-Italian, after all. She wasn't really like her mother at all. A marriage that was only half a marriage could never satisfy the Italian side of her na­ture. But what she really wanted, she didn't really know—or perhaps she was afraid of finding out…

  The telephone rang as she was helping herself to an­other glass of Ben's brandy. The sudden jangle of sound in the still room was startling, and her hand shook, send­ing droplets of cognac splashing on to the carpet. 'Damn!' she exclaimed, setting down the bottle and searching futilely for a tissue, but her mind wasn't really on what she was doing. Who was calling? she wondered anxiously. Should she answer it? Oh, what if it was Roger, or her father?

  The ringing went on, a jarring counterpoint to her thoughts, and unable to stand it any longer Cass snatched the receiver off its rest. 'Si?' she said tautly, wondering if she could get away with pretending to be the house­keeper, and then sank down weakly on to the corner of Ben's desk as his familiar voice sounded in her ear.

  'Where the hell were you?'

  'Oh, Ben!' She felt so enervated suddenly, she could hardly answer him. 'It's you.'

  'Who did you expect?' he retorted. And then, 'Oh, of course. You thought it might be Roger.'

  'It crossed my mind,' she admitted in a low voice. She took a steadying breath. 'But it's so good to hear your voice.'

  'Why?' He was immediately on edge. 'There's noth­ing wrong?'

  'No. No.' She shook her head a little dazedly. 'Noth­ing's wrong here.' She paused. 'How about you? Did you have a good journey?'

  'Reasonably.' His tone was a little clipped now, she thought. 'Are you sure you're all right?'

  'Of course.' Cass couldn't ask the question, but it was inherent in her words. 'Is—is your mother well?'

  'She's agreed to let you stay, if that's what you mean,' replied Ben a little tersely, and Cass's pulse-rate quick­ened with sudden relief. 'I'll be back, as I said, about lunch time tomorrow. Could you be ready to leave the day after that?'

  So soon! Cass almost said the words, but somehow she managed to restrain herself. It was what she wanted, wasn't it? What she had come here for. Just
because she was beginning to feel at home in Ben's apartment was no reason to feel any doubts about her decision.

  'Of course,' she said now, forcing a note of enthusi­asm into her voice. She paused. 'Are you sure she doesn't mind?'

  'You know Sophia,' responded Ben obliquely. 'It's not always easy to know what she thinks. So—if you're sure you're all right, I'll see you tomorrow, hmm?'

  'OK.' Cass clung to the phone, wishing she could think of something to delay his ringing off. 'Um—you will drive carefully, won't you?'

  'I got here, didn't I?' remarked Ben drily. 'And I al­ways drive carefully. Just because someone not a million miles from where you are is nervous of a little healthy speed…'

  'Speed is not healthy,' she retorted, rising to his bait automatically. Then, 'Oh—you!' She had to smile, and the smile coloured her voice. 'Well, until tomorrow, then.'

  'A domani,' he echoed softly, and she waited until he had replaced his receiver before doing the same with her own.

  Of course, she slept badly. Apart from anything else, the amount of coffee she had drunk during the day, com­bined with the fact that she had eaten very little, had created a build-up of caffeine inside her and her system was unbearably stimulated. Besides which, she had the prospect of meeting Ben's mother again on her mind. Although he had said Sophia had agreed to let her stay at Calvado, Cass was still apprehensive of the kind of welcome she would get. Had Sophia forgiven her? Was she prepared to forget about the past and begin again? Somehow, she doubted it. Sophia had never struck her as a forgiving kind of woman.

  So why did she want to go there? she asked herself frustratedly, trying to pound the pillow into some shape that would give her head comfort. Because only at Calvado had she ever been really happy, she acknowl­edged tiredly. Only with Ben had she ever felt really alive.

  She was up again soon after six, leaning out of the kitchen window, trying to catch a little of the promise of the day. At this hour of the morning the sky was tinted a delicate shade of lemon, with gossamer threads of cloud floating like gauze on the calm air. The air itself was still fairly cool, and her breasts hardened into peaks as the thin satin of her nightgown was pressed against them by the breeze. But it was so good to feel in control of her life again, so good to feel free. She hadn't realised how trapped she had felt until she got away.

  As she drank her first cup of coffee of the day, a huge black cat stalked along the wall of the courtyard below her, casting a haughty look in her direction. She won­dered with some amusement if she had disturbed him in some early-morning tryst, but she felt no sense of blame for doing so. The sun rising over the distant rooftops, the scent of rosemary and verbena, even the aromatic taste of freshly ground coffee, were all serving to lift her spirits, and she determined that nothing, and no one, would spoil her mood.

  Before taking her shower, she took a moment to study her reflection in the mirror doors of Ben's closet. The mirrors were old and stained a pale yellow with age, but they didn't prevent her from seeing how thin and pale she had become. At eighteen she had been, if anything, a little plump, with no hollows anywhere and a rounded appearance she had had to struggle to control. Now every bone in her body was barely covered with flesh, and the shadows they created gave her frame a delicate fragility. There were hollows now: in the necklace of bones at her throat, in the framework of her ribs, and in the flatness of her stomach. Even the downy curve of her back exposed every bump in her spine, and the sharp protrusion of her pelvic bones drew attention to the nar­rowness of her thighs. She looked awful, she thought miserably. She looked as if she was suffering from some wasting illness, and she couldn't imagine what Ben must have thought when he saw her. That he hadn't said any­thing was typical of him, but that didn't alter the fact that something had to be done to improve things.

  And first on her agenda was food, she thought later that morning, after taking a stimulating shower and washing her hair. With her damp hair secured on top of her head with combs, and her narrow limbs concealed beneath a pair of worn jeans and a sloppy T-shirt, she acknowledged that it was many months since she had faced eating with any enthusiasm, but she actually felt hungry now and she was determined to act on it.

  Two eggs, whipped into an omelette and garnished with cheese, made a good start, and she even managed to eat a chunk of the crusty bread she had bought the day before. With two more cups of coffee to wash it all down, she felt distinctly stronger when she got up from the breakfast bar, and her optimism flowered as she washed her dishes and made her bed.

  She was deep in contemplation of a cookery book she had found on the shelf above the draining-board when the doorbell rang. Frowning, she glanced at her watch. It was just after ten o'clock. Too early for Ben, but not too early for Mrs Cipriani.

  Sighing, she put the book to one side and went to answer the door. Although it was several years since she had spoken to Ben's housekeeper, that prospect didn't faze her. The little Italian woman had always been kind to her, and Cass had suspected that part of the reason had been Mrs Cipriani's antagonism towards Ben's mother. The two women had never got on, each resent­ing the other's influence in Ben's life. From Sophia's point of view, Mrs Cipriani was usurping the role which she thought properly should have been hers; while Mrs Cipriani regarded Signora Scorcese as an interfering har­ridan who couldn't quite accept that her son was not her responsibility any longer.

  Fixing a polite smile on her face, Cass flung open the door, and then fell back aghast at the sight of the man who was standing just outside. 'Roger!' she whispered weakly, remembering too late that she should have checked first before being so impulsive. But it was too late now, and Roger Fielding took full advantage of the fact.

  'I knew it!' he declared harshly, forcing his way past her and into the hall. 'I knew you'd be here. I just knew it! Your father was sure you'd gone to the States to stay with Marie Lee Piper, but my instincts were the right ones. You came running to dear brother Ben!'

  Realising that with the door open his raised voice could probably be heard throughout the building, Cass felt obliged to close the door. So far as she remembered, there were two other tenants: one in the basement, and the other on the ground floor. Ben's apartment occupied the top floor of the old building and, although the walls were thick, the stairwells created an acoustic resonance.

  'What do you want, Roger?' she asked now, leaning back against the cool panels, and his face contorted. He was a handsome man in the normal way, with stocky, well-bred features, and curly russet-brown hair. He was reasonably fit: he played tennis in the season, and squash when he could find the time. He even rode to hounds, whenever he was able, and Cass knew he was known as a very decent chap among his contemporaries. From her own point of view, the picture was somewhat different. Apart from his sexual proclivities, which she was in­clined to blame herself for, he was disposed to be short-tempered, and mean with the staff at their London home. He couldn't penny-pinch with her, because her father gave her a very generous allowance, but, like many peo­ple who had not been brought up with a freedom from financial worries, he resented spending money on any­one but himself. Cass had sometimes wondered what kind of a life she would have had if her father had not been around to ease the burden, and it was frightening to think that one day Roger would be in control of the company.

  Now he scowled. 'What kind of a question is that?' he snapped. 'What do you think I want? I want to know what the hell you think you're doing running out on me like that? Couldn't you at least have told me face to face what you planned to do? Instead of leaving notes and sneaking off, as if I didn't deserve an explanation.'

  Cass sighed, and straightened away from the door. 'I think you'd better come into the living-room,' she said, passing him with a scarcely perceptible twist of her body to avoid brushing against him. 'Do you want some cof­fee? I think there's some in—'

  'Damn you, I don't want anything! Except some an­swers,' said Roger angrily, obliged to follow her nev­ertheless. 'Where the hell have you
been hiding out? I've been to this apartment at least a dozen times already.'

  'You have?' Cass could hear the tremor in her voice and struggled to control it.

  'Yes.' Roger regarded her beneath lowered brows. 'Do you have any idea of the embarrassment you've caused me? It's been the devil's own job convincing your father that our marriage is not on the rocks.'

  Cass swallowed. 'And isn't it?'

  'No.' Roger glowered at her, and then, as if unable to sustain the grey directness of her gaze, he bent his head. 'Oh—I suppose this has something to do with my friend­ship with Valerie Jordan, doesn't it?' he muttered. 'Well, for heaven's sake, a man's entitled to some female com­panionship, isn't he? Goodness knows, I get little enough of it at home. It's nothing serious. She just makes me feel good, that's all.'

  'Feel good?' echoed Cass bitterly. 'Is that what you call it?' Her lips twisted. 'And how much longer is this—friendship—likely to last this time? A week? A month? Six months?'

  'I don't know.' Roger was resentful now, and he raised his head again, as if realising he was going to gain nothing by pleading with her. 'What does it matter? You can't pretend you're jealous. Why shouldn't I have a little fun if I want to? I've got little enough in my life as it is.'

  Cass caught her breath. What was he saying? Could he possibly be offering her an escape, after all? Squaring her shoulders, she said quietly, 'I agree.'

  'You agree?'

  Roger was clearly taken aback at this, and Cass gained a momentary advantage. 'Yes,' she said with more con­fidence, 'I agree. We have nothing in common. I've thought so for—for a long time. And I'm quite prepared to give you a divorce.'

  'What?' Roger's expression changed from disbelief to sudden fury. 'What the hell are you talking about? I said nothing about divorce.'

  'But you said—'

  'Damn you, I know what I said, and divorce did not figure in it at all. Do you think I'm crazy?' he stared at her as if she and not he had gone mad. 'Do you honestly think I'm going to walk out of this marriage, just be­cause I've been a naughty boy?' He uttered a short, bitter laugh. 'You bitch! Did you really think that running away, embarrassing me in front of your old man, would make me consider giving you your freedom?'