The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  Emma remembered the joy of that day. And she was so glad her foster mother had been alive to share that joy. They had shared a special meal together to celebrate.

  Marco could see the look on her face. It was a mixture of pride and sadness.

  She was sipping her Bucintoro. It was a spirit-reviving drink. But the gold flecks in her hazel eyes seemed to have dimmed.

  ‘So now you are going to tell me sad things?’

  ‘Yes, she died four years ago of cancer. So she never knew when I become a junior accountant at Irving Stone. She never knew when I moved out of our council house and could afford to buy my own flat in Brixton, with a mortgage, of course. It would have been perfect if she could have stopped going to work, taken it easy, enjoyed some life. But it didn’t happen.’

  Emma seemed broken with remorse. They didn’t know who reached out for whom. Marco knew he could comfort her, but when and how? They were both so guarded. He reached across and clasped her hand.

  ‘Sweet Emma. Grieve no more. Venetians know that the spirit lasts. Look around you. Your mother knows all of this. She is everywhere, here with you now, enjoying your joy. Not a whisper away. Do not despair.’

  His words, in that gravelly voice, dug into her driving hunger. He was saying words that she wanted to hear. Emma closed her eyes, breathing in the sound of his voice. Not a whisper away.

  ‘I do hope so,’ she said. ‘Oh, I do hope so.’

  Back at the Palazzo dell’Orto, they found that Maria had taken the evening off. It was like that. No one had remembered it was her evening off. Marco did not seem worried. There were so many alternatives.

  ‘We will eat out,’ he out. ‘A good Venetian restaurant, not touristy, not terrible menu with bad tourist prices. Somewhere ver’ special.’

  ‘That’s fine. Anywhere,’ said Emma, not caring.

  ‘Put a dress on,’ he said.

  It was a command, not a suggestion. Emma was curiously unmoved. Her courage had returned. ‘I don’t have a dress. I only brought office clothes and a pair of jeans.’

  ‘I am not taking out a pair of jeans,’ said Marco, flatly.

  ‘That’s all I have,’ said Emma. She respected his power, his strength, his masculinity but he wasn’t going to dictate what she wore. ‘I didn’t bring any dresses.’

  They were climbing the central marble staircase of the palazzo. At the top, Marco took a key from his pocket. It was quite a large key, not modern, from some time ago.

  ‘There is a room on the next floor,’ he said. ‘This fits. You will find many dresses, unworn, still with price labels from the shops. Find something foxier to wear. Take anything you like. I will see you downstairs at seven o’clock. I will book a table.’

  He turned abruptly on his heel, down some corridor. Emma was left holding the key. She turned it over in her hand. It felt unused.

  She climbed up to the second floor. It was one of the locked bedrooms on the same floor as her own. But this room was at the back, maybe no view, somewhere lost and forgotten.

  She hesitated at the door. It seemed like a forbidden place.

  She turned the key and the door creaked open. It smelt musty and full of stale perfume. The curtains were drawn so she had to switch on the lights. The room was flooded with light and Emma gasped.

  It was a big corner room with rose draped curtains over windows on two walls. A canopied bed against one wall, velvet curtains drawn back, a crimson satin quilt on the bed, huge cushions tumbled in rows. There was a dressing table opposite, the glass top crowded with cosmetics and bottles and jars. The crystal bottles were dusty, powder spilt, perfume dried to a sediment.

  Two large wardrobes flanked the last wall, doors closed. A pair of fluffy slippers lay askew on the floor. Silk stockings hung over a chair. No one had been in the room for years. It was indeed lost and forgotten.

  Then she saw the paintings and the photographs. They were everywhere. A beautiful young woman, dark and laughing, her long curly hair shining and lustrous, her skin glowing. She was vital and sexy. This woman as seen at parties, at the races, swimming. A woman who would have attracted every man in sight.

  Then Emma noticed a man in the background of many of the photographs. It was Marco, a younger fresh-faced Marco, looking at the dark woman with adoration and devotion. There was no doubt. This woman must have been his wife. And that explained so much.

  And Marco wanted her to wear one of his wife’s dresses. It was weird. Emma did not know what to do. The room had been locked up for years. Maria had not been in here with her polish and duster. Emma opened the wardrobe doors and the scent of old perfume wafted into the room.

  The rails were crowded with clothes, day, cocktail, evening dresses. There were dozens of them. It was like a shop. Emma could see that most still had their price tags attached. The price tags meant nothing to her but the labels did. They were famous designers she had heard of, but had never in her life been able to afford.

  She had never seen so many couture clothes. She touched them tentatively, tempted beyond words to do as Marco said and wear one of them. They were unworn. It was not as if she would be wearing one of his wife’s cast-offs. This woman had bought them, paid for them with Marco’s money, his credit card. Maria had hung them in the wardrobes. But the woman had not worn them.

  Emma took out several of the hangers, letting the dresses drape against her. Many looked too big, too voluptuous. But there was one which would fit because it was cut straight, a plain black silk with a fringed hem. The sleeves were long and straight, the neck a plain cowl. It was a beautiful dress, so simple and elegant. And with the cardigan, she would be warm enough.

  Emma took the dress into her bedroom, locking the other door behind her. She wanted to look glamorous and desirable for Marco, but what would he think of her, wearing one of his wife’s dresses?

  In his study, Marco was on the phone.

  ‘I could not come to our appointment,’ said Claudio Morelli. ‘I am sorry, my friend. We fished a poor girl out of the canal. I had to be there. She came first.’

  ‘I am sad about the girl,’ said Marco. ‘A love affair perhaps that had gone wrong?’

  ‘A love affair that hit her on the head and fractured her skull?’

  ‘That is bad,’ said Marco. ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘No, no identification on her. But she was wearing a fawn raincoat, a Jaeger raincoat. This is from a London shop, si? And in the pocket were several London bus tickets and a receipt for a tuna and watercress sandwich, dated yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Marco. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because we believe this raincoat belongs to your visitor. The girl was killed because they thought she was your English accountant.’

  four

  Marco was waiting at the bottom of the stone stairs. He was all in black, like some devastating James-Bond-type hero. Black silk shirt and tie, black trousers, fine wool black jacket, his thick hair unruly.

  ‘Snip,’ he said. ‘As you say in your country.’

  ‘Snap,’ said Emma.

  ‘You look very beautiful,’ he went on, taking in the black fringed dress and the high-heeled black shoes. Emma had found the shoes in the back of the wardrobe, still wrapped in tissue paper. They were a little large for her but she had tightened the T-straps to the last hole so that they would not slip.

  Marco approved of the cardigan Emma had on her shoulders. He would have to buy her a wool coat tomorrow. It was cold in the evenings in Venice when the sun had gone down.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not very,’ said Emma. ‘Your staff kept feeding me delicious snacks. And we had cakes this afternoon.’

  ‘But I am hungry so we will eat. Perhaps your appetite will return.’

  Emma had forgotten there was no street outside. It was quite a shock to stand on the steps outside the panelled front door, water washing over the lower ones, leaving a film of green algae. A long, black, flat-bottomed boat drif
ted to the steps, poled by a man in flamboyant black and gold clothes. It was a gondola waiting with its owner, a gondolier. He came forward, helped Emma into his gondola. There were fewer customers in the winter. It rocked enough to unnerve her.

  ‘He’s not going to sing, is he?’ she asked.

  ‘No singing,’ said Marco, hiding his amusement as he sat beside her on the red upholstered and cushioned seat. ‘Unless he is asked to.’

  She had seen pictures of gondolas but the ornate splendour surprised Emma. So much carving and gilding everywhere. The mysterious, multi-pronged ferro in the front of the boat, its six prongs facing forwards, was slightly disturbing. She did not want to ask Marco what it symbolized.

  The waterway was even more magical by night, lights gleaming on the water, the sound of laughter and music coming from both quaysides. Even the great white churches were floodlit at night. Vaporetti swished by, laden with workers wanting to get home or diners wanting to eat, always in a hurry. Private launches sped by in all directions, their wash sweeping a line, out to the other islands or along to the hotels on the coast.

  The gondola was leisurely, taking its time, negotiating the shallow mudflats, the sharply-angled canals and under bridges. This was a far cry from picking up a microwave supper from M&S on her way home from the office. Emma began to relax, even though Marco was uncomfortably close, his thigh brushing hers. Close to, the water of the canal did not smell so good, but Emma realized that Venetians had to get used to it. Collecting garbage from the hotels, shops and bars was a rising problem.

  ‘My vineyards smell a lot better,’ said Marco, reading her thoughts. ‘Soon I shall take you there. You will see and smell my good grapes.’

  A warm feeling swept over Emma. He was showing that he was interested in her as a woman. But then she thought of the room full of unworn clothes. Did they belong to his wife? Marco was not going to tell her. He had said nothing about the black dress. Perhaps he did not recognize or know it existed.

  The soft material felt good on her skin, though Emma knew she was going to be cold. How could she have forgotten it was winter in Venice? If only she had her raincoat.

  Another thought hit her. Perhaps it was not his wife’s room. Perhaps this was where he took his mistress, or mistresses. Maybe they were all invited to choose an unworn dress, still with its price tag dangling.

  But the photographs in the room had been of this one glamorous woman. The dark-haired beauty with luminous eyes. And the cosmetics had been standing on the dressing table for some time, gathering dust and congealing.

  Emma wanted to ask him. She wanted to know. She wanted to know who was this mysterious woman, whose presence still occupied a room in his palazzo. Her heart came up into her throat as she realized how desperately she wanted to know.

  ‘I shall take you to Harry’s Bar, upstairs, now that you are dressed up. It is a legendary place for visitors. All the celebrities go there. We may see some famous faces. It was once an old storeroom.’

  ‘You are taking me to eat in an old storeroom?’

  ‘It’s where Americans love to go and talk. You will feel at home. I thought you would prefer it to one of the big glitzy hotels in Venice.’

  It was a thoughtful, if misplaced gesture. Emma did not want to eat American or listen to transatlantic accents. She wanted to eat Italian and absorb herself in everything Venetian. It was casting a spell over her. Marco was casting a spell over her. She had never felt this way about any man before.

  They were heading south and as the waterway widened, so the wind freshened and Marco put his arm round her, to shield her lightly covered shoulders. For a few moments, they were fused physically if not spiritually. Her heart began to race, but then there was a cool withdrawal as they reached the quayside.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Marco. ‘I am not dressed for fishing you out of the water.’

  ‘I can swim,’ said Emma.

  ‘In this water? Even the fish think more than twice.’

  Harry’s Bar was on St Mark’s waterfront. Marco guided her through the glass-paned doors. Inside, Emma immediately realized why Harry’s Bar was so famous and so friendly. It was the ambience.

  The downstairs area of Harry’s Bar was thronged with early- evening customers, drinking and eating snacks and sandwiches. Upstairs was the restaurant for serious diners. They sat at a comfortable banquette with butterscotch wood trim, the table linen a subtle pale yellow. There was only one knife and fork at each place setting. The menu was elaborate and expensive.

  ‘I really don’t want much,’ said Emma, shocked by the prices, for which by now she could calculate the exchange into pounds. No pence needed.

  ‘Shall I order for you?’ said Marco, not waiting for an answer. ‘Cavatappi with cinque wild mushrooms and salad with a bottle of sexy Prosecco, the finest sparkling champagne in Italy. And I will have scampi all’Armoricaine. That’s a tomato, herb and wine sauce. Ver’ good. I usually have the same thing. I am regular here. Not everyone is tourist. Some of us dine every week, even every day.’

  The cardigan had slid away from her shoulders and Emma lost track of where it went. She was entirely engrossed in the atmosphere of Harry’s Bar, colour coming into her cheeks as she sipped the champagne. No famous faces tonight, but she could imagine Humphrey Bogart and Kirk Douglas sitting at a table.

  ‘Ernest Hemingway, Maria Callas, Orson Welles and your Nicole Kidman, from today’s films that you go to see much often,’ said Marco, again reading her mind. ‘The list is as long as the menu.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ said Emma, in a rush, as the champagne trickled down her throat. ‘It makes a change from an M&S microwaved meal.’

  ‘What is this m-and-s microwaved meal?’ said Marco, bemused. ‘Is this a new dish? I have not heard of it. Explain how it is made.’

  Emma laughed delightedly. And again, Marco was struck by the radiance which came into her eyes when she laughed. The wistful look and the sadness fled. One day, perhaps, Emma would tell him who had hurt her.

  But she was here to work, he reminded himself. Her private life and her feelings were nothing to do with him. Yet he could not stop himself from imagining what it would be like to run his fingers slowly down her arms to her fingertips, even down her spine to the soft roundness of her hips.

  He shook off his thoughts. He could not waste moments in daydreams. This was not a time for daydreaming. Emma was here to work. To find out where two years’ income from his vineyards had gone.

  ‘So what have you discovered today, clever-headed English accountant?’ he asked as his scampi arrived, hot and succulent.

  The plate of pasta was not too big or overwhelming, the perfect size for the dish, plain white china with a discreetly decorated edge.

  ‘I have gone back many months, checking everything. Nothing seems amiss. Your staff are entirely trustworthy. They have done nothing suspicious. Every transaction, in and out, is properly accounted for,’ said Emma, suddenly finding she was hungry after all. The freshly made pasta was delicious, so different from a microwaved supper.

  ‘So it is me?’ Marco said drily, his eyes hardening. ‘Am I the one to blame? What have I done, to ferret away all these many millions of euros? Is it to some offshore account so that I don’t pay the tax?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Emma honestly. ‘But I don’t think you are to blame in any way. Nor Signor Bragora. He can barely see anything. Your staff tell me that you rarely come into accounts, you are always at the plant or the vineyard.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Unless you sneak in at midnight,’ Emma said.

  ‘I have better things to do at midnight,’ said Marco.

  It was a true arrogance without a care how he looked, saying it. And at this moment, Marco was every inch a tall, striking Italian, who could have any woman he wanted. He was as sensuous as a panther. Emma felt an undercurrent of excitement and then despair crept into her bones.

  Marco would never feel that way about h
er. She was even wearing another woman’s dress. He would never know the real Emma.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Your eyes always speak the truth. That is what I like about you, Emma. I have only to look into your eyes and I can read them.’

  It was not that reassuring. Emma did not want him to read her thoughts. They were wanton and stomach-clenching. She was drowning in her need to be closer to him. Perhaps a little more Prosecco would dampen the flood of warmth that was tingling her limbs.

  They both said no to a dessert, however mouth-watering the selection. But Marco ordered Bellinis.

  ‘This is the home of the Bellini. They were invented by Guiseppe Cipriani, the hotel barman who opened Harry’s Bar in 1931,’ he said. ‘So you must have your first one here. Peach juice and champagne. It will warm your heart.’

  Her heart did not need warming. ‘Long before I was born,’ said Emma.

  ‘And also before I was born.’

  It was only fruit juice, Emma told herself. Her five a day. And pasta was filling. It was not as if she was drinking on an empty stomach.

  The restaurant was very warm, despite the chill outside.

  ‘Tell me how you travel to work in London?’ Marco asked unexpectedly. ‘You take taxis, si?’

  ‘No, I go to work on the bus. The Underground station is quite far from my flat.’

  ‘And yesterday, before my car picked you up, did you have a lunch?’

  Emma looked at him in amazement. ‘Is my lunch important? Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Was it a tuna and watercress sandwich?’

  Was Marco clairvoyant? ‘Yes, it was. But how do you know?’

  ‘Because your raincoat was found in the canal and the receipt was in the pocket, also bus tickets.’

  He did not say that a girl had been wearing the raincoat and that she had drowned. That the girl had been hit on the head. He did not want to frighten Emma. Perhaps tomorrow she would identify the raincoat as hers.

  ‘My raincoat? But why?’

  ‘So soon there will be the feast of St Nicholas,’ said Marco, changing the subject. ‘And we will party and go to festivals. You will like it. Small English accountants lead very dull lives in Brixton, I think.’