‘Open a tin?’ Maria was shocked at the suggestion. ‘I do not open tins. I have home-made soup in the freezer. I always make too much and it comes back from the dining room. I never throw it away, put in freezer. I remember too well, as a child, many days of hunger.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Emma. ‘And I’ll eat in the kitchen with you.’
‘Signor would not like that. I will serve you as usual, upstairs.’
‘I think you have done quite enough work for today, Maria. Please,’ said Emma. ‘It’s warmer in your kitchen and I’m really cold.’
Emma looked frozen. Maria waved her upstairs to a hot bath. Soup would be ready in twenty minutes, she said.
The bath was bliss. Emma eased her tired limbs in the geranium-scented water, ducking her head under, letting the water run down her face. She had come to Venice to fix figures, not mop up flood water. But how could Maria have coped on her own? Not very well, that was obvious.
Emma wrapped herself in the biggest bath towel and wished Marco was here with her. He would have dried her so carefully and so lovingly, inch by inch. Maybe they would never have left the steamy bathroom, but lain on the floor, legs entwined, until sleep overtook them.
She shook herself awake. She had almost dozed off in the basket chair. Maria’s soup would be ready soon and Emma was hungry. She threw on some warm London fleece and raced downstairs, moving gingerly in the hallway as the tiled floor was slippery. The naked statue still needed a wash. Tomorrow would do.
Maria had laid the kitchen table with mats and napkins, glasses and cutlery. A basket of fresh rolls stood in the middle with a slab of farm butter on a dish. She was serving up the soup in big farmhouse bowls.
‘That smells delicious,’ said Emma, wrinkling her nose.
‘Vegetable soup, all fresh vegetables from the market. And local red wine to drink. Not the signor’s good wine. This is a bottle that I bought. Drink, signorina. It will warm you.’
What a housekeeper! She did not drink her employer’s wine but bought her own. Maria was a star.
The soup was hot, creamy and floating with grated vegetables. There was Parmesan cheese to sprinkle on the top. It warmed them both, their bodies and their spirits. Even the rolls were warm and the butter slid off them. Emma could not waste the melted butter but mopped it up with bread.
Maria talked a lot but Emma did not always understand what she was saying. She was relapsing more into Italian, thinking that Emma understood. Now she was talking about Francesca.
‘Francesca was eight years younger than Marco. Benissimo. Bellino. Bello, bello. She got in with a bad lot, boys and girls, drinking, dancing, parties. Bibita, bibita.’ Maria mimed drinking with her glass. ‘The signor, he ver’ angry. They had many hot words. But she could, what you say? Curl him round her small finger?’
‘Twist him round her little finger.’
‘Like she was a little girl again, a fanciulla.’
And Marco had loved his sister, Emma knew that from the photographs. He had doted on her. But where was she now? When would someone tell her? She opened her mouth to ask Maria when the phone rang.
Maria took the call on the phone which hung on the kitchen wall. ‘Si, signor.’
There was a spate of rapid Italian. She turned to Emma, her face beaming. ‘The call is for you, signorina, in the study.’
Emma walked carefully on the wet floor to Marco’s study. It could only be Marco. He was phoning her again. He had not forgotten her. Her heart was racing as she picked up the phone and Maria transferred the call.
‘Marco,’ she said, breathlessly.
‘You have been running?’ said the voice she loved so much.
‘No, I was downstairs.’
‘I like it when a woman comes running.’
‘I was downstairs in the kitchen, otherwise I would not have come running.’
‘What were you doing in my kitchen?’ he asked, bemused.
‘I was having supper with Maria.’
She could hear the shock at the other end of the line. ‘This is unheard of. My guest does not eat in the kitchen with my housekeeper.’ Marco sounded stern and forbidding. ‘That is a rule. It is unbroken.’
‘And is it an unbroken rule when you allow your palazzo to be flooded and waterlogged because a guest is not allowed to help one elderly housekeeper stop the flood coming in and soaking everything?’ Emma rattled on, quite annoyed at his reaction. ‘And because both elderly housekeeper and guest were dead tired, wet and exhausted and had no energy left for a dining-room meal?’
‘What flood? Tell me.’
So Emma told him, all about the high tide and the heavy rain, about dragging the heavy sandbags into the hall, about borrowing buckets, about endlessly mopping up the mud. She described the tide washing in grey wavelets, the statue with her wet feet, the sandbags.
‘I’ve ruined my trousers. And they were really nice ones that I borrowed.’ She hesitated on the word. ‘They came from the locked bedroom. They are ruined. Designer label, too.’
There was a long pause as Marco imagined the chaos on the ground floor. ‘I will buy you a hundred pairs of trousers with a designer label,’ he said. ‘What is your size?’
Emma was exasperated. ‘I don’t want a hundred pairs of trousers. I want you to come home and be where you are supposed to be, running your vineyard and stopping floods and looking after everyone. And you need to buy more buckets before the next flood.’
‘I am coming home. I fly tomorrow. I have had enough of this raw fish and rice and saki. I want a good bowl of pasta with rich tomato sauce and plenty of Parmesan. Tell Maria.’
‘We had Parmesan on our soup in the kitchen,’ said Emma, trying to hide the relief in her voice. ‘Are you really coming home?’
‘Do you miss me?’
She couldn’t tell him, could she? She missed him so much, her bones ached. ‘I don’t miss you telling me what to do.’
‘I miss your sweet lips, caro. I cannot wait to kiss you. Please be there to meet me. We shall never be parted again.’
This was one romantic Italian man speaking. That voice spoke to her very soul. He had forgotten she was going home in two weeks’ time. She was going home to dreary Brixton. Venice was only a dream. Marco was a knight in armour but he was not real. She had to go back to London, step back on the career ladder, and make a solid future for herself.
‘That’s wonderful, Marco,’ she said, playing the same game. ‘Together again. See you very soon, then?’
‘Mia caro, we will celebrate. We shall have much to talk about. You and I together. Till then, ciao.’
When Marco rang off, Emma realized that she had not told him anything about the new discoveries concerning his computer system. Her common sense had gone out of the window, into the relentless rain, into the receding tide, into the canal. But then, nor had he thanked her for mopping up his hall and dragging sandbags in from nowhere.
Was she beginning to think like an Italian? It was a delightful thought. Being so English was rather dull.
twelve
Enrico drove Emma over the Porte della Liberta to the Marco Polo Airport. It was a two-lane bridge which ran alongside the railway line. It seemed strange to be driving over the Lagoon, all that deep blue water washing beneath them. She had got so used to water travel that land travel seemed almost alien.
She was meeting Professor Gilbert Windsor, the computer expert from the security response company in London. She hoped he knew what he was doing. It was easy enough these days to label yourself an expert at anything. He had a string of qualifications after his name.
‘I’m an expert at ruining a perfectly wonderful love affair,’ she said to herself. Marco would not wait for ever. She could not forget that hurt and withdrawn expression on his face when she had refused to let him make love to her. He did not brush it off and go find another woman. He looked genuinely hurt, his dark eyes clouded with disappointment.
‘I will never force anyone against their will
,’ he had said. ‘I am sorry, Emma … I thought you liked me but I was mistaken.’
‘But I do like you,’ she had said. ‘Perhaps I like you too much.’
It was a futile explanation. He didn’t understand. She knew that. She had to make it up to him somehow.
When he returned from Japan, she would do her best to explain and she knew it wouldn’t be simple. A man might find it difficult to understand. Yet the fiery Italian was all emotion, brimming with passion, sometimes anger, full of compassion. Marco, of all people, ought to be understanding. But the truth might also turn him against her. He might not want her any more when he knew the whole story.
Marco Polo Airport was a modern three-storey building, with plenty of parking space. Emma asked Enrico to park somewhere and wait for her outside the exit while she went into the Arrivals lounge on the ground floor. The plane from London had arrived and passengers were being ferried by bus to Immigration while their luggage was unloaded.
Beard and a limp. It ought not to be difficult to identify the professor. She spotted him almost immediately by the grey beard and the limp. He was wearing baggy cord trousers and an old tweed jacket, trilby hat pulled down over his eyes. It came as quite a shock. Emma had got used to seeing Italian men, smartly dressed, at any time of day, any place. Marco was always immaculate. This was a typical English professor, although typical was an unfair description. She had met many well-dressed academics in her time.
‘Professor Windsor?’ Emma went forward to greet him. ‘I’m Emma Chandler from Irving Stone Accountants. It’s good of you to come at such short notice.’
‘Absolutely no problem at all, young lady,’ said the professor in a far from academic voice. ‘I always enjoy sorting out other people’s problems. So who are you? A secretary?’
This was a common mistake. ‘I wish I was a secretary,’ she said. ‘I would have fewer headaches and more time off. I’m a junior partner in the firm, an accountant.’
‘Phew! An accountant? Accountants get younger every day, like policemen.’
‘I’ve a car waiting outside,’ she went on. ‘Have you collected your luggage?’
He had a rather shabby backpack hunched over his shoulder. He gave it a tug. It was bulging at the seams. ‘I always travel light.’
Emma wondered if he was going to stay in the same clothes for all of his stay in Venice. Maybe he had only brought one spare shirt.
‘We’ve booked a hotel for you. It’s small but very good. I hope you’ll be comfortable.’
Emma was glad now that they had not booked him into one of the big, luxury hotels. They had picked a middle-of-the-road hotel, recommended by Signor Bragora. His relatives always stayed there when visiting Venice. It was in a quiet square but not far from the Grand Canal and the busy bars and cafés.
Enrico had been watching for Emma to appear at the exit doors and brought the car round smartly.
‘Some car,’ said the professor, admiring the well-polished black limousine. ‘Plenty of money around, is there?’ He got in, not opening the door for Emma. Enrico went to open it for her, his face expressionless. He had inherited good manners.
Emma noticed that the professor had a laptop with him in a well-worn case. He opened it immediately without asking if she minded.
‘I couldn’t use it on the plane. Damned nuisance. Thought it was allowed these days.’
‘Maybe there was some hitch in their communications system.’ Emma had no idea what she was talking about. Marco had used his laptop during their flight in first class.
‘Damn it. The battery is low. Have you got a charger in the car?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Emma faintly.
‘I’ll ask the driver bloke.’ The professor leaned forward to tap Enrico on the shoulder, even though he was driving in heavy traffic. ‘Have you got a charger in the car? My battery’s nearly flat.’
‘No, signor,’ said Enrico. ‘There will be one in the hotel.’
The professor sat back in the seat. ‘Damned nuisance,’ he said again. ‘I can’t stand it when my laptop won’t work. It might have a bit of life left in it. I’ll give it another try.’ He began tapping on keys.
Emma’s heart fell. This was not a good start.
‘There should be a charger in a fancy car like this, you know. It’s all the thing these days.’
There was just enough life left in the battery for a red warning sign to suddenly flash onto the laptop screen. ‘What am I being warned about?’ the professor muttered to himself, touching keys, but the flashing still continued. She noticed that his hands were flying over the keys, no arthritis or knobbly joints. His nails were badly cut, chewed.
Emma was not interested. She had already had quite enough of the professor and was thankful that it was only a short journey to Venice. Signor Bragora was going to escort him to the hotel as he had made the booking. Emma would be free of the tiresome man soon enough.
‘Whose car is this?’ he said, looking up at Emma. ‘Is it a hired car?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Emma. ‘It belongs to Signor dell’Orto. It’s his personal property.’ She did not mention the pale-green convertible.
‘Well, the damned thing is bugged. I’m getting a warning bug sign coming on. Where the hell is the damned thing?’ He began searching around the inside of the car, down the sides of the seats, under the mats, round the seat-belt fixtures. Emma shrank back. She didn’t want him searching round her seat belt, touching her, coming anywhere near her. She would panic. She would have to stop the car and get out.
‘Are you sure? It seems very unlikely,’ Emma began.
‘My laptop doesn’t lie. It knows when there’s something alien in the vicinity. It’s not daft. I need a screwdriver. It’s probably tucked inside something.’
‘Please don’t start unscrewing things in the car,’ said Emma firmly. ‘It’s not your car. We’ll take it to a garage and have it properly searched if you really think it’s bugged.’
‘Of course it’s definitely bugged. The computer hacking in your office could be linked to this, and if your boss uses his laptop in this car. It’s all clever stuff these days. It could be collecting transmitted information, his private information through some sort of link-up.’
Professor Windsor did not seem to know exactly what he was talking about but then neither did Emma. It might be true. The bug might be a link.
It was not an easy drive. Twice, a big 4x4 seemed to crush them against the barriers but Enrico was a good driver and escaped the collisions.
Emma was thankful when the car crossed the bridge and they arrived at the main car park. Signor Bargora was waiting for them with a hired launch at the quayside.
Professor Windsor got out of the car and limped over to the launch.
‘Done half the work for you already,’ he said. ‘That car’s bugged.’
‘The car needs to be searched at a reliable garage,’ said Emma. ‘Taken to pieces if necessary.’
‘No stone unturned,’ said the professor.
‘I will arrange it,’ said Signor Bragora. Then he turned to Emma.
‘Can we give you a lift, Emma?’ said Signor Bragora kindly. ‘We can go your way and drop you at the palazzo first.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Emma. She didn’t want the professor seeing Marco’s elegant palazzo and deciding he would rather stay there with her. ‘I’ve got a return ticket for the vaporetto. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Emma. See you tomorrow.’
Emma escaped. Enrico would take the black limousine to their regular garage and have it properly searched. It might well be the key to the hacking. If so, the tiresome professor had already earned his considerable fee.
The vaporetto was crowded with tourists. They jostled her. She was already nervous, hoping no one was going to push her into the water.
It was late but there was a light supper waiting for her in the dining room. It was too cold to eat on the balcony. Emma had a few mouthfuls
of the soup and some salad so as not to disappoint Maria, changed into some warmer casual clothes and decided that a quick walk along the quayside would blow away the day’s cobwebs. She would not venture into the labyrinth of side streets but keep to the open waterfront.
She borrowed an old raincoat that was hanging by the back door and tied a scarf over her hair. She wanted to look local and anonymous.
It was still bright and noisy along the quayside, street lamps reflected in the water, cafés and bars open, plenty of trade. The tourists loved strolling Venice at night and so did the inhabitants. This was the time they came out, well wrapped up, to meet friends for a drink and a chat.
She strolled through Piazza San Marco, passed the Café Florian where she and Marco had sat together, listening to music. It seemed years rather than days ago since that night. So much had happened since then that had changed her life. She felt like a new person, ready to meet any challenges. Except the most important one, her longing to love Marco. That was going nowhere because she could not let it.
She wondered if her new mobile would work in the Piazza. She dialled Marco’s private mobile number but it didn’t register. She kept getting an unobtainable signal. Perhaps it was interference from the friendly but greedy pigeons who thought she had stopped to feed them and were swooping around her. She didn’t want to eat or drink but kept walking through the crowds of tourists. She understood Marco’s apprehension. Tourists were taking over Venice.
There was a lot of raucous laughter coming from one of the open-air cafés, seats and tables out in the cool evening air for the hardy. A bunch of young men were clustered round a table that already had a forest of empty beer bottles.
Noisy disco music was coming from inside the café. It was very popular with the younger, lively clientele.
A voice stood out from the noise, almost shouting. Where had she heard that voice before? It rang more than one bell but she could not place it.
‘Tell me about your sinking Venice. All water and very wet. Where are the best bars while there’s still time?’
The Prosecco Fortune Page 12
