She couldn’t make sense of any of it. Sebastian was a divided soul, moving between night and day, darkness and light, and so were her emotions: love and fear fought inside her without either winning.
‘Come in,’ Sebastian said coldly, just as a rattling of dishes on a table being wheeled along the corridor proclaimed the arrival of their breakfast.
He had opened the high windows of the sitting room, which led out on to a balcony. A cool morning breeze blew through the elegantly furnished room: soft gauzy curtains rustled and flew up, and the distant salty smell of the sea filled the air.
‘Buon giorno, Signorina, Signori,’ the waiter said, negotiating the table through the open door of the suite. Sebastian directed him towards the balcony, then asked the others, ‘Okay with you if we eat out there?’
‘That would be wonderful, it’s so cool at this hour, after that hot night.’ Laura was afraid to meet his eyes. The words he had written in that note kept echoing around her head. Why did he want her dead? Especially after last night. They had begun with a struggle and anger, but after they had made love there had been a deep peace between them.
Sebastian had his back to her, was speaking to the waiter. She walked out on to the balcony, only to stop dead, a fluttering of panic in her breast as she saw how high up they were.
Hands screwed into fists, gulping air as if she was suffocating, she stood by the open french windows.
She had never suffered from vertigo before – the first time had been an hour ago when she had looked out of the bathroom window and felt she was going to fall out. Now the same terror had her by the throat again. She was afraid to move in any direction.
Neither of the men seemed aware of what was happening to her. The waiter was moving things around on the white-damask-covered table, putting out orange juice in white-capped glasses set in silver bowls of ice, baskets of hot rolls, croissants, little cakes, silver pots of coffee and hot milk.
After glancing over the table to check that they had everything they needed, Sebastian tipped the waiter, who bowed and left. Nico walked to the rail and gazed down over the green trees to the golden sands. Laura wanted to cry out to him, ‘Keep away from the edge!’ but she was pressed against the wall, unable to move or speak.
‘Sit down, Laura,’ Sebastian said, watching her with those dark wells of eyes. She stared back at him, like a rabbit hypnotised by a snake, seeing death dancing in front of it but unable to escape.
Was Sebastian silently willing her to throw herself off the balcony? Was this why Clea had thrown herself to her death? Laura remembered vividly how she had felt the power of Sebastian’s will when they were working together. She had obeyed him as if she had no will of her own.
‘Come and have breakfast.’ Sebastian walked over to her and took her arm. He looked startled. ‘You’re freezing! Why are you so cold? Are you ill? What’s wrong?’
His touch, the words, broke the spell. She blinked, her pallor was invaded by a rush of red, and she stammered, ‘No, no, I’m fine, just … I don’t like heights.’
His eyes sharpened into scalpels that probed her face. ‘I don’t remember that. How long has it been going on?’
Nico had turned to watch them. Laura was staring up into Sebastian’s face, seeing there the remembrance of Clea’s death. She was still between them.
Jealousy made a bitter taste in her mouth and she swallowed, jerked away her head and was suddenly able to move. ‘I’m fine now.’ She walked away from Sebastian and sat down at the table, her back to the view of the hotel grounds, the rail and the long drop to the ground. She picked up her glass of chilled orange juice and took a sip.
Nico sat down beside her. ‘You have promised to pose for me, haven’t you? I’m very excited by my idea. I think it will be a sensation.’
He took a croissant, tore off a piece and chewed it, his teeth very white, charmingly uneven, against his tanned olive skin.
‘What idea?’ Sebastian poured coffee, black and fragrant. Its scent filled Laura’s nostrils. Every tiny impression seemed too intense this morning. She felt as if this might be the last morning of her life – everything meant so much.
What is the matter with me? she asked herself, watching Sebastian drink his coffee while he watched her in turn with eyes that were full of questions.
‘I don’t want it talked about in case somebody else steals it,’ Nico said. ‘You know what the art business is like. A new idea is like gold dust – everyone is on the look-out for one, and I don’t work fast. I like to take my time, get something absolutely right. If anybody knew what I was doing, somebody who worked faster than me could come out with their piece, and mine would be worthless.’
‘I’m intrigued. But when is Laura going to sit for you? She leaves tomorrow.’ Sebastian kept his eyes on her.
She didn’t answer, so he shrugged. ‘Well, if you don’t want to talk about your idea, we’ll talk about mine. I’ve got an option on The Lily, that Frederick Canfield book set in the Second World War. Do you remember? I’ve had it in development for a year or so. We’ve got a script, of sorts, and a storyboard. The money should be okay, if I get the right casting.’
‘I’ve read it several times,’ Nico said, tense with interest his face golden in the morning sunlight. ‘A brilliant novel. Are you going to cast Laura as the girl?’
‘I’m hoping she’ll agree. She’d be perfect, and it would be a wonderful role for her, at this stage of her career. She has to move up a step or two and what she needs is a big box-office success. This film would be it.’ He was talking to Laura rather than Nico, watching her. He finished his orange juice and pushed the glass back into its bed of melting ice, turning it round and round so that the ice clinked and groaned.
‘Which brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you.’ He talked rapidly, barely taking a breath between sentences, to make sure Nico didn’t interrupt him. ‘If your mother would agree, I’d like to use Ca’ d’Angeli for some of the location work. I’d probably need it for a month or so. You and she could take a holiday, leave a servant to keep an eye on the place, make sure we didn’t do any damage. You’ve no need to worry, I assure you. We wouldn’t make any structural alterations, and probably wouldn’t change the decor at all – it fits the book perfectly. Antique furniture is fine for any period and, if you remember, the house in the book is very much like Ca’ d’Angeli. Even the garden is perfect. But do you think your mother will agree, or not?’
‘I wasn’t expecting this!’ Nico said. ‘I own the house so it is my decision, but I’d have to consult my mother, for courtesy’s sake, and she may not like the idea.’
‘It would pay very well – I don’t suppose sculptors make a fortune, do they? And the house must cost a lot in upkeep. Think of what you could do with the money!’
Nico looked sideways at Laura. ‘Would you stay with us at Ca’ d’Angeli while you’re in Venice making this film? Then, when you aren’t needed for a scene, you could pose for me.’
She heard Sebastian shift in his chair, felt tension in him, carefully didn’t risk looking in his direction. Cupping her hands round her coffee cup, she nodded. ‘Okay.’
After all, what difference was there between posing for a photographer and posing for an artist? What you were doing was basically the same: a matter of training in patience and response, giving the photographer or artist what they wanted. Certainly a photography session involved lots of movement, using props, changing mood – smiling, being serious, looking tigerish or sweet, playing up to the camera as if it was a man you loved – and when you were posing for an artist you had to keep still, not move a muscle, hold a pose for ages. She could imagine that that would be exhausting, and probably tedious, if it went on for too long. But it would be fascinating to watch Nico working: she had never known a sculptor before and she would have plenty to think about while she was modelling for him. No doubt he would give her a break every so often.
‘If I do the film, that is,’ she added. ‘This is a chan
cy business. Projects fall through all the time, or take years to get into production. This film may never get made at all, or I may not be available on the date they start shooting. But if I do get that part, I’d be happy to pose for you whenever I have any free time.’
‘You aren’t likely to have much. This part would call for you being on set most of the time,’ Sebastian said.
She smiled at Nico. ‘I’m bound to get one day off a week, at least, so don’t worry.’
‘We have a deal?’ he said, getting up. ‘Well, I’ll talk to my mother and let you know our decision, Sebastian. Now, I’m afraid I have to get back. I’m at work on something important. Thanks for the breakfast. I normally just have coffee and some fruit – a touch of luxury is always welcome. And it was a very useful meeting, for both of us.’
Laura got up to leave, too, but Sebastian stopped her. ‘Don’t go yet. I want to talk to you.’
When the door had closed on Nico and she and Sebastian were alone, she pulled free. ‘I’ve got another appointment at ten, I can’t be late.’ She hadn’t meant to say anything more to him, but suddenly her anger flared. ‘Why did you write that note to me this morning, Sebastian? Why are you threatening me?’
‘Note?’ He looked mystified. ‘What are you talking about? Which note?’
‘Oh, don’t play stupid games! You know what I mean! The note you left on my pillow.’
‘Oh, that! I didn’t write it, I found it by the door. Someone had obviously pushed it underneath—’ Sebastian stopped. ‘What did it say?’
She stared at him, trying to read his expression, not sure whether or not she could believe him. The envelope she had received soon after she arrived had been pushed under the door, and it had been from the same person.
Could Sebastian be telling the truth?
‘What did it say?’ he insisted.
‘Never mind.’
‘I do mind. If you thought I might have written it, then presumably it was anonymous. What sort of filth is someone writing to you? It must be pretty nasty or you wouldn’t have looked at me that way. I want to see it, Laura – I’ll come down to your room and get it. You should tell the police if someone’s sending you junk like that. Have you rung them?’
‘You know I can’t speak Italian and, anyway, what could they do? Both of them were printed—’
‘Both?’ he exploded. ‘There was another one?’
She could have kicked herself. ‘Oh, forget it!’
‘Are you crazy? How can I forget something like that? One threat was serious enough – but two? What did the other one say?’
‘Same sort of thing.’
‘You still haven’t told me what they say!’
‘Threats,’ she muttered. ‘Get out of Venice or else …’
‘When did you get the first one?’
‘Just after I arrived yesterday.’
‘Let’s go to your room. I want to see them. You must go to the police, Laura! You’re taking a silly risk not showing them these notes.’
‘I’m only going to be here one more day, then I’ll be on my way back to London. What’s the point? Stop shouting at me! Forget I mentioned the notes. I’ve torn them up and flushed them down the lavatory.’
He swore. ‘For God’s sake! That was a damn stupid thing to do! You should have kept them, They’re evidence. Come on! What did they say?’
She couldn’t tell him without mentioning Clea and she couldn’t bear to repeat what the note had said, the words stuck in her throat. ‘Whoever wrote it doesn’t like me very much. That’s all.’ She reached for the door but Sebastian stepped in front of it.
‘Which made you think it was from me. After last night?’ His voice was harsh. ‘Well, thank you, Laura. That tells me a lot.’
‘No, I didn’t mean – You’re jumping to conclusions—’
‘Isn’t that what you’ve done about me? Not very nice conclusions, either.’
‘I’m sorry. But I did find that note this morning on my pillow and only you could have put it there. What else was I to think?’
He stared down at her pale face. ‘Okay. You say it’s from someone who doesn’t like you. What does that mean? Why won’t you tell me exactly what was said? Is he threatening you?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ She looked away, her mouth a stubborn line.
‘Why are you so damn stupid?’
She laughed humourlessly. ‘I can’t help it, I suppose.’
‘Don’t sound so pleased with yourself!’ There was a brief silence. Then he asked, ‘What’s going on between you and Nico?’
She felt herself flushing, knew she must look guilty. ‘Nothing. You heard what he was saying – he wants me to pose for him.’
‘With or without clothes?’
The biting sarcasm hurt, but she answered, chin up, defiant, ‘More or less what I’m wearing now, actually, but with boots and a hat.’
‘Boots and a hat?’ Sebastian’s eyes widened, his brows met. ‘Is this a statue, or does he intend to paint you?’
‘I can’t, tell you. You heard him – he doesn’t want anyone to know his plans. It seems the art world is as competitive and treacherous as the film world.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Please, I must go, I have a very busy day ahead of me.’
‘Do you know yet which table you’ll be sitting at tonight?’
‘Mel knows, I haven’t checked.’ He moved away from the door and she turned the handle, saying, with relief, ‘Well, see you.’
‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’
‘The first flight, I think, mid-morning.’
‘If you like the script I’ll be in touch in a few weeks in London, to draw up contracts for the film.’
‘Not with me, Sebastian, with Melanie. She deals with the business side, you know. I can’t make any deals without her agreement. You have to talk to her about the contract.’
He grimaced. ‘I know. But if you want to do it, don’t let her talk you out of it. You’re the client, remember, she’s just the agent.’
She giggled, ‘Don’t tell me that, tell Melanie. ‘Bye, Sebastian,’ then hurried away down the corridor towards the lift, relieved to have escaped.
‘I’ll send you the latest version of the script as soon as I get back,’ he called after her.
She waved without turning round. ‘Okay, I’ll look forward to reading it.’
‘And be careful!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t take any risks. If you get any more anonymous letters, take them to the police.’
She waved again, without answering, and walked into the lift. She was not as disturbed by them now that she was almost sure Sebastian hadn’t sent them. People in the public eye received notes like that all the time and most of them meant nothing. She had only had them since she came to Venice… which must mean that they were from someone here at the moment, or someone who lived here all the time and had access to this hotel – maybe someone who worked here. It could be anyone. She didn’t care who it was, so long as it wasn’t Sebastian.
Of course, it wouldn’t be wise for her to accept this role in his new film: she had sworn never to work with him again, and last night had shown her that she was as vulnerable to him as she had ever been: emotionally nothing had changed.
But that role might be a real chance for her. She hadn’t even read the script yet but she sensed that this was going to be a major film. She couldn’t turn it down or she might never get another break like it: very few people were given such an opportunity.
It would mean coming back to Venice, too, and she had fallen in love with the city. Being here was like living in a waking dream – what other city had that magic? She loved the idea of spending weeks here, maybe months, especially if she was staying at Ca’ d’Angeli, which was the loveliest house she had ever seen. She couldn’t believe that she was going to be living under that roof, with the Grand Canal flowing past the front door, and all those extraordinary, beautiful objects surrounding her day and night. The tapestries, the bronz
es, the paintings were like nothing she had ever seen before, and she couldn’t wait to see Nico’s studio – was that where he would be working on this statue of her as a female David? That was another reason why she couldn’t refuse: it was such a wonderful idea that she couldn’t bear to miss out on it.
Who are you kidding? she asked herself, knowing that she was just making up a string of reasons for doing what she badly wanted to do. She would give anything to work with Sebastian again. He was as mysterious as Ca’ d’Angeli; a maze of winding corridors, secret, full of shadows and angels and reflections that bewildered her. She knew so little about him and what she thought she knew could all be an illusion. So much of the film world was illusion, and even though she was inside it now she still hadn’t fathomed what really went on in it.
But if Sebastian hadn’t sent those notes, who had? Her skin crept. What if he was right and she had somehow become the target of someone who might not stop at notes? Who might be serious about wanting to kill her? Who might follow her to London and try there?
Chapter Six
Nico’s favourite possession was his boat; it was his escape when life got difficult. He could get into it at any time, day or night, and zoom away into the misty reaches of the lagoon, or even out into the waters of the Adriatic, Italy’s own private sea, leaving behind everything that got on his nerves and made life unbearable. That usually meant the summer, when the city was torrid and airless, the narrow streets crammed with tourists and stinking with the smell of stagnant water. It was why he had given the boat the name Angelica. It was a joke about his home, Ca’ d’Angeli, of course – that was how everyone took it – but it was also a secret code for himself because the boat could take him to heaven, far out where he would switch off the engine and drift in silence and emptiness, through mists or clear blue waters, alone for hours with only the cry of sea birds, the slap of the waves on the hull, the rhythmic rocking, the wind blowing. He had painted the hull midnight blue, which could look black on dark days, when no light reflected, although when the sun came out the colour took on a brighter sheen, like a blackbird’s wing. The name was painted in gold, and above it was a pair of golden wings made of delicate fretted wood.
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