Flood Tide

by Stella Whitelaw

  “Is that what I dread to think it is?”

  “A youth hostel. Very basic.”

  The signora arrived with a steaming plate of lasagne covered in a rich sauce, iced lemonade and iced coffee for Ewart.

  “The signora makes the pasta herself. In the early morning you can see sheets of green pasta hung all over the chairs.”

  Reah choked. “Pasta hung chairs are a little hard to take especially when one is eating it,” she said.

  She looked at the man who had tried to make money out of her father’s death. She had imagined a monster; tough, Ewart Morgan might be, but she also saw a very human person. He obviously did not connect her with the famous yachtsman. Nor did she want him to know.

  “I’m here to write about the great flood,” he said with a wry grin. “Disasters are my specialty.”

  Reah knew only too well that disasters were his specialty, other people’s tragedies. “Oh, you mean that flood,” she said. “The one in 1966?”

  His brown eyes darkened. “It did an irrevocable amount of damage,” he said after a long pause. “It destroyed thousands of priceless art treasures. The night of November 4th, more than two hundred millimetres of rain fell in twenty-four hours. That’s a quarter of the average annual rainfall for the whole of Italy. Four million cubic yards of water raced to the sea and broke the Arno’s banks.”

  Reah shivered despite the heat of the afternoon. She pushed away threads of her frightening dream. thrust away memories of her father’s death. But she could not forget that it was this man, sitting opposite her, who was enmeshed in both haunting shadows. And here was water again, suffocating water

  “A great mass built up,” Ewart went on. “Diesel oil, refuse, chemicals, dyes and tons of mud. A horrendous wave of slime hit Florence with fiendish force. It swept away houses, broke down doors, tossed cars into piles, crushed monuments, uprooted trees, exploded furniture. It was a nightmare, Reah, not only for the thousands of people caught in the little streets and basements, but a disaster for the ancient treasures of Florence.”

  “People were drowned?” she asked in a strained voice.

  “Over forty. It was a miracle there were not many more. It was a public holiday and people were sleeping late in their beds. There was no panic or stampede to leave the city. People climbed higher and watched, stunned, as their beautiful city disappeared under water. Just imagine their feelings, Reah. When the water went, Florence was knee-high in stinking slime.”

  “Why are you writing a play about it?”

  “Where there’s disaster, there’s always courage. I want to write about the heroes and heroines. Prefetto, the Civil Governor. The bands of capelloni, the long-haired youths, who worked without pay and slept in unheated railway coaches. The rescue work is a tremendous story and I have forty-nine minutes in which to tell it.”

  The Ewart Morgan she despised seemed to change in front of her. He obviously wrote from the heart once he was involved in his story. He might behave ruthlessly to get it, but there was a sensitivity softening his mouth now and in his eyes.

  “You and I are in Florence for totally opposite reasons,” said Reah, brushing these thoughts aside.

  Ewart nodded. “You want you live in the past, nice and secure. I face the present. We are very different.”

  It was true. Reah did live in the past, when she had been secure in her father’s love and protection. The present was empty.

  “What are you going to call your play?” she asked quickly.

  He screwed up his eyes as if looking into the distance.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to call it. I use ‘Flood’ as a working title, something to hang it on. I’ve no ideas…‘Wall of Water’ perhaps?”

  “I must go,” said Reah, fumbling in the depths of her bag for some money. “I must find this hostel before it gets too late. I’d like a wash.”

  “You could have used the day hotel in the station,” he commented. “Come along. I’ll take you to the best wash and brush up joint in town.”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

  “Stop arguing. You’re making a scene. People are looking at you.”

  Ewart took her case and propelled Reah firmly towards the piazza. He began looking for a taxi to hail. Several yellow-bodied taxis appeared immediately. He was that kind of man.

  “Palazzo Excelsior,” he said, pushing Reah into the back of the taxi before she could protest again.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded to know.

  “Sit back and be quiet. One more ungrateful word and I’ll tip you back onto the streets. Be a good girl and you can have a long, cool bath, a civilised number of towels and a bathroom all to yourself. No sharing.”

  The taxi swung round into the curved driveway of the Palazzo Excelsior. It was a beautiful old Florentine palace converted with skill and modernised into a deluxe hotel.

  The old stone walls were a sun-warmed honey colour, the graceful arches giving shade to orange and lemon trees in large terracotta pots. Chestnut trees and vines grew in profusion; climbing roses climbed over everything. Wisteria bloomed on the walls like pale confetti.

  Ahead she could see into the foyer, a cool spacious room with tall Venetian lamps, expensive antique furniture and acres of exquisite marbled floor.

  “I can’t go in there,” said Reah, conscious of the dust on the seat of her jeans, the sticky tangle of her hair, dirty hands, the crumpled blouson. “I’ll go to the day hotel in the station.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ewart. “I’ve never met anyone so self-conscious.”

  He took his key and ignored the polite, curious looks from the reception staff. “Pretend you are a rich heiress in disguise. Act aloof and distant; tip the lift boy a few thousand lire. You’ve no idea how word will get around.”

  Her lips curved in a quick smile. Ewart stopped and put his fingers lightly under her chin, tipping her face. He looked into her hazel eyes as if seeking something he had missed.

  “Hey, that’s better,” he said slowly. “You can smile after all. Very nice, too. You should do it more often.”

  They went up in the gilded lift to the second floor. The wide corridor was hushed and deeply carpeted. He put his key in a door and it swung silently open.

  She went into a small foyer and then into the most elegant bedroom Reah had ever seen; it was all pale Florentine colours of cream and gold. The big bed was covered in a silken spread deeply edged with antique cream lace, the tall windows draped with matching silk curtains. Her feet sank into the deep pile of a cream carpet. More flowers stood on a low coffee table. An ice bucket stood on a silver tray with crystal glasses.

  Ewart walked across the room to another door and pushed it open.

  “All yours,” he announced.

  The bathroom was palatial. He could have thrown a party in it. The decorator had forsaken his cream and gold colours of the bedroom and introduced pale blue for the bath and vanitory unit, with the same blue repeated in the lily-patterned tiles on the wall. The cream carpet was laid in the bathroom and Reah glimpsed gold taps and a pile of fluffy towels folded on the side.

  She was tempted. A quick bath, then she would go.

  She saw bath oil and bath crystals. Ewart touched a switch and soft music filled the room.

  “Anything else you want?” he asked with mock servitude.

  “A cup of tea,” Reah suggested mischievously.

  She turned on the taps, tipped in a generous amount of bath oil and slipped out of her clothes. As she slid under the water, she surrendered herself to the bliss of its relaxing comfort. She dipped her head under, amazed that one minute she could be sitting on the pavement, lost in a big city, almost homeless, and the next having a bath in the most luxurious hotel in Florence.

  The door to the bathroom opened and Reah gasped, swiftly covering her breasts with a big sponge. He was standing in the doorway, staring at her.

  “Don’t panic. I can�
�t see anything interesting with all this steam. Besides, you are hardly my type. I prefer a more feminine woman. I couldn’t get any tea. Perhaps this will do instead.”

  She heard the chink of something being stood on the wide edge of the bath and then the door closed. It was a tall, tulip-shaped glass full of golden bubbles. She sniffed its delicate aroma, tasted the drink, her hand trembling. It could only be champagne. She took a few sips, trying to quell the jangling awareness of his gaze on her body. How dare he…if he came in again, she would throw something at him.

  She made sure the door was properly closed and soaped herself thoroughly…champagne in the bath. He certainly had style.

  When she eventually came out of the bathroom, cool, clean and a little drowsy, Ewart had gone. She trailed across to the windows, wrapped in yards of bath towel, and looked down into the piazza below. It was suffused with rosy afternoon sunlight: children playing with a ball, nuns walking in pairs, old men sitting on the pavement watching the world go by. She could smell rosemary and lavender from the enclosed garden below.

  She yawned, wrapping the towel more firmly round her body. The big bed was soft and inviting. She turned back the cover and pulled over a plump linen-cased pillow. She would just close her eyes for five minutes.

  She awoke when she felt a weight tip down the side of the bed. Sleepily she opened her eyes, then quickly retrieved the bath towel and pulled it up round her shoulders.

  Ewart’s eyes were dark and expressionless, roving over her bare skin, her young face glowing with sleep. The tumbled mane of hair was still damp, and there was nothing she could do to conceal the rise and fall of her small breasts beneath the towel.

  The sheer arrogance of his nearness as he sat on the side of the bed made Reah frighteningly aware of his strength. He knew it too.

  Reah felt her heart quicken. Instinctively she drew back, fighting down her panic-stricken thoughts. What a fool she was, to have let herself get into such a vulnerable position. Seduced by one glass of champagne.

  “I offered you the use of my bath, not my bed.”

  The voice was mocking. She expected any moment to be fighting him off but he did not move.

  She turned her head away, hiding her fear. Her pulse quickened. She felt his mouth on the skin of her bare shoulder. It was a kiss as light as a butterfly’s touch. She felt her body tremble, remembering that other kiss.

  She was appalled by her own yearning weakness as that chaste kiss sent a warning quiver through her limbs. She struggled for composure, refusing to meet his speculative eyes.

  Suddenly Ewart got up and walked over to the wall wardrobe. He began to pull out the hangers, piling shirts, slacks and jackets over his arm.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You can stay here,” he said. “You can have my room. I’m moving into a suite at the back which has just become vacant.”

  “No, thank you,” said Reah, sitting bolt upright, clutching the towel to her. “I don’t want your room.”

  “I prefer the suite,” said Ewart, as if he had not heard a word of what she had said. “It’s at the back and it’ll be quieter. I’ll be able to get more work done.”

  “Thank you for the use of your bathroom,” said Reah, swinging her slim legs off the side of the bed. “I’m going.”

  “You’re staying here,” he said, pulling open drawers and piling socks onto a chair. “It’s all been arranged.”

  “Who asked you to interfere in my life?” Reah said, pulling the towel round her with as much dignity as she could muster. “Who do you think you are? My guardian or something?”

  “Stop fussing,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Accept your good fortune. Most girls would give their eye teeth to stay at the Palazzo Excelsior.”

  “Well, not me,” Reah snapped. “It’s a ridiculous idea. For a start, I could never afford it. This place must cost a fortune.”

  “If you want to,” he said, a sardonic gleam in his granite eyes. “You can repay me in kind,” he added.

  “No, thank you,” said Reah, outraged. “Never, and I mean absolutely never. I’m going.”

  “I’m afraid I must overrule you for your own sake. It would be very foolish to start wandering about Florence now looking for this hostel. It’ll be dark soon. As to repaying me…amusing how Englishwomen always jump to one conclusion. I said nothing about rape or seduction. I merely meant that you might sew on a few buttons, run a few errands…and I might think of something else.”

  “For all this…you’re joking?” Reah waved her arm to encompass the luxurious room, then clutched at the slipping towel. She edged towards the bathroom. She would feel happier with her clothes on.

  “I really can’t understand why you are making such a fuss. Anyone would think I was carting you off to Siberia, instead of seeing that you have a civilised roof over your head for the night.”

  “Funny you should say that…the atmosphere is pure Siberia. I can’t think when I’ve ever been in a situation I’ve liked less. You’re constantly interfering, and I can manage very well without you.”

  Ewart shot her an impatient glance. “I’ve noticed how well you manage. I insist that you stay.”

  “Then I insist that I pay for myself.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “As you will. I’ll waste no more time arguing with you. Get some clothes on and I’ll see you in the bar in half an hour.”

  Reah sat on the edge of the bed and gazed in disbelief at these luxurious surroundings in the heart of a medieval Florentine palace. She ran her hand lightly over the silken cover; it was very beautiful.

  There was a rap on the door. She knew Ewart would not knock.

  Reah put on a thin cotton robe. She peered round the door. It was a uniformed page boy carrying a large, flat, white box tied with striped red ribbon.

  “Signorina Lawrence?”

  “For me? I haven’t ordered anything.”

  “It is delivered by order of Signore Morgan.”

  “I see. Grazie.”

  The box was from a famous Roman fashion house. Reah felt a small spurt of anger. Anger that Ewart Morgan dared to think that she had nothing suitable to wear at the Palazzo Excelsior; that he had the impudence to buy clothes for her; that he should tempt her by buying from one of the most exclusive Roman designers.

  She untied the ribbon and lifting off the lid, removed swathes of tissue paper from round the dress.

  She caught her breath and held it up. Her heart fell. She had to admit he had the most perfect taste.

  It was a soft silk chiffon dress, silvery mink in colour, a straight and simple dress falling in tiny pleats from narrow shoulders. It looked like a shaft of moonlight warmed by the glow of candles. The subtle colouring and the pure simplicity of the design appealed to Reah most strongly. She could not resist trying it on.

  She put on a lacy bra and brief pants and slipped the dress over her head. It was sheer magic. She would never have chosen such a strange colour, but the contrast with her red hair and lightly tanned skin was unbelievable. She slipped her feet into strappy sandals.

  Reah rarely wore make-up but she knew the dress demanded that nature should be dramatically enhanced. With an artist’s skill she brushed smoky shadow round her hazel eyes, lengthened her lashes with mascara, highlighted her fine cheek bones with blusher and finally outlined her lips with the softest of rose lipsticks.

  Then she took her mane of hair and twisted it onto the top of her head, securing it with pins and tortoiseshell clips. Damp tendrils curled round her cheeks and neck like an Edwardian beauty.

  She took a long look at herself in the full length mirror, wishing she had a single piece of jewellery or some French perfume. She hardly recognised the slim and beautiful woman who stood there, the shimmering dress clinging to her body, her radiant hair like a shining crown.

  “Yes. You’ll do. Come along. I’ve been waiting ten minutes already.”

  Ewart was leaning against the doorway. He had changed into a dark
blue velvet jacket, light slacks, a Givenchy shirt finely tucked and open at his tanned neck.

  “I’m not wearing it,” said Reah.

  “Unless my eyes deceive me, you are wearing it,” he said, barely concealing his amusement.

  Reah wished he had not caught her trying it on.

  She should have returned the box to him straight away, unopened.

  “I intend to change,” said Reah with some dignity.

  “Later. I booked a table in restaurant and we are already late.”

  “I—

  “Are you ever going to stop arguing with me? It would be pleasant if we could manage to have a meal together without this constant disagreement.”

  “I don’t want the dress.”

  He sighed with exasperation. “I’ll put it on the bill. Will that satisfy you? At least you look more like a woman now.”

  Reah fought down an angry retort.

  “What are we waiting for?” she said. “A civilised meal sounds nice.”

  She spoke huskily, suddenly all woman. Despite what she knew of Ewart Morgan, she was drawn to him. It was a heady feeling.

  Chapter Three

  Reah was out before breakfast while the leaves still hung with dew and the air of Florence was drenched with sweetness.

  She had a sketch pad, pens and pencils in a bag slung over her shoulder.

  She had resolved before arriving in Florence that she would not attempt to draw the whole of a great building or statue. It had already been done many times by people far more talented than herself.

  She would instead take a particular aspect of a sculpture—a foot, a hand, the angle of an elbow—and of a building some architectural detail, an oculus, a pulvin, a cornice or a span of stone arch that defied gravity.

  Her feet took her first to the little streets where, since medieval times, each one specialised in a trade—the street of silks, the street of shoes, the street of caged birds where ravens, robins, canaries and nightingales filled the early morning air with their plaintive song. In another street the shopkeepers were putting out fruit, mushrooms and ripe cheeses from every region of Italy, the produce cradled in leaves of oak and chestnut and vine.