Sophie's Secret

by Anne Weale

  Although he made frequent references to his grandfather, there was never any mention of his parents, Sophie had noticed. Had something bad happened to them? Was he, like her, an only child? There were so many things she would like to know about him but felt precluded from asking in case he should think her presumptuous.

  There was one question she could ask without giving offence.

  ‘Have you ever been to Bordeaux?’

  ‘Only once. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I worked in Bordeaux. It’s a beautiful city inside a hell-on-wheels ring road. I had a lovely time there.’

  He looked down at her. They were strolling beside the Seine now, and a little chill wind off the river made her glad to be swathed in the soft warmth of her cashmere wrap. Marc appeared not to feel the drop in the temperature. Perhaps it was an effect of his morning run. She had noticed before that men who took a lot of exercise had better circulation than people who didn’t.

  ‘I should think you have a lovely time everywhere, don’t you, Sophie? You obviously enjoyed your meal tonight, even though that place isn’t in any of the good food guides.’

  ‘It deserves to be…but let’s hope it stays undiscovered. It might lose its cosy atmosphere if too many foreigners find it. As for having a lovely time everywhere, yes, I guess I do. Isn’t that normal for someone my age, with no worries or problems?’

  ‘These days it’s unusual to find anyone who makes that claim. Most people seem encumbered by a raft of problems,’ he said drily.

  ‘Mmm…I suppose that’s true,’ she agreed thoughtfully, after a swift mental review of the people she’d known in New York. ‘But a lot of people make mountains out of molehills, don’t they? Or they don’t look at their problems with a clear eye and tackle them.’

  Her answer made Marc laugh. ‘Where did you learn that attitude? On a self-improvement course? As a matter of interest, one of the islands in the lagoon, Tessera, is used by Edward de Bono, the lateral thinking guru, for courses in self-improvement. That wasn’t what brought you to Venice the first time, was it?’

  ‘I’ve read one of his books but I didn’t know about Tessera. Is it near your island?’

  ‘No, it’s some way from Capolavoro. You haven’t answered my question. Who taught you to look at life with a clear eye? Your parents? One of your teachers?’

  She didn’t want to tell him who had been the strongest influence on her. Maybe later, when she knew him better. For the time being it was simpler to say, ‘I read a lot. I still do. Most of my ideas come from books.’

  ‘Mine too. What are you reading at the moment?’

  ‘A novel I bought at the airport to read on the plane. But then you turned up so I haven’t started it yet.’

  ‘Was it that hard to make up your mind?’

  Although she had been careful not to drink too much wine on top of the potent Campari which, in spite of its innocuous colour, was twenty-five per cent alcohol, she was feeling sufficiently laid-back to say frankly, ‘Yes, it was…and I’m still not certain I made the right decision.’

  ‘That applies to all life’s most challenging commitments,’ Marc answered.

  As they came to a crossing he put a hand on her shoulder to steer her past the bumpers of cars whose drivers looked set to make competitive starts the instant the lights changed.

  She could see that the gesture might have been prompted by the fact that it wouldn’t be easy to locate her elbow through the folds of her shawl. But the weight of his hand on the crest of her shoulder, the one farthest from him so that his arm was around her back, although not actually touching it, was a more intimate contact than the conventional hold of a man with patrician manners.

  He didn’t remove his hand until they had crossed the roadway and walked several yards on. When he did, she realised she had been holding her breath.

  By now, ahead, she could see what Americans called the marquee of their hotel: the canopy over the carpet running from the edge of the kerb to the wide steps leading up to a revolving glass door through which passers-by could glimpse the opulence of the flowerdecorated lobby.

  As they approached the building a taxi drew up and the doorman saluted its passenger, a well-dressed man on his own who bent to hand some notes to the driver.

  As he straightened he caught sight of Marc.

  ‘Wash, old buddy…What are you doing in Paris?’

  ‘Hello, Pat. I’m passing through…leaving first thing tomorrow. Sophie, this is Patrick Rivers. We were at school together. Miss Hill has just joined my team. We’re on our way to Venice.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Sophie.’ The other man shook her hand. ‘Where did this lucky guy find you?’

  The emphasis, obviously intended to be flattering, made Sophie’s hackles rise. ‘In New York,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was with Masters and Fox.’

  He was sure to have heard of them and she hoped to reinforce the fact that she was here on business.

  ‘I bet they’re sorry they lost you. I would be,’ he said, smiling into her eyes. ‘But you’re not a New Yorker, are you? That sounds like a British accent.’

  Marc answered for her, a tinge of impatience in his voice. ‘It is. What are you doing here, Patrick?’

  ‘Stopping by for a drink after a wearing day. Unlike you, I don’t have someone like Sophie to soothe my savage breast when head office isn’t pleased with the way things are going. What I have is a three-month-old baby who seldom stops bawling and a wife who wishes she hadn’t jacked in her career. So do I,’ he added, with feeling.

  Sophie felt like saying that it might make his wife’s life easier if he went home after work instead of stopping by bars. Instead she turned to Marc, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll say goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight! But the night is young,’ Patrick objected. ‘You must both come and have a drink with me. I haven’t seen Wash in two years. We’ve a lot of ground to catch up.’

  ‘Not tonight, Pat,’ Marc said firmly, following her up the steps.

  ‘Oh, come on, guys, you can’t turn in this early…not in Paris,’ the other man expostulated.

  Then, as Sophie was waiting for someone to emerge from the revolving door before she stepped into it, she heard him add, in French, ‘Or maybe you can. Who wouldn’t with legs like that pair going up the stairs ahead of him? I’ll bet she has splendid boobs too, you lucky…’

  By now on her way through the door, Sophie was strongly tempted to turn full circle, give him a box on the ear he wouldn’t forget in a hurry and tell him, in the same language, that he was the kind of man who got his sex a bad name.

  Resisting the impulse, she marched to the desk for her key and, without glancing over her shoulder, stepped into an open lift and pressed the first-floor button.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE telephone woke Sophie at six-thirty. After thanking the switchboard operator for calling her, she forced herself out of bed and went to take a hot shower.

  At seven, a tap on the door heralded the arrival of her breakfast tray. She had ordered fruit, yogurt and herb tea.

  At twenty-five minutes past, a baggage porter came for her suitcase. As he disappeared in the direction of the service lift Sophie stepped into a guest lift. In spite of spending the night in the utmost luxury, she couldn’t remember when she had last slept so badly.

  As she had expected, Marc was already in the lobby, having a friendly chat with the only tailcoated hall porter on duty at that early hour.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said as she joined them.

  ‘Good morning.’ Her smile was for the porter. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning, mademoiselle. I hope you’ve been comfortable.’

  ‘Very comfortable, thank you.’

  ‘Ah…here is your car, Mr Washington. I hope you have a good flight and we shall look forward to your next visit.’ The porter ushered them to the door.

  Their baggage was already being stowed in the capacious boot as they passed the spot where Marc’s schoolfrien
d had made his offensive remark. Minutes later they were on their way back to the airport.

  At first Marc was silent, looking out of the window. Sophie, who had no intention of initiating a conversation, did the same.

  It was possible, she realised, that he had forgotten last night’s incident. Men looked at life from a different perspective. Even nice men. And she wasn’t even sure that, behind the civilised façade, her new employer was a nice man.

  For all she knew his friend’s comments might have amused him. While she went upstairs last night they might have gone to the bar for a drinking session, with Marc assuring the other man that it wouldn’t be long before he had added her scalp to the rest of his trophies.

  She didn’t want to think the worst of him, but why should Patrick have made that obnoxious remark if he didn’t know Marc to be a notorious womaniser?

  ‘Werner called me at seven. The weather is clear over the Dolomites so we should have a smooth flight.’

  Marc’s sudden statement startled her.

  ‘Oh…that’s good.’

  ‘Have you started your book yet?’

  ‘I read a few pages before I went to sleep.’

  She refrained from adding that, in the mood she had been in, the book had failed to grip her. Now she sensed that Marc was looking at her, but she looked at the road ahead. The car had a glass partition between the front and rear seats. The driver couldn’t hear his passengers’ conversation.

  ‘Patrick didn’t know you spoke French. He’d already had a few drinks or he wouldn’t have made that remark.’

  At that Sophie turned her head to meet the dark eyes focused on her. ‘You don’t have to make excuses for him. I had already decided I didn’t like him before he made it. I imagine it’s not at all likely I’ll meet him again.’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘I feel sorry for his wife.’

  To her vexation he smiled. ‘He’s not a bad guy. They’re going through a difficult time. The company he works for is in trouble. On top of that the baby’s birth wasn’t easy and now Alice is exhausted by the baby. It’s months since they had sex. Pat is a bundle of frustration, easily turned on by any attractive woman who crosses his path and envious of guys who are single and don’t have the worries he has on his shoulders. I feel sorry for them both.’

  ‘He isn’t improving the situation by going home late, smelling of Scotch or whatever he drinks.’

  ‘Vodka, which doesn’t taint the breath. You’re right, of course, but not everyone is as sensible as you are.’

  She recognised the hint of irony.

  ‘You think I’m being priggish?’

  ‘Perhaps you have personal reasons for feeling strongly about people who use alcohol as a prop.’

  ‘His drinking is his business. I only object to his rudeness.’

  ‘In fact he was being complimentary…in an unacceptable way,’ he added swiftly, forestalling her retort. ‘You don’t have to spell it out for me. We deal with a lot of accusations of sexual harassment, from the trivial—such as last night’s example—to the serious. It’s a problem for all employers of mixed-sex staff and our overall policy is to stamp on it—hard. Unless there are extenuating circumstances, as I think there are in Patrick’s case.’

  While he’d been talking Sophie had come round to the view that perhaps she had taken more umbrage than was justified. She was about to concede this when Marc went on, ‘In fact the solution to the problem lies with women themselves. Men learn their fundamental attitudes to women from women…their mothers, their older sisters, their first-grade teachers.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that women are responsible for sexual harassment?’

  ‘You weren’t paying attention,’ he said, with more than a hint of impatience. ‘I was saying that your sex have it in their power to influence masculine behaviour in its formative stages, but often they waste the opportunity and perpetuate inequalities. The mother who expects her daughters to make their beds, keep their rooms in order and help around the house but doesn’t demand the same behaviour from her sons is making life difficult for her future daughters-in-law.’

  She couldn’t disagree with that but was faintly surprised that he understood the burden a domestically incompetent partner could be to a woman with a career. She had met them everywhere she had worked: women struggling to be superwomen because the men they loved were useless—or pretended to be—at coping with and sharing essential everyday chores.

  Then, having mollified her, he went on, ‘But, on the point you raised, yes, I do feel women bear some responsibility for the way they’re treated. Certainly not where violence is involved. There’s never any excuse for that. But if they make a habit of wearing tight skirts and revealing tops it shouldn’t come as a surprise if someone makes a pass at them at the office party.’

  ‘A lot of passes are made without any justification,’ Sophie said shortly. ‘The clothes I was wearing last night didn’t invite your friend’s offensive comments. Even his assumption that I wouldn’t understand French was objectionable.’

  ‘If it will make you happier, I gave him a sharp dressing down on your behalf.’

  Her startled glance was met with quizzical gleam. The whites of his eyes, she noticed, had the slightly blueish hue of perfect health, and the irises were rimmed by a fine black line almost indistinguishable from their colour except in this bright morning light.

  ‘I should have done it myself,’ she said, looking away. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t.’

  ‘Your eyes said everything necessary. He had already got the message before I spelt it out for him.’

  A telephone started to ring.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He opened a compartment embedded in the centre armrest to answer the call being signalled by a concealed cellphone.

  His telephone conversation lasted for some time. It had to do, Sophie gathered, with a contingency being reported from the head office in Germany. Although she was only hearing one side of the conversation, she couldn’t help being impressed by his quick grasp of the situation and incisive instructions for handling it.

  Whatever else he might be, clearly he was no mere figurehead taking only a cursory interest in the operations which funded his jet-set life-style.

  By the time he concluded the conversation it seemed wiser not to revive the subject they had been discussing. Probably he had already forgotten it and now had more important matters on his mind.

  Most of the interior of Marc’s private jet was fitted out as a comfortable sitting room, but it also had a couple of small night cabins, each with its own shower and lavatory. Sophie was shown round by Lisa, a hazel-eyed blonde with the easy friendliness Sophie had found in all the Australians she had met.

  After Lisa had served coffee and microwave-heated croissants to Marc, her husband and Leif, the young Swedish co-pilot, on the flight deck, she and Sophie had their croissants together in the main cabin, which was decorated and upholstered in light grey with apricot accents. No commercial airline could compare with this for spacious comfort.

  Sophie hoped that Lisa might, without being asked, fill in some of the many gaps in her mental dossier on Marc.

  ‘You’re going to love working in Venice now the hot weather’s over,’ she told Sophie. ‘My parents live near the harbour in Sydney and there are moments when Venice reminds me of home. It’s the light…the sun on the water. In most other ways they’re totally different places, but the light is similar.’

  ‘Your family must miss you,’ said Sophie. ‘Or do they have other children to help fill the gap?’

  ‘Three…and five grandchildren. We’re hoping to go back for Christmas. Werner’s mother is dead and his father’s remarried. They’re not close. He’s become part of my family.’

  Lisa was forthcoming about her circle, but either she was too discreet to make any reference to her husband’s employer or, more likely, she wasn’t interested in him except as the source of their income. During the introductions it had been plain to see that she was madly
in love with her blue-eyed pilot and that he felt the same way about her.

  Sophie envied their happiness and hoped it would last all their lives. Their romance exemplified how much meeting the right person was a matter of luck.

  Although her own early life had been shadowed by two examples of horrendously bad luck, she was by nature an optimist, but not to the extent of feeling sure that, out of the millions of wrong men she might encounter, luck would lead her to one of the few who would be an ideal partner. As was proven daily in the divorce courts, the odds were heavily against it.

  * * *

  Her first glimpse of Venice as they approached Marco Polo International Airport, on the edge of the mainland, was profoundly moving.

  Fortunately Lisa was also intent on the aerial view of the lagoon. She didn’t notice the signs of Sophie’s emotion as she peered through the window, her chest heaving, her throat working, her eyes welling with tears as the plane banked and gave her a view of the place where once she had been unforgettably happy.

  By the time they touched down on Italian soil she had pulled herself together. The formalities in the airport were brief. Soon her suitcases, and the cases belonging to Lisa and the two pilots, had been put aboard a sleek launch waiting for them at the quay immediately outside the airport. Marc had no luggage. He must have left the clothes he had worn last night and on Concorde in his suite in Paris.

  At the stern, behind where Sophie was sitting, a blue and gold pennant fluttered as the launch moved away from the jetty. As they gathered speed she could see that the gold part was a crest, perhaps the insignia of Marc’s Venetian forebears.

  He was standing beside the stocky man at the wheel while the others relaxed on the side seats, Lisa sitting close to Werner.

  Sophie hoped she wouldn’t feel another uprush of emotion when the familiar outline of the city appeared on the horizon.

  The day she had left Venice, she hadn’t, like the other people leaving, had a camera to record her last sight of it. She hadn’t needed one. The image had been imprinted on her memory. If she closed her eyes she could see it now. The spreading wash of the boat taking them to the airport. The glittering lagoon, the thick timber piles marking the channels. The beloved skyline, with its many churches and campaniles, gradually disappearing.