Smiling down at Sophia, he added, ‘Now I’ll say arrivederci until Monday.’
‘Until Monday,’ she echoed, her heart filling with hope and happiness.
Though his words had been mundane, superficial, the look in his grey eyes had made them into something special, deeper. A promise. A tryst. A dream that might well come true.
Her travel arrangements made, as promised, Sophia phoned Stephen Haviland. Just the sound of his cool, attractive voice—so clear and close he could have been standing by her side—made her heart beat faster and sent a quiver running through her.
Gathering herself, she said, ‘Mr Haviland, it’s Sophia Jordan…’
‘As we’ll be working together for some weeks, won’t you make it Stephen? And may I call you Sophia?’
‘Of course.’
‘So is everything fixed, Sophia?’
‘Yes, I’ve managed to book a seat on a plane leaving at two-forty. The flight number is…’
While she filled in the details he listened without interruption, then said, ‘I’ll make sure there’s someone at the airport to meet you…
‘By the way, we’re having a heatwave in Venice, so bring something cool and summery…Oh, and a swimsuit…You can swim?’
She said, ‘Yes, but not very well, I’m afraid. I haven’t been swimming since my school days.’
‘Then I’ll take you over to the Lido and you can get some practice in.’
His voice growing warmer, more intimate, he added softly, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Arrivederci, Sophia.’
‘Arrivederci…’
‘Stephen,’ he prompted.
‘Stephen,’ she echoed, while a little thrill of excitement made butterflies dance in her stomach.
A small but versatile wardrobe was laid out on her bed ready to pack and, unwilling to be parted from it, her jewellery box.
Now, her stomach still feeling fluttery, she added several more lightweight dresses and another pair of sandals before putting everything neatly in her case.
When she had unearthed her swimsuit she found it was distinctly schoolgirlish and far too tight across the bust. With a grimace she thrust it back in the drawer, deciding that if she needed a swimsuit she would buy one.
Her packing finished, she went across the hall to see Mrs Caldwell. Eva was still at church, so they had a cup of coffee together while Sophia told her the news.
After thinking about it, Sophia had decided to say only that she was going to Venice on a working holiday, but even that was enough to start the old lady off.
‘How exciting! Italian men are the most romantic in the world…I used to fancy Rossano Brazzi, myself. He was gorgeous! Such a fascinating accent! And then there was…I can see his face but I just forget his name…Though they would be before your time…’
Mrs Caldwell was still in full flow when Eva returned and Sophia was able to make her escape.
‘I’ll say goodbye now in case I don’t see you before I go.’
‘Well just make the most of it, my dear, and don’t work too hard.’
‘If it’s all right with you, as I’m leaving I’ll put my key through your door so you can keep an eye on the flat.’
‘Of course it’s all right. Now don’t forget to send Eva and me a card.’
‘I won’t.’
Monday proved to be another overcast and somewhat chilly day and a light rain was falling when she boarded her plane early that afternoon.
The flight was routine and uneventful, but to Sophia it was the most exciting and enjoyable trip she had ever taken.
Just the thought of being in Venice, the city of her dreams, with the man of her dreams, a man who had said—as if he really meant it—‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again’, made her feel on top of the world.
But she mustn’t attach too much importance to what might have been uttered out of sheer politeness, and she mustn’t let her hopes rise too high.
Leaving aside any possible involvement with the Marquise, Stephen Haviland was obviously a wealthy man from a privileged background, while she was just an ordinary working girl.
But no amount of lecturing herself was able to quell an excitement which rose to fever pitch when the flight captain announced that they were approaching Marco Polo Airport and would be landing shortly.
They descended from a cloudless blue sky into a shimmering heat that gave planes and airport buildings alike the unreal quality of a mirage, and when, along with a stream of passengers, Sophia left the aircraft, it was like walking into an oven.
She could feel the tarmac burning through the thin soles of her court shoes and the lightweight suit she had chosen to travel in now seemed too warm.
Italy, with its heat and blazing sunshine, seemed a world away from the cool greyness she had left behind in England.
Her luggage collected and the formalities over, unable to find a baggage trolley, she was struggling to make her way across the crowded terminal when a voice she was starting to know well, said, ‘Ciao,’ and Stephen Haviland materialized at her elbow.
Casually dressed in light trousers and a silk, short-sleeved shirt he looked tanned and fit and extremely handsome.
Struck dumb, she was still gaping at him when he remarked, a shade mockingly, ‘You look surprised to see me.’
Finding her voice, she blurted out, ‘You didn’t say you would be meeting me.’
‘I wasn’t certain I could get away.’
He took her case and, a hand at her waist, shepherded her towards the exit, bending towards her to query politely, ‘I hope you had a good flight.’
She could smell the faint masculine scent of his aftershave and, her wits scattered by his nearness, she stammered, ‘Y-yes, very good, thank you.’
Once outside, he led the way to a sleek white open-topped car and, having put her luggage in the boot, helped her into the front passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.
As he reached over to fasten her seat belt, his hand brushed her thigh.
Just that lightest of accidental touches made every nerve in her body tingle and sent a wave of heat running through her.
Knowing she was blushing, she told herself crossly that it was time she stopped reacting like an overgrown schoolgirl and started to behave with her usual cool composure.
His grey eyes studying her face, he remarked, ‘You look a little warm.’
Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I am,’ and was pleased to find her voice sounded almost normal.
‘Let me…’ He helped her off with her jacket.
‘Thank you, that’s much better. Though you mentioned it was hot in Venice, I hadn’t expected anything like this.’
‘Do you dislike the heat, Sophia?’
‘Oh, no, I love it.’
As the engine purred into life, he remarked, ‘Perhaps that’s just as well, because it looks set to continue for a while.’
Once they were on their way, the flow of air cooled her flushed cheeks and, to some extent, restored her equilibrium.
He drove with care and skill through the busy airport traffic, then with a laid-back ease that made the journey a pleasure.
His hands, she noticed, were lean and tanned with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails, his wrists strong, the left one wearing a thin platinum watch. His arms were muscular, with a fine sprinkling of golden hair that gleamed in the sun.
She was wondering what it would feel like to have those arms around her, when he turned his head to glance at her.
For just a heartbeat grey eyes met and held green.
Feeling her cheeks grow hot once more, she looked hastily away.
‘We’re approaching Mestre now,’ he told her after another mile or so, ‘and Venice itself is just across the causeway.’
Staring out at the flat, unprepossessing countryside with its widespread industrialization, Sophia found it almost impossible to believe that the shining dream of Venice lay so close at hand.
As though reading her t
houghts, Stephen remarked, ‘Your first sight of Venice should really have been from the lagoon. That way its beauty can be properly appreciated. But I’m afraid I had some business that necessitated bringing the car.’
‘I thought there were no cars in Venice.’
‘There aren’t. The Piazzale Roma, on the far side of the causeway, is as far as we can go. There the car is garaged and we go on by boat.
‘We’ll be reaching the causeway, or to give it its proper name, the Ponte della Liberta, in just a minute or so.’
Sophia was keen to see the picturesque Venice she had imagined. ‘How long is it?’
‘It’s about three and a half kilometres in length and quite wide. As well as the road, it carries the railway…Ah, here we are.’
As they joined the busy causeway, with its lanes of vehicles and a series of railway tracks running to the left, Sophia looked in vain for the romantic Venice of her dreams.
‘Don’t be disappointed,’ Stephen said, interpreting her silence correctly. ‘This is the down-to-earth side of Venice.’
‘You know the city well, presumably?’
‘Very well. I was born at the Palazzo del Fortuna and spent the first seven years of my life there.
‘I’ve always loved Venice and would have happily stayed here, but when my grandfather died and left my father his business empire, my parents decided to make their home in the USA…’
Eager to learn more about him, Sophia was about to ask some further questions when, as they reached the end of the causeway, he remarked, ‘On your right are the main car parking facilities for tourists, and this is the Piazzale Roma.’
He stopped the car in front of what appeared to be a block of private garages and, when she had gathered up her shoulder bag and jacket, helped her out.
As he took her luggage from the boot, a uniformed attendant appeared and gave them a respectful salute.
Passing him the keys and some folded notes, Stephen said, ‘Take care of it, will you, Luigi?’
‘Certainly, Signor Haviland.’
A hand at Sophia’s waist, Stephen shepherded her across the Piazzale, which was hot and dusty, noisy with buses and thronging with pedestrians.
On the far side were open stalls, some selling pizza and sandwiches and cold drinks, others displaying rosy black-seeded watermelon and thin white slices of coconut set out beneath sparkling jets of water.
They went down a short flight of steps on to a wide stone fondamenta, where Stephen paused and waited.
There, spread before her eyes with a suddenness that took her breath away, was the Grand Canal and the Venice of her dreams.
The canal was much wider than she had imagined. On its sparkling blue water were craft of all shapes and sizes—from the graceful black steel-prowed gondolas, through a range of motorboats, to a large vaporetto crowded with people.
Along the fonda, where wooden landing stages gave access to the waterbuses, a colourful jostle of stalls offered food, drinks, fruit, ice cream, dolls, glassware and tourist bric-à-brac.
Everywhere there was an air of joie de vivre and gaiety. Venice at its best, and Sophia was enchanted. When she finally lifted a glowing face to the man by her side, she found his eyes were fixed on her.
He nodded, as though understanding her feelings, and without a word to break the spell led her to the canal and down some old stone steps to where a small motorboat was moored.
Leaning over, he stowed her luggage, then steadied the craft with one sandalled foot while he handed her into it.
As soon as she was seated, he jumped down lightly and, casting off, took his place behind the wheel and started the engine.
As, keeping well into the right, they set off down the canal, he pointed across to the opposite bank where a large, relatively modern building stood back from a deep-paved frontage. ‘That’s Santa Lucia station. Quite a lot of visitors come by rail.’
A few moments later they went under a wide stone bridge, the only one in sight, and, almost to herself, Sophia remarked, ‘I always imagined there would be lots of bridges.’
‘There are. Hundreds. But only three, including the Rialto, cross the Grand Canal.’
Though, as he expertly manoeuvred the boat along the busy canal, he named some of the more important buildings they passed, he was mostly silent, giving her a chance to drink it all in.
Looking at the array of wonderful old buildings that lined its banks, the ornate marble palaces and magnificent churches, Sophia thought how odd it was that, though both her parents had known all this well, it was the first time she herself had seen it.
Yet, despite everything being strange and exotic, she felt at home here, as if she belonged.
Blinking a little in the brightness like a sleepy cat, the sun warm on her skin, a light breeze flicking an escaped tendril of dark hair against her cheek, she sighed contentedly.
As they passed a row of gay red and white striped poles lording it over the more sober black mooring posts, she roused herself to ask, ‘How far is it to the Tre Pozzi?’
‘Not far, but I was rather hoping you might have changed your mind about staying at a hotel.’
Taking a deep breath, she said evenly, ‘As I have a room booked, it’s a bit late to change my mind.’
‘We could always cancel the booking. Venice is packed at the moment, and my guess is there are still plenty of tourists looking for accommodation, so the room will soon be snapped up.’
Giving her a smile that made her heart beat faster, he added, ‘It would please me very much if you did decide to stay at Ca’ Fortuna.’
Just for a moment Sophia was sorely tempted. Then, remembering the Marquise, she said, ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll stick with my original plan.’
‘Very well,’ he gave in gracefully. ‘The Tre Pozzi it is.’
In a little while they left the Grand Canal and, after negotiating a maze of smaller waterways, drew into the landing stage of an ochre-coloured building four storeys high.
Peeling stucco and tall shuttered windows that opened on to narrow wrought iron balconies in need of a lick of paint, gave it an air of general seediness. Above the entrance was a fancy wooden scroll that read, ‘Tre Pozzi’.
Stephen cut the engine and moored the boat, then, jumping out, he offered Sophia his hand, saying cheerfully, ‘When you’ve booked in, someone will fetch your luggage.’
Catching sight of her expression, he laughed, white teeth gleaming, deep creases appearing each side of his mouth. ‘Yes, it’s what you might describe as picturesque decay. But don’t worry; inside it’s pleasant enough.’
Once through the heavy wooden doors she found that the lobby was attractive and well-furnished, with plants and ferns, cool terrazzo floors, sparkling chandeliers and long wall mirrors
At the reception desk she gave her name to a short balding man who opened the register and ran a finger rapidly down the page before shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a booking for a Signorina Jordan.’
‘I phoned and reserved a room,’ Sophia said firmly but pleasantly, ‘so perhaps you would be good enough to check again?’
‘A single room?’ he queried.
‘I was told there wouldn’t be a single room available for a day or two, so I agreed to take a double en suite overlooking the campo.’
‘And it was booked in the name of Jordan?’
‘Yes.’
Without re-opening the register, the desk clerk made a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m sorry, but we have no reservation in that name.’
Stephen, who had been standing to one side listening, said, ‘Please do as the signorina asked, and check again.’
Though he spoke quietly there was an unmistakable note of authority in his voice that made the receptionist open and consult the register again without further delay.
After a moment or two he spread his hands, palms uppermost, and, his manner ingratiating now, reiterated, ‘I very much regret, but we have no reservation for a Signorina Jordan.’
>
‘Then perhaps you have a room of some kind?’
‘I’m afraid not. Every room we have is occupied. When exactly did you phone, Signorina Jordan?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
Spreading his hands once more, he admitted, ‘Evidently there’s been some mistake. All our rooms have been fully booked for the last two days.’
‘Would it be possible to speak to the person I dealt with then?’
‘The desk clerk who was on duty yesterday is off sick, so I’m afraid that at the moment I can offer no explanation as to how the mix-up came about. And unfortunately,’ he added unctuously, ‘it will be Thursday before we have a vacancy.’
Knowing it was useless to persist any further, and feeling guilty that she had already wasted so much of Stephen’s time, Sophia said, ‘Then perhaps you could suggest somewhere else I could try?’
He shook his head. ‘Our sister hotel is fully booked, and I’m afraid you’ll find that most of the hotels in the centre are full.’
Stifling a sigh, she thanked him and turned away.
As she did so, she caught sight of herself reflected in one of the long gilt-framed mirrors opposite—tall and slim in a silver-grey skirt and an ivory blouse, a jacket over her arm, a bag on her shoulder, one or two tendrils of dark curly hair escaping from her chignon.
Behind her, she saw Stephen give the desk clerk a little nod and they exchanged glances that made them look like conspirators, just as a little group of holiday-makers—lobster-red from the sun and hung with cameras—came crowding round the desk to pick up their keys.
A second later Stephen was by her side, escorting her out, his expression and his manner so normal she knew she must have misread that exchange of glances.
Handing her back into the boat, he waited until she was seated before stepping in and sitting down beside her. He was much too close for comfort and she had to resist the urge to inch away.
‘As you’re so set against staying at Ca’ Fortuna,’ he said a shade caustically, ‘I’ve two suggestions to make. We could go to the Venice Tourist Bureau, who may be able to find you a room, or I could take you over to Ca’ d’Orsini.’
‘Ca’ d’Orsini?’ she echoed uncertainly.
The Padova Perals Page 5
