Angels of the Flood (31 page)

‘Now the other,’ he said, laying the first one on his knee and turning his attention to the second.

Kate didn’t answer, but allowed him to pick up her foot and massage it back to warmth as he had the first.

‘Is finish,’ he said eventually, and looked at her. She was lying back on the cushions at the end of the sofa, her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her eyes were huge. He had never seen anyone look so desirable as she did then. He wanted to hold her, just hold her, and escape from his solitary grief. ‘Ah, Kate…’ he breathed and without thinking what he was doing, he leaned over to kiss her.

‘Oh no, not a second time.’ She swung her legs round and sat up very straight. ‘No more of your games, Mr
Dottore
Bassano.’

‘Kate, I am apologize.’

‘Drink your coffee.’

‘Okay.’ He reached across and slid the neck of the silk dressing gown back onto her shoulder. She was sitting very still. He said, ‘Whose this is?’

‘It’s an old one of Francesca’s father’s.’

‘Is good for you.’ He rubbed a tiny piece of fabric between his thumb and forefinger, then touched the edge of her neck, just below her ear. She did not move away. Slowly, the silk began to slither off her shoulder again.

Mario turned and picked up his coffee. Kate turned to him. ‘What is it you want, Mario?’

He sighed. ‘I do not know.’

‘Well, you ought to bloody well work it out. I mean, you keep on doing this to me. One moment you come on strong and the next moment—either you are rude or—or nothing.’ Her voice was angry but he noticed that the tip of her nose had turned pink, as though she might be on the verge of tears.

He thought for a few moments, then set down his cup and said, ‘What I want, Kate, right now, more than anything else, I want to hold. Just hold, nothing more.’

‘Why?’

‘Is what I want, that’s all.’

She turned, to see if he was sincere this time. Whatever she saw on his face must have convinced her, because she said, ‘Then hold me, Mario,’ and slipped into his arms.

They made adjustments, then stretched out next to each other on the sofa, Mario on the outside braced to stop himself from falling. He breathed in the scent of her hair, relished the soft warmth of her body against his. After a while Kate said they should switch off the light in case anyone came downstairs and found them, and he put another log on the fire at the same time. Then they stretched out again and after a while, when she had not spoken for some time, he thought she must have fallen asleep. He began to stroke her hair, very gently, not wanting to wake her, then let his fingers trail along the silk surface of her robe, her shoulders and her upper arm.

Her voice came softly in the darkness. ‘Mario?’

‘Am I disturb you?’

She wriggled round between him and the back of the sofa so that her face was less than an inch from his. He leaned forward a fraction to kiss her, but she put her hand up between their mouths.

‘You do not want?’

‘What about Francesca? I’ve never figured out what’s going on between you. I won’t do anything that would hurt her.’

He was silent for a while, then he said slowly, ‘For a long time, I love Francesca. But now is finish. Finish for ever.’

‘Are you sad about that?’

‘Yes. Very sad.’

‘And is she sad too?’

‘No. I think Francesca she finish with me when she go to Florence and become mud angel like you.’

He could sense Kate smiling in the dark as she reached out to kiss him. ‘Oh, those wicked mud angels. Don’t be sad, Mario.’

After a long time of kissing he began to caress her breasts, her thighs, her stomach. His desire for her was almost strong enough to make him forget all about Francesca and her family, and that was all he asked. It was Kate who asked, ‘Shall we do it, Mario?’

‘Do it?’

‘Make love, properly.’

He said, ‘You are too young, I cannot make love with you.’

‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,’ she said. ‘I’ve done it before. I’m on the pill.’

‘Certo?’
He was surprised, didn’t understand these foreigners at all. But the final barrier between them was melting away and he could think of no reason not to complete what his body had been aching to do for what seemed like an age—since he took her cold foot between his hands, maybe for a long time before that. ‘You want, Kate?’

‘Yes, I want.’

She was slick with desire as he entered her. It was like nothing he’d experienced before, all the tension and heartache of the day released in the thrust and pulse of their two bodies moving together. He heard her gasps of pleasure and then he lost himself and roared out in grief and satisfaction and finally let go.

When it was over he lit cigarettes for them both and sat on the end of the sofa, looking at the soft red glow from the dying fire. At length he asked quietly, ‘Kate, why you lie to me?’

‘Lie?’

‘It was first time for you.’

‘No, not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve done it before, but never… like that.’

‘How is it different now?’

She hesitated. ‘I guess I never really saw what all the fuss was about before.’

He pulled her close, feeling a great gratitude towards this girl who had given herself to him just when his life seemed most hopeless. It made him feel there might be a life beyond the Bertoni family after all.

He said, ‘Is late now. We go to bed.’

She pulled her dressing gown round her for the last time and they walked up the stairs together. They padded quietly past the door of Francesca and Simona’s room and the one opposite theirs behind which Annette and her husband were sleeping. Kate’s and his room were opposite each other at the far end of the corridor.

‘This is my room,’ he said in a whisper.

‘I know. You’ve got a double bed.’

‘Kate, my dearest Kate…’ He put his arms round her and kissed her, intending it to be a kiss of farewell, then picked her up in his arms and carried her into his room and laid her gently on the bed.

A
FTERWARDS, BEFORE SHE’D LEARNED
the trick of blanking that final weekend from her mind, Kate sometimes wondered if she and Mario had known they would only have a single night together. It seemed as if a whole courtship had been packed into those few hours, hours too precious to waste in sleep. They learned a hundred different things about each other, secrets of touch and taste and dreams, and the endless lovers’ pleasure in talking about nothing at all. If Kate had imagined having sex with Mario she’d have expected him to be the experienced older man, initiating her into pleasures she’d not known before. But when they made love for the second time, just before dawn, they were two travellers, exploring new territory together.

‘Is soon morning,’ he said, as they lay back against the pillows, her head in the crook of his shoulder. ‘Now you must go.’

‘Yes, I know.’ But she didn’t move. ‘What happens next, Mario?’

‘In the morning we say goodbye to the Bertonis,’ he told her, ‘and I take you to Florence.’

‘Will you be sad to leave them?’

He only hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘No, Kate, I think now maybe I will be happy. Very happy to go. You make me happy.’

By the time the sky was beginning to turn pale and she reluctantly tiptoed back to her own room and her neatly made bed, Kate felt as though not just her world, but that she herself had been turned upside down. She was no longer the same Kate Holland who had turned up at the Villa Beatrice two days before. She was in love, properly in love, for the first time in her life.

She thought it would be impossible to sleep, that she’d just get under the covers so the bed looked as though it had been slept in, but when she came to the sun was high in the sky and the air was full of the discordant clanging of bells from villages far and near. It was her first Sunday morning in the Italian countryside, bells out of sync and out of tune and yet harmonious. She got out of bed and flung back the window and drank in the scents and sounds of the morning. The mist was thinning already, a few trails following the line of the river, and the sun was warm against her face. She’d never known it was possible to be so happy.

When she heard the bathroom door open and close for a second time, she pulled on her borrowed silk dressing gown and went out into the corridor. Mario was there, about to go into the bathroom. Never was a man so attractive to her eyes as Mario in his striped pyjamas and leather slippers, with a towel over his arm and a sponge bag in his hand.

‘Ciao,
Mario. Did you sleep well?’

‘Ciao,
Kate,’ he said softly. ‘I did not sleep so much, I don’t know why.’ But when she padded over to put her arms round him, he held her away and whispered, ‘Are you crazy, Kate? Suppose we are see?’

‘Then Signora Bertoni will think I’m a fallen woman and will drive me out into the snow,’ she teased. ‘But that’s okay by me. I don’t care about her.’

‘Signora Bertoni is not problem. But—hm—Francesca…’

‘So? You said this was nothing to do with her.’

‘Yes, but Francesca is a nervous temperament. This place is not good for her and she is jealous for her friends. We tell her later, in Florence, maybe. Is better this way.’

‘If you say so,’ Kate agreed reluctantly. ‘But I’m not very good at secrets.’

‘I know.’ At last his eyes mellowed into a smile. ‘You are wonderful without secret. Is why I love you.’

It was the only time he said the words. Hardly the most romantic scenario, standing in the corridor in the morning chill, fending her off with a sponge bag and towel. Afterwards Kate wondered if he’d really said those words, or if she’d imagined them.

‘When can we be together again?’ she asked him.

‘Soon. We will leave and I drive you to Firenze.’

‘What about Francesca?’

‘I think she will not leave her family while Simona is here. She love her sister too much.’

Kate felt a guilty pleasure that she’d be leaving alone with Mario. But Francesca was busy with Simona, and not interested in Mario any more, she was sure of it. And right now, Kate didn’t want anything to come between them, even for a short time.

She was convinced when she went downstairs that her jubilation was so intense it must be shining from every pore, and they’d all want to know the reason, but she was wrong. That Sunday morning everyone at the Villa Beatrice was so caught up in their own private dramas she would have needed to sprout wings and fly into the dining room before any alteration was noticed. Apart from Signor Bertoni, who seemed armour-plated against all the emotional currents that eddied round him, only the painted nymphs and gods cavorting on the dining-room walls were unaffected.

Francesca and Simona, outwardly demure in their twinsets and straight skirts, were fizzing with suppressed excitement. Simona’s was the nervous kind, like someone about to go on a terrifying fairground ride for the first time, but Francesca had been transformed overnight from the miserable creature who sat hunched and silent through supper. She radiated energy, laughing and joking and teasing Simona with affection, until Signora Bertoni gestured for them to be quieter.

‘Girls, girls,’ she said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Less noise, please. My head…’

‘Do you have a migraine, Mamma?’ asked Francesca, sweet as pie.

‘Yes. I did not sleep…’ She put her fingers to her forehead with a weary gesture. Her face was grey and haggard, dark circles round her eyes as she sipped black coffee and refused to eat.

The windows were open and a cool breeze that smelt of spring was gently shifting the curtains. Down in the valley a cock crowed.

‘You should have stayed in bed, Mamma,’ said Francesca, with a solicitude that should have instantly aroused suspicion. ‘Simona and I would have brought you breakfast on a tray.’

Signora Bertoni didn’t reply. Her forehead was deeply furrowed and she rested her head on her hand, occasionally tugging at the side of her cheek as she gazed with her pale eyes almost dreamily towards Kate.

If she hadn’t been so full of the glow of loving Mario, Kate might have felt uneasy at the way Signora Bertoni was staring at her. She remembered the feel of her thin hands against her throat the night before when she’d talked about that necklace. And she had no idea why Francesca and Simona were so nervily excited. This whole family was absorbed in some secret, intricate dance which made her more impatient than ever to get away from the Villa Beatrice. She said, ‘Signora Bertoni, Mario and I will be driving back to Florence this morning. It’s been very kind of you to have me stay.’

Signora Bertoni’s frown deepened. ‘So soon?’

‘Yes.’ Kate wondered why the woman bothered pretending to mind.

‘What time are you leaving?’ asked Francesca.

Kate caught Mario’s eye. He nodded imperceptibly and she said, ‘Right after breakfast,’ and had to suppress her telltale smile of joy. The future had never been so full of possibilities.

He was waiting for her in the hall when she came downstairs with her pack. It felt deliciously comfortable to be in her own clothes again: her well-worn denim shirt and jeans. Simona’s green twinset and sensible skirt had been folded and left on the bed.

‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ she said to him. ‘I couldn’t find my plaid shirt anywhere, but never mind.’

Mario touched her sleeve gently. ‘You should have proper woman clothes,’ he said. ‘Now we go.’

‘Francesca and Simona are coming down in a minute. And I have to say thank you to Francesca’s mother. Do you know where she is?’

‘Right here,’ came a voice from behind her as Signora Bertoni emerged from the dining room. She looked stooped and old; her make-up, always so carefully applied, seemed to belong on a different face altogether. ‘Are you really leaving, Kate?’ she asked. ‘Well, that’s a shame… I hate to see you go.’ She was frowning as she spoke, still tugging at the skin on the side of her face in that nervous gesture. ‘I thought maybe I could show you round the place a bit… there’s such a lot you haven’t seen yet. And we’ve hardly had a chance to get to know each other. But you’re going now… well, maybe that’s all for the best. Maybe it will all work out after all. I really don’t know…’