Deep and Silent Waters (17 page)

‘If I do the film, that is,’ she added. ‘This is a chancy 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 bronzes, 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?

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.

He had bought
Angelica
second-hand and repaired her himself; he enjoyed buying something cheaply and working on it to give it a much higher value, whether it was a work of art or a boat.

That day he came back at speed from the Lido, automatically steering his way through the other craft, past water-taxis, barges carrying freight, a builder whose boat was laden with bricks and tools, hotel launches full of arriving or departing guests. These were crowded waters and you needed sharp wits and eyes.

Nico slowed as he came in along the Grand Canal, watching the ripple of water on ancient walls up side canals. That was what you grew up with here: the sound and sight of water moving around you, as much your environment as if you were a fish.

Reaching Ca’ d’Angeli, he switched off the engine and carefully steered
Angelica
into the boat-house alongside the palazzo. There was little room in it: a clutter of old disused boats, some of them antiques, most just crumbling or ruined, piled on top of each other, took up most of the space at the back in the same way that Ca’ d’Angeli itself was crowded with the debris of centuries. Nobody in the family had ever thrown anything away, they just pushed it into cupboards or put it up into the attics. When a boat was past repair they cannibalised any useful parts of it, and chucked the rest into the corners of the boat-house to decay, wreathed in cobwebs, riddled with woodlice and woodworm.

Once upon a time, the d’Angeli family had had some of the most elaborately decorated, the grandest, Venetian launches. In this watery city, boats took the place of cars and every family was expected to have the best they could afford. The d’Angelis had always spent extravagantly on these status symbols.

Nico often browsed among the jumble of boats, looking for anything he might find useful. On most of them the paint had blistered and peeled off; the gilded ornaments like
Angelica
’s angel’s wings, had all been carefully forced off and used again on newer craft. Nico was ruefully aware that his current launch did not have the elegant lines, the speed, the sheer style of the older boats.

Something like that would cost the earth today and he couldn’t afford to pay a first-class designer, or even the craftsmen to turn plans into reality. Once the family had been among the richest in Venice; today they managed on a private income left by his maternal grandfather, who had headed a big pharmaceutical company now no longer under family management. Without that money, the d’Angelis might have had to sell up and leave Venice. Maybe that would have been the saving of them. Hanging on here, in decaying grandeur, on a gradually shrinking income, had been a strain for years.

Nico turned away towards the private staircase built in an angle of the house wall that wound up to the studio. His grandfather had had it built sixty years ago so that he could come and go as he chose without needing to pass through the house. In the beginning it had led to his bedroom, and the visitors he brought in had been whores or friends who had enjoyed those secret little parties.

Nico’s father, Domenico, had also had secrets to protect, visitors he smuggled in and out of the studio as his father had, but not the same sort. He had never used whores: he had had just one mistress all his life. She had been more like a wife than a mistress, but Domenico could never marry her: she was not of his class; his family would never have allowed it.

Nico had no visitors by that route: he used it to slip in and out without being noticed by his mother, who watched every move he made. He knew she loved him, and he loved her, but her eternal vigilance made his life complicated. It was unbearable to have to explain everything he did and said, to have no private life, to have her trying even to guess what he was thinking.

The stairs were narrow and spidery since the servants were forbidden to come here – his mother had accepted his order without too much argument, even though she did point out that the boat-house and the stairs should be cleaned from time to time.

‘I’ll clean them.’

‘You?’ She had laughed. ‘I can’t even imagine that.’