The Girl Behind the Mask (18 page)

I blushed.

‘Want some lunch?’ he asked.

I decided I would. It was unfair of Marco to disappear on me again when we’d shared such important stories. I would give him a taste of his own medicine. Lunch with Nick was always a long affair. If Marco responded now, he would have to do some waiting of his own.

But when we came back from lunch, Marco still hadn’t written. He didn’t write to me for the rest of the day. It made me crazy. I had only just got over the habit of checking my email fifty times an hour for news from Steven and now I was equally obsessed with my new Italian friend.

I was determined not to let Marco’s sudden lack of communication get to me. In the scheme of things, a day was nothing. I should try to be cooler. He’d flattered me. So what? However, I couldn’t help but study every woman of a certain age I saw that day. I wanted to know more about Marco’s first love. My competitor, as I now rather ridiculously considered her. A young Sophia Loren, Marco said. That was when? Twenty years ago? She wouldn’t have changed so much. I looked closely at the faces of the dark-haired beauties who clipped through the misty streets on their improbable heels. Any one of them could be Chiara. Would the kind of experiences the beauty had been able to pass on to Marco show on someone’s face? Would they show as wrinkles? More likely as a glow, I thought.

Joining Nick and Bea at the bar for an
aperitivo
, I was convinced I had found Marco’s first love among my fellow customers. A woman who looked strikingly like Sophia Loren perched upon a stool at the bar. She was immaculately coiffed and had a full-length black fur coat draped over her elegant shoulders. On her lap was a small white dog. Despite her age, which I guessed to be at least sixty, the woman was in the company of three much younger men, all of whom seemed desperate for her attention. When she laughed, she threw back her head and stroked her own throat in such a carelessly sensual gesture that even Nick’s attention soon drifted in her direction.

Yes, I decided. That’s the kind of woman who takes the virginity of a man like Marco Donato. He’d never have lost it to a girl like me. Plain and naïve. Flat-chested. With an unflattering haircut and a nasty sweater. I soon forgot the ‘transcendent’ part.

Bea left early. She had a date with the security guard. The ‘handsome brute’.

‘I don’t expect there to be much conversation,’ she assured us.

Nick and I were alone again. He bought me another drink and some
cichetti
. A good idea, though the bruschetta was as stale as ever.

‘Tell me. What’s he like, that Marco Donato?’ Nick asked, when we lapsed into silence. ‘You’ve been spending so much time at his house.’

‘And I still haven’t met him,’ I said. ‘But on email he seems very charming. He writes to me rather often,’ I added.

I blushed despite myself. It was though I’d wanted to stake a claim on Marco by talking up our connection. Nick must have thought I was daft.

‘I bet he does. I don’t see how any man could fail to be charming to you. Or rather, be charmed
by
you.’

‘Nick. You say that to all the girls.’ I gave him a playful shove.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘But you should know how lovely you are. I can imagine how hard it’s been for you to come to Venice, leaving that rat of an ex behind. I got a sense of that when we did our truth or dare about heartbreak. But you are better off without him. The best girls never believe in their own worth.’

‘Thank you, Nick. It’s kind of you to say so.’

‘Not kind. Just truthful. You seem like you need cheering up tonight.’

‘Really, it’s fine. I’m suffering from a slightly bruised heart, not general low self-esteem.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Nick. ‘I suppose flirting with Marco Donato must help.’

‘How do you know we’ve been flirting?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t you?’

‘We just write about my research,’ I insisted, wondering what Bea had told him.

‘Too many people set their sights on the wrong person when they’re trying to get over a break-up. Being rejected makes one vulnerable. And before you know it, you’ve ended up playing into the hands of another charming git. Out of the frying pan . . .’

Sensing he was still referring to Marco, I dropped my eyes.

‘I see it all the time,’ said Nick.

‘I ought to go back to the flat,’ I said. ‘There’s no need for you to walk me back. It’s not far.’

‘I know. But I’d like to anyway, and I understand that you’re not extending an invitation if you accept.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘In that case.’

Nick was true to his word. He walked me to my door but did not try to get beyond it. Instead, he cocked an imaginary hat at me and disappeared into the fog. The strange thing was, though I had dreaded the idea of having to discourage him from coming in, I was a little sad to see him go. The flat felt emptier for his not having asked to come in. He was such a gentleman.

That curious emptiness turned to something approaching real happiness, however, when I saw that Marco had sent me a new email since I’d been out with my friends. He didn’t respond to my last tease but I didn’t care.

I hope you have had a lovely evening. I must admit, I do wonder what you do when you’re not in the office. Which Venetian haunts have you made your own? Who takes you there? A girl like you should not spend her evenings alone. You should be taken to the best restaurants and plied with the finest wine. You should be waltzed around the smartest dancefloors. You should be feted and adored.

Adored? That one word made the room seem suddenly brighter. I went to bed happily and dreamed of him. I was sure it was him, now. Even with the mask. Did he dream about me?

Chapter 26

10th March, 1753

Did I look any different? I was certain I must. Back in my chamber, I was unable to sleep. My mind whirred as I tried to remember the events of the evening as clearly as I could. I wanted to write them down before I forgot even the smallest detail.

What a surprise the whole evening had been! It was not at all as I had expected. My education in such things was lacking, I suppose. It comes of not having a mother. I had heard Maria and the girls in the kitchen talking about wedding nights but the unmarried girls were all aflutter whenever such things were mentioned. For the most part, they were full of terror at the prospect. They spoke of a horror so awful it was enough to make the less robust take holy orders. The older women, women who had been married for many years, shook their heads in amusement but did not say anything to allay the twittering virgins’ fears. Or mine.

So what was it like? What would I tell any frightened girl who asked me? Don’t be afraid, I would say. If you love him, it will all happen as it is meant to. I felt, when he took me in his arms, as though I was in some way opening out towards him. When he kissed me, I felt a rush of warmth throughout my body, beginning from the places where his hands lay upon me. He made me put my fingers between my own legs and feel myself wet with desire. My body did everything it could to welcome him.

It hurt a little. He had warned me it would, despite his best efforts to ensure otherwise. But it did not hurt as much as the girls in the kitchen claimed. In fact, it was a joyful kind of pain. And later, when he held me and kissed me and thanked me for letting him be the one, I started to feel more happy and alive than I have ever done. My skin tingled. It was tingling still when I climbed into bed.

After such an exciting evening, I thought I would never sleep again but I must have done, because one moment I was writing in my diary and the next Maria was throwing open the curtains and the diary was open on the floor beside my bed. I snatched it up and hid it under the covers. If she suspected I was in the habit of keeping a diary, she would certainly try to find it next time she was in my room alone. Thankfully, she was too busy looking out of the window to notice my scramble to retrieve the secret book. She was in some sort of dream of her own. She leaned on the windowsill, rested her chin on her hands and sighed.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she observed. ‘One of God’s days.’

‘Aren’t they all God’s days?’ I asked.

Maria turned from the window at last. Her dreamy expression disappeared as she put her hands on her hips and regarded me sternly. ‘Well, you seem to be determined to waste it. What’s the matter with you? Why are you still in bed at this time?’

As she began to tie back the curtains around my bed, she was her usual grumpy self. I decided that meant she had not noticed anything unusual. Good.

‘I was having such a strange dream,’ I said.

She nodded her head in the direction of the warm water in the jug.

‘Well, you can stop dreaming now. Your father wishes to breakfast with you.’

‘He does?’

I was nervous then, because if anyone other than Maria might notice a subtle change in my state of being, it was my father, who had known me my whole life. I stared at myself in the mirror, but not out of any vanity.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Maria, growing impatient as she held out my chemise. ‘You’re just as lovely as you were yesterday.’ Sarcasm dripped from every word, but that morning I embraced Maria’s spite. She would have not thought twice about telling me if I looked worse than before. That was certain.

So I had breakfast with my father. I walked into the room full of anxiety, sure my guilt must be written all over me, but he merely smiled briefly when I kissed him ‘good morning’ before he went back to reading his papers. Half an hour later, he left to visit a cargo boat newly arrived in the docks. He kissed me on the top of the head in passing. He had barely spoken to me. I don’t suppose he could have reliably recalled the colour of the dress I was wearing. He had noticed nothing.

But oh, I am changed inside! I cannot stop thinking about my teacher. I am not interested in reading any more. I am not even interested in eavesdropping at the kitchen door. All I can think of is how I will escape my room again tonight and when I can be back in his arms. He told me there is much to learn and know about the art of love. I want to continue my education now.

11th March, 1753

As promised, the next time I went to church I found a silken rope beneath the confessional stool. I wrapped it round my waist and covered it with my cloak. With the rope to help me, I escaped the palazzo even more easily than before and was with my teacher by the time the bells chimed ten. Once again, he was waiting for me, dressed only in his undershirt and breeches. He opened the door with a gallant gesture but as soon as I was inside, he wasted no time in pulling me into his embrace like a proper rascal.

I did not pretend to be coy this time. His kiss was too delicious and the feelings it aroused in me were far too strong. I didn’t want to pretend. I wanted to do exactly what we’d done before. No. I wanted to go further. I wanted to feel him inside me again. I moaned licentiously as he slipped his hands inside my soft white shirt and cupped my longing breasts.

‘Today has been so long,’ I said. ‘I could not wait to be with you again.’

‘Nor I you,’ he assured me. ‘You have never been far from my mind. How is a man supposed to go about his business when all he can think of is your soft young skin?’

His hands roamed my body. I loosened my borrowed trousers and he tucked his fingers into the waist of my undergarments. He slid them down until he held my buttocks. He gave them a teasing squeeze that made me giggle.

‘How I have longed to have a good view of this pair,’ he said. ‘And these.’ He moved his hands up to my breasts again. ‘You really are the most exquisite creature.’

With that compliment in my ears, how could I not oblige him with a closer look? Quickly, I stripped off the rest of my clothes and arranged myself on the bed in a pose I had seen in a painting by Tiziano. He stood at the end of the bed and observed me with an indulgent smile.

‘If only Tiziano were still around to paint you,’ he said. ‘Though even he could not improve on God’s work in your case.’

He regarded me for a moment longer before he stripped off his own shirt and breeches. If he thought I was beautiful, then I thought the same of him. I had not seen many naked men, of course. At least, not in life. Apart from in paintings, I could only think of the year the
acqua alta
came and all the men in the house stripped to the waist while they were shifting furniture from the lower rooms of the palazzo to safety on the upper floors. But there was no comparison between my father’s old retainer Alberto, or Fabio the boatman, and my teacher as he stood before me now. His was a body that might have illustrated a textbook. His sinews were so well-defined, I was able to pick out the muscles I had seen described in the book of anatomy by Albinus. I felt fortunate to be able to gaze upon him and count the differences between his body and mine.

Where my skin was white and softer than a pair of lambskin gloves, his was tanned dark and felt hot beneath my fingers. Where my breast was smooth, his chest was sprinkled with fine black hair. The hair followed the contours of his muscles, making them seem even more pronounced. Another trail of hair led from his stomach to where his manhood sprang forwards. It was hard again.