Unmasking Elena Montella (23 page)

He’d been bitterly disappointed when she hadn’t turned up at the apartment, and there wasn’t any consolation in the fact that Rosanna had been equally annoyed. She’d paced up and down, periodically cursing in Italian and flinging crockery around in the kitchen. He’d sat for an unbearably long time, having no idea what to say to Rosanna or what to do if Elena didn’t turn up. He kept giving her the benefit of the doubt.
She’ll be here in another ten minutes’
, he’d think.
If she’s not here by then, I’m going
. But, as soon as the ten minutes had elapsed, he’d wait another ten minutes.

Finally, he’d lost patience and, with an apologetic and apoplectic Rosanna following him down the steps to the front door, he’d left.

‘
I don’t know what to say,’ she’d called after him. ‘I’ll give her a piece of my mind when she gets back.’

Mark had given a brief smile and headed down the dark calle on his own. At the time, there’d been a part of him that had never wanted to see Elena again. What was he meant to think when she’d not shown up? Didn’t it prove that she no longer cared about him?

Leaving the market, he felt angry, confused and very alone.

Rosanna picked up the note and read it. She pursed her lips, feeling deprived of picking a fight with Elena. She’d woken up in a bad mood after her nightmare of turning into a fat Italian mama surrounded by squawking kids, and the only vent for her emotions was her sister and, as she wasn’t there, Rosanna felt at a loss.

She fed cat-child before pushing it outside with an angry toe. Just where had Elena gone to so early in the morning? Rosanna could only hope that it was to sort things out with either Reuben or Mark - if not both. But then, Elena didn’t know where Mark was staying, did she?

‘
She must be with Reuben,’ Rosanna said aloud, stopping in front of a mirror. She gazed at her reflection. Her eyes looked wild from her disturbed sleep, even though she’d slept in late. At least she didn’t have any bookings that day. But there was one thing she couldn’t avoid. She had a date with Corrado. Before she’d escaped from tea with his mother, Corrado had made her promise to meet him at a restaurant on the Lido where they could talk properly. Corrado had never used the phrase “
talk properly
” before and it set all sorts of alarm bells ringing in Rosanna’s mind.

‘
It’s the house in Umbria!’ she whispered. ‘The house and the kids. And
Irma!
’

She span around from the mirror, her eyes as wide as a cartoon character’s. She knew what was coming - it was her nightmare vision of the future. She had to put a stop to it before things got out of hand; she had to tell Corrado that it was over.

After the strange Elena-mirage, Prof had spent the whole morning trying out his patchy Italian on unsuspecting shopkeepers and café owners, proffering a small photo of Elena which he kept in his wallet. He was met with nothing more than shrugs and shaking heads. It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be. He’d naively thought Venice would be rather like a friendly village where everybody would know each other, but it was no different from any other city.

To make himself feel slightly better, he visited the Peggy Guggenheim Collection where he marvelled at the modern art even though he hadn’t been able to understand a single brushstroke, and squinted at some rather phallic blue glass which he knew Elena would have had him blushing and laughing at had she been with him. It all left him feeling rather hungry so he found a very nice restaurant overlooking a pretty square.

Choosing a table outside because the weather was really very mild and the sunshine was most pleasant on a tweed jacket, he ordered himself lunch with a glass of house white. A chap could very easily get used to this, he thought, stretching his legs out under the table. He looked out at the houses across the quiet square: they were painted in shades of fondant pink and mellow red which had the most pleasing effect on the eye. He smiled, turning back to take a sip of the wine that had arrived.

It was then that he noticed a young woman sitting at a table opposite his. He hadn’t seen her when he’d first sat down and he couldn’t understand why. She had a mass of auburn curls which caught the spring light and danced in the breeze as if they were a part of it. Her skin was pale and she had a smattering of freckles over her nose as if a child had flicked a paintbrush at her. Prof couldn’t help but smile. He’d always been rather susceptible to a pretty face and this one was Pre-Raphaelite pretty. He watched her for a moment and tried to see what she was doing. She’d finished her lunch and was writing in a lined pad with a bright silver pen.

As if he’d called out her name, the woman looked up and caught him staring at her. Prof immediately felt himself blushing and felt ashamed that he’d intruded into her private space but the woman returned his smile, quite unselfconsciously.

‘
You’re English, aren’t you?’ she asked him suddenly.

He nodded, surprised by her boldness. Anyway, how could she tell he was English? Had his Italian accent been that bad when he’d ordered his meal or was there something unmistakably English in his tweed jacket and bow tie?

‘
Yes,’ he said. ‘You?’

‘
Of course!’ she replied in an accent as sharp as cut glass. ‘Although my name isn’t terribly English - Anastasia Dupres.’

Prof smiled at her very confident but seemingly natural way of introducing herself.

‘
I’m Sigmund,’ he said shyly.

‘
Pardon?’ she said, leaning forward in her seat. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to hold a satisfactory conversation if you sit all the way over there.’

‘
Oh!’ Prof said, looking confused.

‘
I meant, would you like to join me?’

Prof felt another blush spreading over his face but found himself nodding and standing up, walking towards her table and sitting down.

‘
Now, darling,’ she said, as if she’d known him for aeons, ‘what did you say your name was?’

‘
Sigmund.’

‘
Sigmund?’

Prof nodded, waiting for the laughter which inevitably followed whenever he introduced himself. ‘Yes. Sigmund Mortimer,’ he said, extending a hand to shake hers.

‘
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone called Sigmund before,’ she said with a gorgeous, open smile whilst shaking his hand firmly. It was the best reaction he’d ever had to his name. ‘You’re the first,’ she added flirtatiously.

Prof wasn’t sure how to respond to that and became even more flustered when the waiter came out and scowled at him. ‘Oh, I’ve moved,’ he explained unnecessarily.

‘
It’s so nice to have somebody to talk to,’ she said. ‘Travelling alone can be so dreadfully dull.’

Prof nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘
And I do an awful lot of that with my job,’ she added.

Prof noticed how she effortlessly fed him conversation starters. It was a rather enjoyable experience and he allowed himself the pleasure of going with the flow.

‘
Don’t you want to know what I do?’ she said.

‘
Oh! Sorry!’ Prof said, realising that he’d missed his cue because he’d been watching the way the sunlight shone through her hair, turning it a wondrous ruby red. ‘Of course! What do you do?’

Anastasia laughed. ‘I’m a travel writer. I’m doing an article for
Vive!
at the moment.’

‘
Really?’

She nodded. ‘I know it’s not the best of papers to write for but they pay well and the exposure will do me good,’ she said, uncrossing and crossing her legs to the side of the table, giving Prof a quick glimpse of her shapely legs.

Prof picked up his glass of wine and took a generous mouthful, feeling very hot all of a sudden.

‘
Do you read
Vive!
?’ she asked.

‘
No,’ he said. ‘Hardy and Dickens mostly.’

‘
Really!’ She laughed again, a wonderfully light laugh which reminded him of champagne bubbles. ‘You know, when you first came and sat down, I had a feeling you were a teacher.’

Prof smiled. ‘Was it that obvious?’

‘
Yes but in a good way. I bet you’re a wonderful teacher,’ she said. ‘You look kind, approachable-’

‘
Lenient!’ Prof interrupted.

‘
Are you?’

‘
Well, I do have one or two students who can run rings around me,’ he said, thinking of Elena and her ever-extending deadlines.

‘
I bet you do,’ Anastasia said, her eyebrows rising naughtily. ‘I wasn’t so lucky at my old school. We had nothing but nasty nuns. I never had anyone as nice as you.’

‘
Well,’ Prof said, not quite knowing how to respond.

There was a moment’s silence when he was very aware that her eyes were glued to him. It had been a long time since he’d felt so completely at the centre of somebody’s attention. He’d never quite had that feeling with Elena. She always seemed as though she was only partially with him - as if part of her was somewhere else. It was like the emotional equivalent of looking over somebody’s shoulder at a party in the hope of finding a more interesting person to talk to.

‘
So,’ she said, ‘what is Sigmund doing in Venice?’

‘
I’m engaged,’ he said.

‘
Oh!’ Anastasia said, her eyes widening in what looked like surprise.

Prof felt a little abashed. Perhaps he should have mentioned it before. ‘I’m actually here to see my fiancée,’ he explained further.

‘
Where is she?’ Anastasia asked, looking around as if she might fear her arrival at any moment.

Prof gave a little smile. ‘I’m not really sure.’

‘
You’re not sure? You mean, you’ve lost her?’

‘
No. Not exactly. It’s more like I haven’t actually found her.’

Anastasia frowned. ‘This is confusing!’ she said. ‘Do tell me more!’

As the waiter arrived with Prof’s meal, Anastasia ordered a bottle of wine for them.

‘
I followed her out here, you see,’ Prof began, loading his fork with spaghetti. ‘She’s here to see her sister and has absolutely no idea that I’m here.’

‘
You mean she came out here on her own and left you behind?’

‘
Yes.’ Prof said. ‘YES!’ he nodded. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to have that!’ he said, suddenly getting excited.

‘
Good for you, kitten!’

‘
So, here I am.’

‘
But you don’t know where she is!’

‘
That’s it!’ he said.

‘
I see,’ she said. ‘Well, no, actually - I don’t! How could your fiancée up and leave without telling you where she was going?’

Prof swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti and then shrugged. ‘Because I let her, I suppose.’

‘
Oh!’ Anastasia said thoughtfully. ‘Then she’s one of these pupils of yours who runs rings around you?’

‘
Yes,’ he said dolefully. ‘She always gets away with merry hell.’

‘
And you didn’t think to ask where she’d be staying?’

‘
No.’

‘
But she didn’t even leave a phone number for you to contact her at?’ Anastasia asked.

‘
No.’

‘
Has she a mobile?’

‘
No,’ he said, twisting his fork into another mound of spaghetti.

‘
Sweetie!’ Anastasia said breathily. ‘It sounds to me like she doesn’t want you to be able to contact her. Have you thought of that?’

There was a moment’s pause; it was Prof’s turn to frown.

‘
You hadn’t, had you?’ she said, her frown mirroring his perfectly.

Prof’s spaghetti untwisted from his fork and fell in golden coils on his plate. ‘No,’ he said at last.

Anastasia gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Sweet man,’ she said, and laid a hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

There was no stopping Elena as she left Irma Taccani’s apartment. She’d been at it all morning: knocking people’s hats off, tapping people’s shoulders and even going as far as nipping a very cute gondolier’s bottom as he touted for custom by the side of a canal. He’d looked so shocked that she was quite lucky he hadn’t actually fallen into the murky green water and taken her with him.