Angry Desire

Even so, she woke up several times with bad dreams, trembling and sweating, remembering only Stephen’s face, haunted by it.

The last time she woke it was half-past five so she showered, got dressed and went to have breakfast. It was better than the evening meal. The coffee was strong, there was orange juice and compotes of real fruit, the rolls were freshly cooked, and there were croissants and little pots of jam.

Gabriella drank juice and several cups of coffee, but only one croissant. Then she checked out, paid her bill by credit card, because it would take some time for the details to reach England, and then set off again, into a blue and gold morning, heading south. The further she went, the warmer the weather became. The landscape changed all the time, from the deciduous trees and green fields of mid-France to the cypress, olives and herb-scented maquis of Provence.

The motorway curved round from Provence towards the Côte d’Azur; the sky was a deep glowing blue, and now and then she saw the sea on her right, even deeper blue and glittering with sunlight. She drove through the low green foothills of the Alpes-Maritimes, saw the red roofs and white walls of villas lining the slopes of the hills and tumbling down towards the sea.

It looked so lovely that she was tempted to stay there a night or two. By then she was tired again, and in a mood to weep like a child, but she forced herself to push on and in the late afternoon she crossed the border into Italy at Menton, and turned up north again, away from the sea and the Italian Riviera, towards Milan and the Italian Lakes. She was turning back on herself, but the road was half-empty and she made good speed—it was still faster than trying to use a more direct route.

Driving became more difficult after she left the motorway and found herself on the narrow, twisting, traffic-laden roads running around the glimmering waters of Como, set like a blue mirror between jagged mountains.

She was almost hallucinating by then, driving like an automaton, barely aware of her surroundings and beginning to be afraid that she would crash. She must stop, must find a hotel, she thought stupidly, trying to stay awake.

She didn’t know the area at all and had no idea which hotel to check into, but when she found herself driving past a hotel entrance she simply spun the wheel and turned in through the old black wrought-iron gates, followed by the angry horn blasts of other drivers who had been startled by her sudden move.

It was obviously an old grand hotel, now a little shabby but still glittering with chandeliers and marble floors, set in well-kept gardens, looking out across Lake Como which she could see through the trees running down the sides of the hotel.

There were other cars parked echelon-style on the gravelled drive; she pulled in beside one of them. Before getting out her case she walked unsteadily into the hotel reception area feeling almost drunk with tiredness.

The reception clerk behind the polished mahogany counter looked up politely and shot an assessing glance over her jeans and old jacket, his face cooling.

‘Sì, signorina?’ He had apparently even noticed the lack of a wedding-ring on her hand.

Gabriella found herself beginning to answer in easy Italian. She hadn’t forgotten her mother’s tongue, then! She explained that she was travelling and needed a room for a night or two, that her car was parked outside, with her luggage inside it.

The clerk looked sceptical but offered her a printed brochure which gave the prices of the rooms, perhaps expecting her to be taken aback by the high cost of staying there, and Gabriella gave it a cursory glance, nodding, not really caring how much it cost. She had to get some sleep and she wasn’t short of cash, thank heavens.

‘Do you have a room facing the lake?’

‘A single room?’

‘Please.’

‘How will you be paying, signorina?’ the clerk warily enquired.

‘Cash, in advance,’ Gabriella said, getting out a wallet and laying down the price of the room for that night.

The clerk considered the money. ‘You do not have a credit card?’

‘Certainly,’ she said, showing it to him. He picked it up and checked the details on it. ‘But I wish to pay cash for tonight. If I decide to stay longer, and you have a room available, I may use my credit card for any larger amounts. Is that a problem?’

He looked puzzled but shook his head, gave her back her credit card and the usual card every guest had to fill in, asked to see her passport and looked even more startled as she gave him the Italian one.

‘You are Italian?’ That told her that her accent wasn’t quite as good as she had thought it was.

Quietly she explained, ‘I was born here, but I live in Britain. My father was British, my mother Italian, so I have dual nationality.’

He handed her back the passport, a smile finally crossing his face. ‘Then I do not need to keep this.’ He picked up her money and handed her a key. ‘I hope you have a very pleasant stay with us, signorina. Would you like help with your luggage?’

‘Please,’ she said, handing him the key of her car. ‘Just the smaller tan leather case, please.’

She went to the room and immediately plunged her sweating face into cool, clear water. What she wanted was a bath, but that could wait until her luggage arrived and she could unpack clean clothes to change into.

The porter brought her case; she tipped him generously, got a broad grin and asked him to book her in for dinner for the evening.

When she was alone again she stripped and had a long, relaxing bath, put on a white cambric dress, the bodice stiff with broderie anglaise, and lay down on the bed, her muscles weak and her ears singing with hypertension.

She couldn’t remember ever having been this tired before! She wanted to go to sleep, but first she had to ring Paolo.

It was surely many months since she had last spoken to him. They were neither of them great letter writers, and anyway theirs was a very intermittent friendship; it was often several years before they got in touch, but the minute they did it was as if they had never been apart.

She had always been able to tell Paolo everything. At least she would be able to talk to him about what was tearing her apart, be open about why she could not go through with her marriage, knowing that he would understand. He was the one person in the world whom she had ever told about the past.

Paolo had lived next door to her when she was a child. He was four years older than she and had been a short, dark, silent boy, always painting and drawing and making clay figures. They had been thrown together because their mothers had been friends and neither of them had found it easy to get on with their own classmates.

Gabriella, shy and nervous, had found Paolo’s silences reassuring; he was sensitive and intelligent, and very different from the other boys in his class at school. They had mostly been bigger, cheerfully down-to-earth, and had made fun of his passion for art, despised him because he didn’t love football and fighting, and bullied him a little too. Paolo had kept away from them whenever he could; he had already had a sure sense of what he wanted and had known that it would take him away from Brindisi.

When Gabriella’s mother died, her grieving father had taken his daughter back to England so that he could be near his only living relative, his mother. Jack Drayton was himself a man in poor health; he had only survived his wife by three years and had usually been too ill to see much of his only child.

Gabriella had been sent away to boarding-school, although she’d spent her summers with her father’s brother Ben and his family. They had given her a couple of very happy years until it had all crashed down again. Sometimes she’d thought that every time she began to be really happy fate intervened—something always happened to wreck it.

Her uncle Ben had died suddenly the summer that she was fourteen. Afterwards his wife had sold their home, taken her children and gone back to Scotland, to the village where she had been born. After that, Gabriella had stayed with her grandmother, her father’s mother, in the summer.

During all those years, Gabriella had written to Paolo and got back scratchy little notes from him, but she hadn’t actually seen him again until he had come to England on holiday five years ago. She had still been at school, and was spending the holidays with her grandmother in Maidenhead on the River Thames—and she had been thrilled to see Paolo again.

He had stayed in London for a fortnight. Gabriella had shown him around, taken him to Windsor and Hampton Court, Kew Gardens and as far afield as Stratford-on-Avon, so that he could visit the theatre and see Shakespeare’s birthplace and Anne Hathaway’s cottage.

Paolo had just left art school in Milan and was going to be taking up a career in TV, set-designing. At twenty-one, he had been far more sophisticated and worldly-wise than the seventeen-year-old Gabriella, yet somehow they had picked up their brother-sister relationship where it had left off six years earlier without any difficulty.

When he’d gone back to Milan he’d rarely written. Neither had, but she’d known that when she saw him again they would still talk the same language—indeed, understand each other without words.

Smiling, she picked up the phone and dialled his number. The ringing went on for quite a while before his voice came on the line.

‘Sì?’ He sounded impatient; perhaps he was very busy.

‘Paolo?’ she whispered uncertainly, and heard his intake of breath.

‘Where are you?’

His swift reply told her a lot. ‘You know?’

Paolo didn’t bother to ask what she meant. His voice dry, he said, ‘He rang me last night. Even over the phone he was quite frightening. I don’t know what he does to you, but he turned my blood to ice. I got the distinct impression that if he found out I’d lied to him he would tear my head off my body and then dance on the rest of me.’

She half laughed, half sobbed. ‘How did he get your number?’

‘I think he was trying everyone you ever mentioned to him. No stone unturned, Gabi.’

She had known what he would do. Wearily she said, ‘I barely mentioned you to him.’

‘Mia cara, I was on your guest list!’

‘Yes, you were, but how did he find you so quickly? I gave him your address in Rome.’

‘Unfortunately, he—or one of his staff—knew I worked for TV in Rome, and tried them. Of course, they knew where to find me; I’d left my summer address with them.’

She sighed, closing her eyes. ‘Thank God I didn’t ring you before I left—at least you really weren’t lying when you told him you didn’t know where I was. Do you think he believed you?’

‘I think he must have realised that I was surprised. Yes, I think he believed I didn’t know where you were, but I may have spoilt the effect later—I lost my temper, I’m afraid.’

Anxiously she asked, ‘What did you say to him?’

‘I told him I wouldn’t tell him even if I did know where you were, but I hadn’t heard a word from you so I didn’t have to lie and I said that if you did get in touch I certainly wouldn’t tell him so he could shove off.’ Paolo sounded triumphant. ‘He didn’t like that, I’m glad to say. I did not take to him, mia cara—in fact, I disliked him intensely from the first word he uttered, and, whatever happened, I’m on your side.

‘Come here if you want to; I’ll give you sanctuary. You’ll be quite safe here—the grounds are patrolled by mad packs of hounds at night and the gates and walls are electrified—he won’t get in.’

Her pale mouth curved into a smile. ‘You’re a darling, Paolo. Listen, your phone might be bugged by now—he’s quite capable of it and he can afford to hire detectives who’ll do that. I’ll write. I’m OK, don’t worry. Bye.’

She hung up and lay staring at the ceiling. She would go down and get a postcard of the hotel; she had seen some on the reception desk. She would write a few apparently innocent words on it. ‘Having a lovely time, wish you were here!’ She would sign it, not with her name but with the word cara. It should reach him tomorrow. Paolo was quick-witted; he would understand at once and come to the hotel to find her.

She only hoped that Stephen had believed him and was looking for her somewhere else.

CHAPTER TWO

GABRIELLA woke next morning to the sound of a church bell chiming seven. An echo came from across the lake—or was that another church telling the hour? For a moment she lay there, dazedly remembering the incoherent dreams she had been haunted by all night—Stephen’s hard, dark face, his mouth, the heat of his body moving against hers, his hands…

Perspiration broke out on her forehead. With a low groan she sat up in bed and looked around the room. The walls were whitewashed. Last night they had looked rather stark, but this morning they were coloured pinky gold by the sun. She had not closed her shutters last night and had left the window slightly ajar; a gentle breeze was now ruffling the floor-length white gauze curtains.

Gabriella slid out of bed in her thin silky nightdress and walked over to the window, pushed it right open and went out on to her balcony, to be struck dumb by the beauty of the view.

She stood there, staring, blue eyes wide; she hadn’t expected anything like this. Her gaze moved over the ring of mountains, their indented line blue-hazed, majestic, stretching away out of sight, the morning light moving on their peaks where here and there snow still covered the upper slopes, a cloudless sky floating above them and below, on the surface of the lake, their shimmering reflections, white, gold and soft rose.

Como was not a huge lake; it had a domestic intimacy, and she could see the other side of it clearly enough to make out houses, red-roofed and white-walled, gardens with cypress and fir trees, and, on the winding roads along the lakeside, cars moving.

The hotel gardens ran right down to the lake to where she saw a wooden jetty, with a few people waiting on it—men reading newspapers, schoolchildren, women with shopping baskets chatting to one another. On the lake a small ferry boat was chugging towards them at a sedate speed. She watched it dock, nudging the old tyres tied along the jetty. A sailor tied up and the passengers boarded, greeting the jerseyed sailors on board like old friends—which they probably were.

The boat cast off again, crossing the lake again. Gabriella watched it leave. She could see why people who lived here would use the ferry if they wanted to cross the lake. Driving around those narrow, twisting little roads would be hair-raising even in daylight. That’s what I’ll do, she thought; I’ll leave my car at the hotel and explore the lake on the ferry.

She heard cheerful, murmuring voices outside in the corridor, then the whirr of the lift descending—other people going to breakfast, obviously—which reminded her that she had ordered a breakfasttray in her room for eight o’clock. Taking a last look at the view, she turned reluctantly away into her bedroom.

She showered, slid into a towelling robe hanging on the door and sat on the bed to blow-dry her long, silky hair; it took quite a time, so in the end she left it loose, to finish drying naturally, and dressed in a dark blue linen shift dress, leaving her slender legs bare but sliding her feet into white sandals with a tiny heel, a few fine straps of leather criss-crossing the foot, buckled at the ankle.

A few moments later the room-service waiter tapped on her door. He was a young boy in a spotless white uniform, as slender as a girl and doeeyed. He gave her an appreciative look, young though he was—he was, after all, an Italian and enjoyed the sight of a pretty woman. ‘Your breakfast, signorina,’ he said smiling as she admitted him.

‘Grazie,’ she said, leading the way out on to the balcony. In Italian she told him to put the tray down on the small white table.

‘A lovely morning for you,’ he said, as if he had produced that too. His dark eyes admiringly flicked over her from her black hair to her long legs. Clearly he was in no hurry to leave. ‘Is this your first visit to Como?’

‘Yes, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Where does the ferry go?’ she asked, pointing to the jetty where a new string of passengers was boarding a different boat.

‘That one?’ He gave it an indifferent glance. ‘That sails between Menaggio, Bellagio and Varenna.’

‘Do all the ferries have the same route?’

‘Oh, no—some go right the way to Como itself, at the far end of one arm of the lake…’

‘One arm?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘The lake is a Y-shape, signorina.’ He pulled a pencil from his pocket and drew a rough outline on a notepad he also carried. ‘Like that. Como is at the end of this upper arm and Lecco is almost at the end of the other arm. The lake divides at Bellagio, then you come down here to Novate.’

‘What a strange shape for a lake! So which town is this?’

He gave her a startled look, his great dark eyes incredulous. ‘This is Menaggio, signorina! You didn’t know that?’

She grinned at him. ‘I drove in here on impulse last night; I was so tired that I didn’t even notice the name of the hotel, let alone the place.’

The boy was in no hurry to leave. ‘Where do you come from? I don’t recognise your accent. You sound southern—are you from Naples?’

She laughed. ‘Close—I was brought up in Brindisi.’

Another waiter appeared below, on the terrace steps, and whistled piercingly. The boy looked down, startled, was given a peremptory gesture and an angry glare, and hurriedly turned away.

‘I must go…Excuse me, signorina.’

He vanished and, smiling wryly to herself, Gabriella sat down and considered her breakfasttray—a glass of orange juice embedded in a bowl of crushed ice, a silver coffee-pot, rolls, a couple of little cakes, butter, a pot of jam, a bowl of fresh black cherries and some frosted green grapes.

She didn’t touch the cakes, but she ate a roll and some of the cherries, drank all the juice and a couple of cups of coffee while she gazed down at the lake, watching the changing reflections until a passing boat sent wide ripples to break them up. People on the jetty were talking to each other cheerfully, their voices drifting to her on the warm air. She thought that it must be nice to live in a small place where you knew everyone; big cities like London could be lonely places.

The telephone made her jump. She turned her head to stare at it in terror.

Who could be ringing her? Nobody knew she was there. Her heart began to beat agonisingly; her skin tightened and turned icy cold. She was trembling as she got up, knocking over the chair she had been sitting on.

The phone still went on ringing; maybe it was the hotel reception desk asking if she was staying another night. Slowly, reluctantly, she crossed the room and stretched out a shaky hand.

‘Hello?’ Her voice was low, husky.

‘Signorina Brooks?’ an Italian voice asked.

‘Yes.’ She was waiting on tenterhooks.

‘A Signor Giovio to see you, signorina.’

She let out a quivering breath, closing her eyes in sick relief. It was only Paolo; he had got her card already and understood its message. She had known he would—he was much too quick not to have got it at first glance. ‘Oh…my cousin, yes; tell him I’ll be down in a moment.’

She brought her tray into her bedroom, then closed the balcony doors and almost flew downstairs. Paolo was waiting for her in the lounge which led out on to the garden terrace.

The room was enormous, with high ceilings from which glittered chandeliers and marble floors across which deep white sofas were scattered. One end was entirely made up of windows, stretching from ceiling to floor, draped in the same white gauze curtains as those which hung in her room; through them you could see the hotel gardens leading down to the lake and they allowed the sun to flood the great room with light.

Paolo stood by them, gazing out. She stopped to stare at him while he was unaware of her. He hadn’t changed much since they’d last met although he was clearly a few years older. He was still a slight figure, his face in profile bony and memorable—not handsome but striking, his sallow skin deeply tanned and his hair jet-black, softly waving down to his shoulders. He was wearing a lightweight pale blue suit; elegantly casual, it looked expensive. Did he buy designer clothes now?

As if becoming aware of her presence he turned, their eyes met and a smile lit his thin face. ‘So, there you are!’ he said in Italian, holding out both hands, and she ran to take them.

‘I knew you’d understand the card.’

‘Of course,’ he dismissed, shrugging. His slanting eyes skimmed her face. ‘You don’t look as terrible as you sounded last night. Sleep well?’

She nodded but perhaps the memory of her bad dreams showed in her face, because Paolo frowned.

Some other guests wandered into the room, giving them curious looks. Gabriella opened the tall glass door into the garden.

‘Let’s walk by the lake. I’m dying to get a closer look at it. Isn’t it breathtaking? How long have you been here?’

‘A couple of weeks.’ Paolo fell into step beside her as she began to descend the stone steps towards the lakeside. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

She stopped on the jetty and leaned on the wooden rail, staring out towards another town on the far side of the lake. ‘Where’s that?’ she asked, pointing.

‘Varenna,’ Paolo said in a dry tone, knowing that she was delaying any more intimate talk.

‘Is it worth visiting?’

‘It’s small but pretty; there are some nice gardens to see. Are we going to talk about the scenery or are you going to tell me why you ran away?’

She went on staring across the lake and didn’t answer.

Paolo drew a folded newspaper from under his arm and offered it to her. Frowning, Gabriella took it, looked at the front page and with a leap of the nerves saw that it was an English paper.

‘Page five,’ he said.

Hands trembling she turned the pages and saw her own face, grey and blurred, in a photo which she didn’t remember being taken—she and Stephen arriving at a theatre for a very starry first night. Feverishly she skimmed the story; it was short on facts but those it had were mostly about Stephen and it pretended sympathy for him at being left at the altar.

Somehow the reporter made her sound like a bimbo—a gold-digger who had probably run off with an even richer man, although none was actually suggested. The story did, however, claim that she had not sent back her engagement ring, which was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, and added that she had got other valuable jewellery out of Stephen, all of which she had also kept.

She crushed the paper in her hands and looked at Paolo, stricken. ‘You bought this here?’

He nodded. ‘There’s a good newsagent who sells a few foreign newspapers. This was the only popular English paper on sale this morning but he said he’d had half a dozen copies of this one. If you look at the date you’ll see that it was out in England yesterday.’

Pale, she said, ‘So others may have read the story.’

Paolo nodded grimly and took the screwed-up paper, smoothing it out again to study Stephen’s face in the grey photo. ‘Is it a good likeness?’

She glanced at the hard face, the fleshless cheekbones, the cool grey eyes, that insistent jawline. A little shiver ran through her.

‘Yes.’

Paolo screwed the newspaper up again and tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.

‘What did he do to you?’

She gave a choky little sigh. ‘Nothing—nothing at all. Poor man, he must be utterly bewildered—that’s why I couldn’t tell him face to face.’

‘That would have been an idea,’ Paolo said without inflexion.

She flinched as if from an accusation, guilt in her eyes, and shot him a distraught look. ‘I know—I know I should have, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t talk to him. He would never have understood unless I told him…and I couldn’t talk about it, Paolo; I still can’t talk about it.’