Dark Fate

CHAPTER TWO

SHE didn’t dare think about it too closely. Not now. Like a rabbit Saskia turned tail again to flee, but once more Domenico read her mind and anticipated the move. She hadn’t taken more than two steps when he caught hold of her.

‘Don’t...’ The word broke out of her in a hoarse whisper. She couldn’t think clearly. There was only that one simple thought in her head. Don’t! Behind it pressed all the pain and regret of the past, too complex to be put into words—language couldn’t contain it all, or her mind was too clouded and confused by misery to use any words that might express how she felt.

‘Don’t?’ he repeated in that deep, harsh tone which was so familiar although she hadn’t heard it for two years. ‘Don’t what, Saskia? Don’t ask you any questions? Don’t demand explanations? Don’t reproach you? Don’t be angry? Don’t come too close to you? What mustn’t I do, exactly?’

All of that, she thought, unable to look away from him and unable to answer, either.

‘Well, say something!’ he snarled, bending towards her, and she flinched away. Domenico observed that instinctive recoil, his frown deepening. ‘And stop jumping like that. What are you afraid I might do? Hit you? I don’t hit women, even if they deserve it, so you can stop pretending to be afraid of me.’

‘I’m not pretending!’

The reply was barely audible. He read the movement of her mouth, rather than heard the words, and his own mouth twisted in a cynical smile.

‘Good; it wouldn’t be wise. I think I’ll always know now when you are lying to me.’

Her blue eyes watched him wryly. ‘You always told me I was crazy, believing in any of that stuff!’

He grimaced. ‘Ah, but I’m a little crazy myself, these days, thanks to you.’

‘I’m sorry, Domenico—’ she began, and he interrupted in a savage voice that made her nerves crackle like fireworks.

‘Sorry! My God! Is that all you can say?’

Everyone in the room heard him; Saskia glanced anxiously around but the woman in widow’s black, the clergyman, the student in jeans, with long, untidy hair, and the two men in dark jackets with the watchful, hard faces of detectives, who were witnesses and who stared back at her, were all strangers, none of them belonged to her tour.

Where had the others gone? In the silence that followed Domenico’s outburst she heard the tour guide talking from the connecting room; he must have led the others in there while she was absorbed in watching Domenico. His voice floated clearly out to her.

‘Bellini was strongly influenced by Mantegna, who painted a little picture of St George, the patron saint of England, which we’ll find in the next room we visit. Come along, everyone—we must press on!’

Saskia looked pleadingly at Domenico. ‘I can’t talk here; my friends will come looking for me any minute. I’m not alone, I’m with a party.’

His face darkened with hostility, his voice hard. ‘I know, I saw them last night. You realised I’d seen you last night, didn’t you?’ He paused, staring down into her blue eyes, their dark centres enlarged and glazed with tension. Domenico nodded. ‘Yes, don’t bother to lie. You knew I was there; I felt your reaction. I knew you were going to run away again.’

She angrily glanced at the two bodyguards lurking near the door, still watching them. ‘And I suppose you sent those two to grab me! You still don’t go anywhere without them, I notice!’

His eyes hardened. ‘I’d be a fool if I did. You know that.’

Yes, she knew. Italy was a dangerous country; anyone with money had to protect themselves day and night.

Quietly, he said, ‘Anyway, it was easy to find out that you were part of a group booking and the name of your hotel. I went there this morning, but they claimed not to know where I could find your party. I simply had a gut feeling that I’d find you in the Accademia.’

She drew a sharp breath, turning paler.

So he hadn’t known she would be here! He had located her the way she had located him in the theatre last night. A strange, fierce excitement filled her. What did it mean, though? He had never been able to read her mind during the years when they lived together—why now, after two years apart, was he picking up her thoughts and feelings?

Domenico looked away from her, his hard eyes skimming around the room. ‘Where are they, anyway?’

‘Who?’ She was so absorbed in him that she had forgotten everything else and didn’t know what he was talking about.

He looked down into her eyes. ‘The others in your party.’

‘They must have walked into the next room.’ It didn’t seem to matter; she was too conscious of him for anything else to impinge on her at that moment. Then she frowned, disturbed by how quickly she was being sucked back into that old pattern of fear and helpless response. ‘I should catch up with them; they’ll wonder where I’ve got to.’

Domenico’s hand shot out, gripped her arm. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to let you walk off again, now that I’ve found you?’ His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it had a harsh vibration that made her tremble.

She saw the two bodyguards tense, move closer, watching. Angrily she muttered, ‘Let go, Domenico! Do I have to scream the place down?’

A couple moved behind them to stare at a mediaeval fresco, standing far too close for Domenico to risk a public struggle. He had to let her go but his eyes were a threat; she couldn’t look away from the darkness in them.

‘Who is he?’ he muttered through almost closed lips and she tensed, jumping.

‘What?’ She was playing for time, knowing who he meant and wondering what she should tell him about Jamie.

‘I’ll find out so you might as well tell me! He’s here in the gallery, I suppose? If you won’t tell me, I can always ask him. Does he know about me?’ He watched her eyes, smiled coldly. ‘No, I had a shrewd idea he didn’t! What does he know about you? You must have told him something, and from that look on your face I suppose you invented a new past for yourself. He’s going to get a shock, then, isn’t he, when he is told?’

‘Stop it!’ she whispered, on the verge of tears. He was right, of course. Ever since she’d seen him in the theatre the night before she had known she was going to have to tell Jamie the truth about herself, and she knew it would be a shock to him to discover how much she had lied.

Domenico’s mouth curled like a whip; punitive, unrelenting. ‘Are you living with him? Have you been with him ever since you left me?’

Each question was like a blow across the face, his voice was so bitter and hostile. Saskia couldn’t bear it.

‘No, I’m not living with him, I just work for him!’ Her voice shook and the tears threatened to erupt at any minute. ‘We’re friends, that’s all!’

‘Friends?’ he repeated and laughed shortly. ‘You expect me to believe that? When you’re here on holiday with him?’

‘It’s...a sort of working holiday...’ she desperately insisted. ‘He’s my boss; he has a garden centre and I work there. He belongs to a professional association which arranges tours of famous gardens, sometimes in England, sometimes abroad. He knew I hadn’t had a proper holiday since I started working for him, so, as he was coming on this trip, he suggested I come along as well. He’s very friendly; he likes having company.’

Domenico’s eyes glittered like black ice. ‘And he hoped to get you into bed while you were in a holiday mood!’ he sneered.

Tensely she shook her head at him, willing him to believe her. She was afraid of what he might say or do to Jamie; she had to make him accept that Jamie was not her lover.

‘Please believe me, Domenico, Jamie isn’t interested in me that way.’

He did not look convinced. ‘That isn’t the impression I got, and it isn’t the impression the people at the hotel had. They seemed convinced that he was your lover.’

Appalled, she asked, ‘You questioned the people at the hotel? What did you say to them?’ Anything he had said to the receptionist would be sure to get back to the tour guide, who might well repeat it to the other members of the group. People always talked. They all knew she was with Jamie; if Domenico had told the hotel that he was her husband that fact would certainly be passed on, and someone might say something to Jamie before she had a chance to explain everything.

Domenico gave her a dry, cynical glance. ‘You’re worried about what he may think, aren’t you?’ She kept forgetting that he somehow seemed able to pick up on her thoughts, and started, her blue eyes flying wide again. Before she could answer his question, Domenico coldly added, ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t tell them anything. I simply checked that you were staying at the hotel, which was when they told me you were there with your boyfriend on a touring holiday. I asked where I could find you, and was told the Garden Tours group were already out, and wouldn’t be back until later in the day. Late afternoon, probably, they said.’

Relieved, she let out a sighing breath and nodded. ‘Yes, after we have spent the morning in this gallery, we’re having lunch at a local trattoria.’

‘What about dinner? Have they also made arrangements for this evening, or are you free?’ His eyes were hard, intent. ‘We’re going to talk, Saskia, sooner or later; you might as well get it over with.’

She had faced that now. There was no escape, unless she ran again, and she couldn’t bear the prospect of living the rest of her life as a fugitive. The last two years had been full of such tension and nagging dread; she didn’t want to live like that for ever. She would have to talk to him. She must make him see that their marriage was over.

Flatly, she said, ‘Very well—but not at the hotel. I’ll meet you somewhere...tomorrow morning? We have the morning free. I could get away, meet you for coffee at Florian’s?’

Florian’s was a tourist institution, the most famous café in Venice, with cloudy mirrors and unhurried waiters, on the opposite side of the Piazzo San Marco; it would be crowded with people, with young lovers whispering to each other, with friends, laughing, arguing, flirting, with tourists staring wide-eyed at the cheerful life of the loveliest city in the world, and nobody would notice two apparent strangers sharing a table and talking in low voices. It would be far less conspicuous than meeting somewhere more private, where someone would be bound to notice them together.

Domenico watched her, frowning. ‘Very well,’ he clipped out. ‘Ten-thirty? How much longer are you going to be in Venice?’

‘Another two days.’ She looked over her shoulder, hearing hurried footsteps approaching, recognising them. Jamie was coming to look for her. ‘I’ve got to go—I’ll see you at Florian’s at ten-thirty.’

She almost ran, praying that Domenico would not follow her. She and Jamie collided just inside the next room.

‘Oh, there you are!’ he said. ‘I was coming to look for you. What on earth have you been doing? Your tooth isn’t playing up again, is it?’

‘No, I was looking at the pictures, daydreaming.’ She tensed as Domenico strolled past them; she felt his lightning glance as he skimmed a look over Jamie. Saskia couldn’t breathe. What if he stopped and said something? She was terrified he would; she felt his anger like a physical blow, brooding, heavy with threat; but he walked away without a word and vanished towards the exit.

Weak at the knees, Saskia said to Jamie, ‘I want to get out of here, I’ve seen enough paintings to last me for a year.’

He laughed. ‘I know how you feel. My calf muscles ache—all this walking and standing about looking at paintings is getting a bit much. Why don’t we sneak off and have a coffee and sit at a café table out in the sun for half an hour, then take a stroll to the trattoria, to meet the rest of them for lunch?’

‘We ought to tell them we’re going, or they’ll be anxious about us.’

‘OK, make your way out of here and wait for me, while I run and tell them what we’re doing.’

Saskia wandered out into the sunshine. She looked around warily, but Domenico wasn’t in sight, and a few moments later Jamie ran out of the Accademia. They made for a café they had visited before, bought postcards and sat out in the sun, writing messages for friends back in England. Jamie sent one to his parents, another to his sister. Saskia had no family now; her mother had died three years ago, her father some time before that, and she had been an only child. Her closest relative was an aunt in Scotland but they had been out of touch for years. Saskia sent cards to the others working at the garden centre, a friend she played squash with once a week, a struggling young actress who lived in the flat next to hers.

At twelve-thirty they met the others in the trattoria, on a pleasant, sunny side canal leading into the Grand Canal eventually. The meal had been arranged in advance by the tour company. She suspected it was the same one every tour was offered here, but it was very good. They began with brodetto, a local fish soup which was cooked all together but served separately yet at the same time; first the broth itself, made with tomato and garlic, in one dish, and in another the fish, clams and squid which had been cooked in the liquid. Along the centre of the table the waiter put down wicker baskets of thick-sliced, golden-crusted Italian bread. Everyone enjoyed this first course, and it was followed by a selection of huge pizzas, from which they could cut themselves whatever they liked: the toppings varied, from simple cheese and tomato with onion, to seafood or chunks of local spicy sausage and garlic. For dessert they were offered ice-cream.

Saskia skipped dessert and just had strong black espresso coffee made in a gleaming chrome machine on the counter of the trattoria.

After lunch the guide told them they could have the rest of the afternoon free. Jamie fanned himself with his straw hat, yawning widely, and decided that what he needed was a siesta in his hotel room.

‘I shall do some shopping,’ Saskia said.

‘Well, be careful; don’t talk to strange men!’

She said wryly, ‘I won’t.’ She was always far too cautious to talk to strange men, and today she didn’t want to talk to anyone, even Jamie. She needed time alone, to think. ‘See you later, Jamie; enjoy your siesta,’ she said.

She walked away slowly as if to make for one of the main shopping areas of Venice, but once she was out of sight she doubled back, to wander along the quiet less-used canals, over bridges, through squares, watching the afternoon sun glinting on the ever-present water which made this city so magical. Sunlight gleamed everywhere, on the worn stone of ancient palaces, on geraniums on ironwork balconies, on washing hanging between houses high above alleys, above the narrow canals. She heard the dying echoes of voices along the water, from the backs of crumbling houses, the sound of children laughing, water rippling, women gossiping on their doorsteps, pigeons flapping in the sunny air.

It was a peaceful afternoon, yet she continually had the feeling she was being watched or followed, and kept pausing to look back, her nerves prickling.

There was never anyone there, except Venetians busy about their own lives, shopping, talking, unloading boats on to a quayside, washing windows, watering flowers. None of them ever looked her way.

Saskia walked on each time, trying to shake off her jumpiness, intent on absorbing Venice through every pore. She felt she was learning more about the city this way than in all the sightseeing their guide had been getting them to do.

She got back to the hotel eventually at about five when the sun was beginning to go down and the spring afternoon had cooled.

She felt as if she had been far away, her nerves were quiet, her mind tranquil, but as she crossed the marble floor towards the reception desk she stopped in shock, hearing a voice from a salon leading off the foyer.

Domenico!

What was he doing here? He knew she didn’t want anyone on the tour to know about their old relationship; he had agreed to wait until tomorrow to talk, at Florian’s. So why was he here now?

She slowly walked towards the open door of the salon, halted on the threshold, stricken at what she saw.

There were only two men in the room, standing by the window, deep in conversation. One was Domenico. The other was Jamie.

She must have made a sound, the merest inhalation, because they both looked round at the same instant.

Saskia had lost every trace of colour. She was white, her blue eyes wide and dark.

Domenico stared back at her, his face coolly expressionless. Jamie, though, was flushed and bright-eyed, and broke out immediately, ‘There you are, Saskia! I was just talking about you. Signor Alessandros, this is my assistant, Saskia Newlyn; she is the design wizard. I’m sure she’ll be fascinated to see your gardens and will come up with exactly what you want.’