A Florentine Revenge Read online

  For a long moment Emma Marsh’s eyes remained closed and Celia stared, willing them to open; this wasn’t sleep, she had never seen anyone look like this before. Beside her the attendant straightened, got to his feet. ‘Signora,’ she heard him say to her, ‘please,’ then something else. But there was a humming in her ears; the words sounded far off and she didn’t look up at him. Then Lucas Marsh lifted his head from his wife’s, she saw Emma’s eyelids flutter and Celia breathed out at last, a long, slow exhalation of relief.

  Between them they half-carried her into the corridor, she and Lucas Marsh under one arm each, and down towards the window at the end, while back at his post guarding the Venus the attendant spoke on a walkie-talkie in urgent Italian, gesticulating after them as he spoke. The few other visitors to the gallery gaped at them as they passed, stepping on each other in their hurry to get back out of the way. At first Emma Marsh’s body was a deadweight on Celia’s arm but as they came into the light Celia felt her beginning to come back to herself. She started to struggle.

  ‘No, no,’ said Lucas firmly; at the sound of his voice Celia felt Emma go limp and they lowered her to a wooden bench below the great window. Lucas put a palm to her cheek and she looked up at him. Celia could see that although the colour was beginning to return to her cheeks Emma’s eyes were wide and frightened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what happened. I – do you think—’

  ‘Ssh,’ he said urgently. ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry.’ He turned to Celia, and all at once she had a powerful feeling he would rather she wasn’t there. Before he could say anything, she stood up quickly. ‘I’ll see if I can get a glass of water,’ she said, and almost ran down the corridor towards another gallery attendant, female this time, striding purposefully towards them. Celia blocked her.

  ‘A little cold water?’ she said. ‘I think that’s what the signora needs.’ The woman eyed her suspiciously, and Celia followed her glance as she looked past her towards the couple as they sat quite still in the window seat. The only small movement was from Lucas Marsh as he slowly stroked his wife’s hair, looking over the top of her head to something far away, through the great window. In outline at least Emma Marsh seemed quite composed now, her hands folded meekly in her lap.

  The attendant hesitated a second, then turned briskly, ushering Celia towards the far end of the great corridor. As she followed, by some optical trick for a moment Celia could still see in negative the image of the pair behind her as she had last seen them, a pietà silhouetted against the window. And as she walked away from the light and her eyes adjusted to the gathering gloom, she found herself thinking of a different image, that of Emma Marsh’s pale, frightened face as she looked up at her husband.

  By the time Celia got back to the window with a napkin full of sweet biscuits, two glasses of iced water and the gallery’s first-aider in her wake, Emma Marsh’s fear seemed to have passed as though it had never been. She was sitting up in the window as though in her own drawing room, looking out over the river and pointing something out to her husband on the hills opposite. Sitting there with her black hair and sweet, small face she might have been a Medici mistress or daughter, framed against the dark green hills to the south.

  Diffidently, the museum’s medical officer introduced himself. A nervous little man, he took hold of Emma Marsh’s small white wrist to take her pulse as though it might rear up and bite him.

  ‘It is quite normal, the pulse,’ he said. ‘But really, Signora,’ he went on with great seriousness, ‘we should send you in the ambulance to the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, not so far away. Just to be sure.’

  Emma Marsh laughed quickly. ‘Hospital? Don’t be silly, there’s nothing wrong with me.’ The man frowned, looked up at Lucas Marsh for support.

  Marsh was looking at his wife with an odd expression of mingled impatience and dismay. ‘Don’t you agree?’ urged the medical man.

  Marsh turned away a little as if to hide his expression, apparently deep in thought. Emma stopped laughing, looked at him like a child hoping for a reprieve.

  ‘My wife doesn’t need the hospital,’ he said. ‘She’s right, there’s nothing the matter with her.’ He paused, then spoke softly, almost in a whisper. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  Gabriele didn’t sound even faintly annoyed when Celia called him for the second time that day. He was in a bar; she could hear a football commentary roaring in the background.

  ‘Gabri,’ she said. ‘Is the match nearly over?’

  He laughed. ‘Second half just started. But it’s a terrible game. Torture. I’d be well out of here. I’ll pick you up around the back, fifteen minutes.’

  By the time they emerged into the Uffizi’s crowded courtyard, the light had quite gone. Celia led them around the back of the west wing of the gallery; as they passed the great olive tree in its pot Lucas Marsh paused to look at the plaque. She saw him stiffen a little, frowning down, then he looked around quickly. It was a narrow alley where they stood, ill-lit and quite deserted; it was easy to imagine the car parked unobserved with its load of semtex. Even now, with the carabinieri idling in the courtyard of the Uffizi fifty yards away, the crowds in the piazza beyond, it would be so easy. Celia could see what Lucas was thinking but she said nothing. It wasn’t, after all, part of the usual tourist tour, and she didn’t want to upset Emma Marsh, who was leaning on her husband’s arm and looking up at him with a puzzled expression.

  ‘This way,’ said Celia, and they walked on, around a corner and away from the little tree, incongruous in its pot, an unignorable reminder of violence.

  Gabriele was parked illegally on the Lungarno but quite relaxed; he’d even put a tie on, Celia saw. He got out of the car to hold open the door for Emma Marsh. Celia saw Gabriele give her a hard look, taking in her pallor.

  ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t go along to casualty?’ she said, leaning in through the window. ‘Just to get yourself checked over? I’d be happy to come.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Emma, and she looked to Lucas as though for confirmation. ‘I’m not – there’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve – I’ve been feeling tired, that’s all, didn’t eat much at lunch.’

  ‘I can look after her,’ said Lucas Marsh gravely. ‘Please. If you could just cancel the restaurant this evening.’

  Celia nodded. ‘You don’t want me to come with you as far as the hotel?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Lucas Marsh. ‘Really.’

  ‘We’ll see you in the morning,’ said Emma. ‘Shopping.’ She tried a conspiratorial smile, a little tired, but just about convincing.

  Celia nodded. ‘Are you sure that’s still what you want?’ she asked. Emma waved her away. ‘Well,’ said Celia, ‘if you change your mind, you have my number. I’ll see you tomorrow’ She straightened; with a smooth electric hiss the rear windows went up, shutting her out, and Gabriele glided away from the kerb. Just before the big dark car disappeared around the corner she saw a hand emerge from the driver window and wave. She raised her hand to wave back, but they were gone.

  Alone in the dark, Celia leaned against the wall that ran along the embankment and breathed a long sigh of relief. It was very cold, and she pulled on her gloves; along the river the lights glittered in the dark water. From where she stood she could see the glowing windows of the shops on the Ponte Vecchio, like tiny, fairytale cottages from this angle, with little balconies and curtained casements above the shops. She could see customers in some windows, dark-coated men buying jewellery, their wives bright with anticipation beside them. The place was a tourist trap, of course, but from here the old bridge had a magical look, and she imagined those women remembering it sentimentally down the years every time they looked at the coral bracelet, the turquoise earrings, the modest diamond.

  Beyond the gingerbread outline of the jewellers’ shops Celia could see the big lit windows of the penthouses along the river, where the really wealthy lived. As she watched, a woman in evening dress came to one of the wind
ows, a slender, languid silhouette against the golden light, and drew a curtain across the great expanse of glass. Is that what it’s like being rich, Celia wondered, thinking of her clients. You buy the view, then you have to pull the curtain on it in case anyone looks in and sees what you’ve got, tries to take it. She pulled her coat around her and headed for home.

  13

  Walking home through the quiet streets, Luisa felt as light as a girl. She had no shopping in her bag to weigh her down today; she had spent her lunch break with her husband and not in the market. It was only when she reached her own front door and realized it was almost nine o’clock that the thoughts she’d kept at bay from Gianna and Beppe started to crowd in on her, and she began to wonder what Sandro had meant by late.

  Luisa had no appetite, and with no supper to prepare she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. She stood in the kitchen and looked around at her dull, familiar surroundings; everything seemed suddenly so at odds with the way she felt, all these ugly things she had allowed to accumulate, the net curtains greying with every wash, her mother-in-law’s dinner service. She tied on an apron and set to work.

  By ten there was still no Sandro but there was a brighter light bulb in the hall and five years of dust had been cleaned from its shade. It was not surprising, Luisa had thought on her stepladder as she polished the glass, that she felt so gloomy every time she opened her own front door. The old coats had been bundled into bin-liners for donation to the convent, the net curtains were in the bin and her mother-in-law’s dinner service was stacked in a box, wrapped in newspaper.

  On the kitchen table embroidered white linen – from Luisa’s own mother as a wedding present, and never used in twenty years – covered the old oilcloth with its reproachful marks of wine glasses and hot pans set down in haste. Everything was clean and bright and although it was very cold Luisa had opened the shutters and even the kitchen window to the street just a crack. She had by then grown warm with working, sweeping, polishing, dusting, moving, but it was also as though the taking down of the grubby net curtains had sparked some thing. The nets had seemed somehow sinister in her hands, grey and suffocating, and all of a sudden she wanted rid of it all, shutters, windows, curtains, everything that stood between her and the pungent, noisy air of the outside world.

  Just as well he’s not home yet, Luisa thought robustly as she surveyed her work and felt the bloom of sweat between her shoulderblades, looked down at her work shirt all creased and grubby. She tried not to think, But I hope he’s back soon. She showered and changed into a clean nightdress, lay down in the wide, cold bed and turned off the light. But she didn’t sleep, not for a long time; in the dark her thoughts began to circle, and like an old news-reel, cut and pasted, the day flickered before her eyes. She saw again the look a younger woman had given her in the Caffè Maioli, saw Sandro drinking caffè latte with her in the Bar La Posta; she remembered standing under the arcades on the piazza arm in arm with Beppe and Gianna, showing them a postcard. A rich, pretty woman stepping out of a car, a newspaper headline, and a dead girl resurrected. When at last she heard his key in the lock called back from the brink of sleep Luisa sat bolt upright in the dark bedroom and all the images collided. Something’s wrong, she thought.

  Celia had stopped for a coffee on the way home, a little treacly spoonful in the bar opposite her flat, on an impulse to go inside into the warm and exchange a word or two with some friendly stranger at the bar. It had been nice; it had done the trick, she felt, as she looked around the bright, noisy room and recognized a couple of faces, neighbours, people she’d seen in the street. Are the parents of the child that cries in here, have they left her asleep in her cot and risked running out for a drink to wind down together? She looked around at the faces, and they all looked relaxed, a Friday night feeling. Maybe I’ll settle in here after all, she thought. But as she climbed the stairs and let herself into the flat, she felt that caffeine buzz shake up the day’s events in her head, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep, not yet.

  The flat was very warm inside, and Celia opened a window to feel the cold night air; behind the bell-tower the sky was frosty with stars. She put on some music, some old Parisian jazz that was on the top of the stack of CDs she’d unpacked yesterday, and tried to remember where it had come from. She thought Dan had given it to her. For the first time in years she found herself thinking of Dan not with that awful sour mixture of hurt and anger but with something warmer, softer. Poor Dan. Celia poured a glass of wine cold from the fridge, took off her shoes and her thick sweater and lay on the sofa, listening to the music as it filled the room with its muffled, jittery rhythms.

  The wine worked on her quickly and Celia realized she’d had no supper; idly she thought, there’s cheese in the fridge, crackers, tomatoes, but she didn’t get up to make anything, not yet. It was a nice feeling, for once, to wind down, to let go. Am I so uptight, she wondered. Perhaps I need to loosen up. And then she found herself thinking of Lucas Marsh, but before her train of thought could cohere into anything intelligible, the doorbell rang.

  As she padded down the corridor to answer the entry-phone, her bare feet on the soft, rough terracotta tiles, Celia realized that she was feeling rather light-headed, detached enough not to be worried about who might be knocking on her door at close to midnight. A friend; it could be Beate come for a chat, couldn’t it? She had to put her ear close to the plastic box to interpret the crackle, and even then had to ask for it to be repeated.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said. He spoke again. ‘Gabriele?’ she said, surprised, pressing the button to admit him. She opened the front door and waited for the dim stairwell light to blink on, its timer clicking down. Good, was all she thought, as she heard Gabriele’s stolid footsteps on the stairs, now I can thank him, and when he reached the top of the stairs she flung her arms cheerfully around him.

  ‘Gabri,’ she said. ‘What a day! You’ve been lovely. I didn’t say thank you properly’ She felt his hands, light and nervous, on her waist and she stepped back. ‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ve had a glass of wine and I’m a bit, well… Come in.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gabriele, uncharacteristically serious, ‘just for a minute.’ He was wearing some kind of thick reefer jacket, and a cap, which he took off. ‘It’s late, after all. I just—’ he broke off, looking around the flat as they came into the sitting room.

  ‘No,’ said Celia, ‘it’s fine. Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine?’

  Gabriele shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to drive home. And I can’t sleep if I drink.’

  Celia put her head on one side and looked at him; she realized Gabriele hadn’t ever really talked about himself to her before and she felt obscurely guilty. ‘Tea, then?’ she said, realizing she probably shouldn’t have another glass herself, either.

  Gabriele nodded, and she put the kettle on to boil. Gabriele leaned against the sofa and undid one button of his jacket; as she saw him looking at her, for the first time she wondered why he’d come. She thought of the wave he’d given her as he’d driven off with Emma and Lucas Marsh, then thought of Emma, pale on the back seat of Gabriele’s car.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what did you think of them? Lucas and Emma?’ Gabriele would be interested, she knew it; he was curious, and a gossip.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ he said, and Celia smiled. ‘Typical,’ she said, and he shot her a glance she didn’t understand. ‘Not as pretty as you, though,’ he said seriously, and Celia gave him a little push, laughing. The kettle whistled and she turned away, set out cups, brought the milk out of the fridge.

  ‘And what about him?’ Celia said, sitting down on the sofa, her tea warm between her hands. She’d made room for Gabriele but he was still leaning on the sofa’s arm. He shrugged.

  ‘Very – stiff,’ he said. ‘Very English. Repressed.’

  ‘We’re not all like that,’ said Celia, absently pretending to be offended while she thought about Lucas Marsh. ‘She’s pregnant, di
d you realize? That’s why she fainted, I suppose.’

  ‘Really?’ said Gabriele, sounding surprised. ‘They didn’t seem very happy. More like they’d had bad news, than good.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘You’re right. He seems distracted to me, not just uptight. Worried.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gabriele, ‘it’s a serious business, a new baby. Expensive, to start with, then I suppose there’s plenty of other things to worry about, the development of the baby, all that.’ He sounded earnest, as though it was a subject he’d thought about, and idly Celia wondered if he had a family pressurizing him to settle down, too.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she said, ‘I don’t think the money’s a problem for Lucas Marsh, do you?’

  Gabriele shook his head, draining his cup. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I suppose money’s not everything, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Celia agreed. ‘They’re tricky, rich people. I’m beginning to think I’d rather have a coachload of package tourists.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gabriele seriously, ‘I hope you’re not going to need me in the morning, I’m picking up from the airport. Where did you say you’d be in the afternoon? The Cappelle Medice?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia, touched that he’d remembered, a little taken aback that he was taking his responsibilities so seriously. ‘But you don’t have to worry, really, you’ve done enough. Give yourself a break tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Gabriele, lightly now. ‘It’s no problem.’ He paused. ‘When do they leave, anyway?’

  ‘Sunday,’ said Celia, ‘but I finish tomorrow night,’ Only another day, thirty-six hours maybe, but suddenly she had the feeling it was going to seem much longer. Gabriele pushed himself up from the arm of the sofa and set his cap carefully on the side.

  ‘What are you doing next week?’ he asked casually. ‘When they’ve gone?’ Celia shook her head a little, trying to remember; she was still finding it hard to think ahead, to get past this weekend. Something was making her uneasy; was it Emma’s pregnancy? Medical complications always made her feel jittery, an extra responsibility to the job. But that wasn’t all; there was a precariousness about the Marshes’ relationship, an edginess that unsettled her.