A Florentine Revenge Read online

  Today, though, in front of her the piazza could hardly have seemed more tranquil in the pale blue light of early morning, businessmen on their way to work in expensive overcoats and trilbies, a puttering delivery van, a crop-headed man smoking meditatively on a stone bench. Celia’s own warm breath clouded in front of her on the frosty air. She turned and the doorman was already there, opening the door in front of her, flashing her a smile as she passed him and was inside.

  The foyer was high-ceilinged, full of marble, and sound reverberated around Celia, the click of her boots on the floor and strangers’ voices echoing from a hundred smooth, hard, polished surfaces. Celia walked to the desk, set her leather bag on the counter and waited. Eventually the receptionist, a young, dark woman in a fitted black suit who was taking a telephone booking, turned to her with a smile of polite inquiry.

  ‘Ah,’ she said when Celia had stated her business, and Celia saw a glimmer of interest in her eyes. ‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Marsh, they arrive very late last night.’ She tapped on a computer keyboard behind the counter, ran a finger down the screen. ‘But they are expecting you, at this hour?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia firmly, but her heart sank. The receptionist nodded, picked up a phone and dialled, eyes averted. The telephone seemed to ring for some time and Celia envisaged a morning wasted, spent sitting waiting in reception while Mr and Mrs Lucas Marsh got ready, but then she heard a voice, muffled and tinny but calm, on the other end of the line. The receptionist gave her name, then said only, Yes, yes, certainly, yes. She replaced the receiver and turned to Celia.

  ‘Room 24,’ she said. ‘The honeymoon suite. They would like you to go up.’ She raised a finger and a bellboy materialized at Celia’s side.

  The hotel’s carpeted corridors were very warm and by the time the bellboy left Celia at the discreet oak door to room 24, she felt overdressed and stifled. The fact that her first meeting with Mr and Mrs Lucas Marsh was not, as she had expected, to take place on neutral ground but in the unusual intimacy of a hotel room – the honeymoon suite, at that – increased her discomfort, She knocked.

  8

  Celia hadn’t made the hotel bookings; that was normal enough. Generally she was an add-on, an optional extra brought in by one of the tour companies or travel agencies she had a relationship with. When she had first spoken to Lucas Marsh he had made it clear in that voice of his that had so evaded her since that he would, like most of her clients, be making his own personal arrangements. She was to book restaurants – for Friday the Quattro Leoni at lunch, somewhere elegant for the evening, Cibreo perhaps. She’d done what he asked. He obviously knew the city; he was also, obviously, a private person. And discreet as she felt herself to be, Celia had to admit that if she had been asked to book the honeymoon suite at the Regale she might well have speculated.

  The door to room 24 remained closed for some moments; behind it Celia heard the sound of voices. She composed her face and waited equably; just as she was beginning to wonder if she should knock again the door opened. A young woman – she must be older than she looks, Celia thought, remembering belatedly that Lucas Marsh’s wife was thirty-two tomorrow – stood there, half-dressed in a silk slip, woollen skirt and stockinged feet. She was pretty in what Celia could only think of as an old-fashioned sort of way; at once voluptuous and delicate, white-skinned, pink-cheeked, with heavy, glossy black hair twisted up behind her head. She gave the impression of bursting with health; beside her Celia felt like a small, dull, brown bird next to a plump white dove. Celia also realized at that moment that she did not know Mrs Lucas Marsh’s first name, as in all correspondence she had been referred to only as an appendage to her husband. In the flesh she did not seem at all like anything so insignificant.

  ‘Celia Donnelly,’ said Celia, holding out a hand. The woman held out hers in response and opened her mouth to reply when another voice called from inside the room. It was Lucas Marsh’s voice, she knew it immediately, like a scent. ‘Emma?’

  Emma Marsh raised her fine eyebrows in an expression of comic resignation. ‘Typical Lucas,’ she said. ‘Has to get in first.’ She turned and called over her shoulder, ‘She’s here.’ There was no answer, but Emma Marsh seemed unperturbed; she turned back to Celia and smiled, showing small, perfect white teeth. She took Celia’s hand and gave it a little shake. ‘Come in,’ she said, holding on to the hand and drawing Celia inside the room.

  Despite all she knew about Florentine restraint and good taste, Celia realized as she entered the room that she had until this moment had a fixed idea of honeymoon suites, even here, as something out of Las Vegas with circular beds, ruched blinds and too much marble. The Regale obviously had a different idea of romance, however; the sitting room she entered was large but very simple, with a wooden floor, rugs, two long dark sofas and a huge window looking south to the ornate inlaid Venetian windows of the church of Orsanmichele. On a long, dark oak table against one wall stood an arrangement of tall arum lilies like ceremonial trumpets, waxy and perfect. It was empty, though, of life; there was no sign of Lucas Marsh.

  Off one end of the room a door stood open; glancing through it as she stood there, Celia glimpsed another long window through which pale morning light fell on a corner of an unmade bed, gleaming off a dainty heap of something satin on the floor. Then the light moved and shifted as though interrupted, and registering the silent presence of Lucas Marsh out of sight in the bedroom, Celia quickly looked away.

  ‘I – I could have waited downstairs,’ she began desperately. ‘Really, if you need more time…’ Emma Marsh smiled at her again, languorous.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’m really nearly ready. The flight was late last night, and I just overslept. Lucas has been up for hours, always an early riser but me—’ She shrugged. ‘I’m just lazy. Can’t seem to get out of bed.’ And as if even the mention of bed was enough she yawned a little, cat-like, putting a small white hand to her mouth. ‘Sit down. Would you like coffee? I’m having coffee.’

  ‘I—’ Celia hesitated, then gave in. After all, San Miniato was not a strenuous place to begin a day in Florence; they had plenty of time. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and sat where Emma Marsh gestured, on the dark plum velvet of the nearest sofa. There was a soft knock at the door, and as though Emma Marsh only had to decide she wanted something for it to appear, behind it was another uniformed bellboy with a tray of coffee and miniature croissants.

  As Celia took the cup Emma offered her, as she took a sip – and registered how good it was, fiercely strong but not bitter – she couldn’t help wondering what she was doing up here drinking coffee, instead of waiting in the foyer. Emma Marsh curled up on the sofa opposite her with another cup, her round white calves tucked under her on the velvet. She resembled, Celia thought with a kind of fascination, a pretty pedigree pet, well-fed, manicured and dainty, bred to perfection, but all the same Celia immediately found herself liking Emma Marsh. She also wondered surreptitiously when she was going to finish getting dressed; as she lay back on the sofa, stretching her pale legs, and took a sip of her coffee she showed no sign of it.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ she said, sighing happily and looking around with an air of such perfect satisfaction that Celia couldn’t help smiling. Plenty of her wealthy clients did nothing but complain about their immensely luxurious hotel rooms; the air-conditioning was too cold, the central heating too hot, the coffee too strong.

  ‘Everything’s so nice to look at here, isn’t it? So wonderfully, gorgeously beautiful.’ Emma stretched. ‘I do like beautiful things.’ Celia had already worked that out from what there was of Emma Marsh’s clothing. The lace on her silk slip was very fine and the skirt, which fitted her so perfectly it must have been made for her, was a heavy, nubbly tweed of colours Celia had never seen together before, electric blue, green, damson. You couldn’t judge from appearances, she reminded herself, but everything about Emma Marsh was gorgeous, irresistible. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s a very beautiful city. Have you been before?’


  ‘No,’ said Emma Marsh. ‘Never. This was all rather last-minute, too. I’ve been to Milan; Lucas took me to the shows this year – he had some business to do. It is rather a businesslike sort of place, very grey. Have you been?’ Celia hadn’t. Emma leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Nice shops. I do like shopping. We will be able to fit some in, won’t we? Between all the churches and paintings?’

  Celia laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I had assumed… everyone wants to do some shopping.’ It was true; for plenty of her clients the culture was a trade-off against a day or two in the designer outlets; sometimes they wanted her along, sometimes they didn’t.

  Satisfied, Emma Marsh leaned back against the sofa again. ‘And Venice,’ she said, ‘we often go to Venice. So pretty, but it is rather chilly. And damp, of course,’ she mused. ‘Everything always seems damp in Venice, and it’s rather…’ she wrinkled her nose, searching for the right word. ‘Spooky? Sinister. All that water.’ Celia suppressed a smile, agreeing. ‘But Lucas knows Florence,’ went on Emma Marsh confidently. ‘I don’t know why he hasn’t brought me before. I practically had to force him.’ This sounded odd to Celia, who knew the careful arrangements Marsh had made for his wife’s weekend, the effort to keep her amused.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get dressed, Emma?’ The voice, mild, affectionate, came from the bedroom doorway. Celia had to turn a little to see Lucas Marsh properly for the first time; he stood there, hands in his pockets, looking across the room at them. Celia didn’t know what she had expected exactly, but he was a surprise. The first thing she saw was that he was a lot older than his wife, perhaps twenty years older, and whereas couples, Celia had noticed, often resembled each other quite closely – if not to begin with, then they grew more alike over time – Lucas and Emma Marsh were physical opposites. He was tall but very pale, his hair silvery-fair off a high forehead. Celia was surprised to find him attractive, with some combination of assurance and strength in his bearing, without being bullying as rich men could be. He crossed the room and extended a hand; it felt cool to Celia, and light. She thought of Marco’s insinuations; could this man have a dark secret? How could you tell?

  ‘Miss Donnelly,’ he said carefully. ‘I’m Lucas Marsh.’

  ‘Celia,’ she replied, uncomfortable. ‘Please.’ Opposite her on the sofa she saw Emma Marsh sitting up straighter, colour in her cheeks; her husband seemed to have an effect on her composure. For a moment Celia wondered if she was afraid of him, but when she turned from Lucas to look directly at his wife, Emma was smiling.

  ‘Just give me a minute then,’ she said, and almost ran on bare feet past her husband and into the bedroom. She didn’t quite close the door behind her and again Celia felt herself manoeuvred into an unwelcome intimacy. Just a touch of exhibitionism, she decided quickly, and after all, Emma Marsh had plenty to show off about. She looked down at her polished boots on the rug, aware of Lucas Marsh still standing at her shoulder.

  ‘San Miniato this morning, then?’ he said lightly. His pronunciation of the name of the church was very good, not overstated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘Do you know it?’

  He nodded, looking away from her through the window at the red-roofed skyline, and said, ‘I thought we’d walk.’ It was not a suggestion; the authority, the certainty of being obeyed she’d heard when they had first spoken was audible in his voice. Celia told herself that it was refreshing not to have to make every decision, and the walk to San Miniato was a pretty one.

  ‘It’s the best way,’ she said, calculating the route they’d take to the river, suddenly not wanting the Marshes to encounter roadworks, scaffolding, anything ugly or jarring. He looked back down at her. ‘Better get Emma to put sensible shoes on then,’ he said, smiling, and as she looked up at Lucas Marsh Celia found herself dismissing everything Marco had implied about the kind of man he must be.

  Luisa ran out for something to eat at around eleven; she suddenly felt ravenous. Sometimes she thought that if she was the kind of woman who could starve herself, turn herself into a kind of martyr, it might help. A saint on a pillar. But Luisa wasn’t like that, she was too practical, hadn’t been brought up to waste food, and there was some primitive survival instinct that told her, eat, be strong, one day you’ll need it. So she put food on the table every night, lunchtimes too before they started doing orario continuato in the shop, working through. And after last night she felt hollowed out with hunger, starved, as though something inside was having to be rebuilt from scratch.

  Unwillingly Luisa found herself thinking of Sandro’s head on her shoulder, the wetness of his tears. It all seemed so new, suddenly, and she didn’t know if she was young enough, or strong enough. Had their marriage been so bad, without this drama? Sandro drank a bit too much, but then plenty of husbands did, liked a couple of hours every evening with his friends doing whatever it was they did, playing cards, watching football, she’d long since stopped asking. He’d be back in time for his dinner usually, sat quiet, read the paper. Watched the television. Of course her father had been a different kind of man easygoing, dreaming his life away in his little workshop; he would never have raised his hand to anyone. Sometimes Luisa felt a tightness in her chest at the thought of her parents’ marriage, the softness in it, her father coming up behind her mother as she cooked and laying his cheek against hers; her mother would have batted him away, of course, taken all that for granted. Luisa and Sandro – well, you had to take what you were given in life, didn’t you? Things didn’t always work out the way you’d planned, you had to make the best of it.

  Gianna covered for her; just ten minutes, Luisa said, and they weren’t busy, not yet. She dashed into the bar over the road and took a little sandwich, which she ate in two mouthfuls, washed down with warm milk. But then as she was running back out a car stopped at the kerb right in front of her and she pulled up. Luisa stood there in the frosty morning air in no more than a cardigan, the paper napkin she’d used to wipe her mouth still crumpled in her hand, and came face to face with a woman climbing out of the car holding a bundle in her arms. Luisa didn’t know her at all; she was pale, with rings under her eyes, but somehow her face was lit, glowing, and with an instinct that had kept her from this kind of proximity for twenty years Luisa started back from her. The woman was carrying a baby, not swaddled in a pram, bundled up to the point of invisibility as they usually were, but loosely wrapped in her arms, a tiny creature with the red, scalded look of the newborn.

  Luisa’s feet felt numb on the pavement and she wondered for a second if she might fall; not quite understanding, the woman smiled up at her and held out the baby, as any new mother might, to be admired. Luisa only gazed at the mother, whose look turned to puzzlement, then before Luisa could stop herself she did look down at the tiny, compressed red face of the baby framed in the folds of a shawl, the soft mouth moving as she slept.

  ‘Ah,’ she murmured, automatically putting out a hand to pull back the shawl, and she felt a burning in her eyes. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Just six days,’ said the baby’s mother, full of pride. ‘We’re meeting Daddy for lunch, aren’t we?’ She cooed down at the baby, then looked back at Luisa, smiling. ‘How did you know she was a girl?’

  ‘Oh…’ said Luisa, still gazing at the baby, not hearing the question. ‘I…’ She was so close she could smell the child, sweet and milky, see the curve of a closed eyelid, and she swallowed. ‘I…’ She felt the woman’s eyes on her, felt the mother’s curiosity hardening into something else.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, making herself look up, dazed. ‘She’s lovely. Complimenti.’ And as she hurried past, she felt the woman turn in surprise to watch her go.

  Luisa let herself back into the shop, which was mercifully empty, and came inside with her head down while she composed herself, making a big deal of stamping her feet with the cold.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Gianna, but she didn’t look up from the magazine she was reading behind the till, so she hadn’t seen anyt
hing.

  What would she have thought if she had? It might occur to her that she didn’t often see Luisa cooing over babies, might think, what a shame she never had any of her own, but then plenty didn’t. Gianna herself wasn’t so keen; she was from a family of eight and had always said, one, maximum, to her husband, and so far there’d been none but she wasn’t bothered. Her husband grumbled sometimes but she just reminded him of the expense, the prams and car seats and all that there’d been no need of when they were growing up and just as well, imagine buying all that for eight.

  Before she married Luisa had always been someone who talked, to her girlfriends, her mother; she would have said there was nothing she couldn’t talk about. But it turned out that some of the things that happened: you in life had to stay locked away; they could not be made better for spilling them out on the kitchen table, an arm around the shoulders and a good cry. They never got better; perhaps that was why she had allowed Sandro his silence for fifteen years. Luisa hadn’t had her daughter for very long, not six days, no more than a day and a night. Thirty-six long hours. These things happen.

  Luisa felt a tremor, held out her hand to steady it. It was just the cold, and it had given her a bit of a shock, that was all. A baby so small shouldn’t have been out on a day like this. She closed her eyes, opened them again on the warm, bright interior of her shop. The door swished and she straightened, hands crossed in front of her and her smile of polite welcome in place.