Angels of the Flood (8 page)

‘Kate!’ Years of dealing with difficult patients had given him remarkable powers of recovery. ‘What a surprise! As lovely as ever.’

She smiled up at him, entering the game. ‘Don’t tell me, Mario—I haven’t changed a bit!’

‘Only to grow more beautiful. Welcome to La Rocca.’ He went to the side table and poured himself a large scotch with a small squirt of soda. He was in no mood to celebrate with champagne. He turned and said smoothly, ‘Simona never told me she’d invited you here. I would have come earlier if I’d known.’

‘Well…’ Kate looked down into her glass.

Simona stepped in. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, Mario? Kate just happened to be passing this way and thought she’d drop by. Just to have a look at the place. Of course, I recognized her at once. I’ve persuaded her to stay the night.’

‘Excellent,’ said Mario. ‘Did you leave your car at the villa, Kate?’

‘No. I haven’t got a car.’

‘But I thought you said—’

‘I came by taxi.’

‘You’re staying at Montombroso?’ Mario’s question was casual.

‘No. I came up from Florence this afternoon.’

‘In a taxi?’ He was unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘You just happened to be passing in a taxi?’

Kate laughed. She’d always had an attractive laugh, rich and bubbling and infectious. Only right now, Mario did not feel like laughing along with her. Kate’s cheeks were slightly flushed with champagne as she said, ‘The last of the extravagant travellers, that’s me. And I never drive when I’m abroad. It’s just—’ Suddenly the laughter died in her eyes. ‘It’s just something I never do,’ she muttered. She leaned forward and set her glass down on the low table. She was frowning.

Mario had learned enough to be on his guard. He decided to change the subject. ‘How is your mother?’ he asked Simona. ‘Will she be joining us this evening?’

‘I expect so. She had a bad morning, but she was asleep all afternoon and now they say she’s fit as a flea. But she may change her mind. You never can tell with my mother. She’s so unpredictable.’

Mario sat down and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The scotch was releasing some of the tension in the back of his neck, but he dared not let his guard slip, not for a moment.

Simona’s mother was unpredictable. You could call it that. But then the whole family was unpredictable, Simona more than anyone. He sighed. Where the Bertoni family was concerned, unpredictability was the only thing you could be certain of.

A
NNETTE BERTONI WASN’T EXACTLY
sure where she was. The fog had been bad bad bad all day. It came down for long periods, blocking out light and sense. Some days, the clouds bunched up at the sides and she was able to find her way through the tunnel they made—though where in darnation the tunnel was leading, she didn’t know. Sometimes, rare as hen’s teeth, there was a shaft of bright light round her, like the sunshine that poured down like a waterfall in the big spaces between the trees where she used to play in the woods behind Grampy’s house in Maine. In the brightness, which should have been an improvement but never was, she saw clearly—and she didn’t like what she saw.

Right now, all she could see through the engulfing mist was that darn spot on the sleeve of her blouse. A grey blemish, shaped like a slug. She shook at it, to make sure it wasn’t just a scrap of fluff, then rubbed it with the tip of her bony index finger. It stayed put.

‘Nancy!’

‘I’m here,
signora.
It’s Giulia—’

‘Don’t cheek me, girl. See here, this shirt is dirty. Get me another.’

‘That’s just a fleck in the linen,
signora.’

‘Look—don’t argue—look—a mark—there—see it!’

‘Yes,
signora.
Right away.’

Annette Bertoni’s arms and shoulders were stiff with outrage as the girl’s broad hands removed the offending linen, then slid the pale silk on her body. She felt so mad and frustrated and helpless it was a wonder she didn’t spit sparks like a Catherine wheel and burn up with the rage. Ha, that would be the way to go. A shower of burning colours and then, phut, nothing at all. If only.

‘She’s ready now.’ That wretched girl was talking about her. Did they think she couldn’t hear?

‘I’m not ready! Don’t tell me I’m ready!’

That patient sigh. Those huge brown eyes. It was like lashing out at some dumb cow. ‘What do you need,
signora?’

The question flummoxed her. What did she need? There must be something she needed, but just for the moment, she couldn’t think what it was. When she first came to Italy as a bride, there’d been strict rules about what young ladies should and should not have with them. Gloves at all times. Tissue paper for packing undergarments. And… Right before she set off travelling with a friend, just before a short journey from Verona to the south, there’d been that conversation with her mother in law.
A young lady must always carry…
what was it? What in darnation had been so important that…?

She nailed the thought and smiled, remembering the reassuring feel of hard metal through embroidered silk. She struggled to get out of her chair. When the bovine young maid tried to help her, she shook her off. ‘I can manage!’ she said angrily, then gripped the back of her chair and reached out across the empty space to her dressing table. Two tottery steps and she was there. She hunched over the drawers, trying to make herself wider, so cow-eyes wouldn’t see what she was doing. Pulled open the third drawer on the right. A couple of chiffon scarves, smelling of lavender and stale face powder, then her fingertips touched heavy silk embroidery, pressed down to feel the smooth outline of the pistol inside. Did it still work? She must try it out some time. But not now. For now, it was enough to know it was there.

She pushed the drawer closed and turned round, leaning back against the dressing table for support. ‘I’m ready now,’ she said. ‘Tell Dino I’m ready.’

‘Here,
signora.’
He must have been waiting just outside the door. He crossed the room and took her by the arm. A lady must always go in to dinner on the arm of a gentleman.

Ha! Not that Dino was any kind of gentleman.

But he was reliable. A reliable peasant. That was the best that could be said about
him.

He didn’t smell right, though. His head was smooth and shiny as a billiard ball, and he was common as dirt. But he was good and strong. As was his smell.

‘Dino, don’t you ever take a bath? You stink like a barnyard.’

He merely grinned. That Humpty Dumpty face of his was just made for grinning. Like a big round plate with a smile in the middle. Mind you, it was always possible he didn’t understand a word of what she was saying. She might have spoken to him in English. Sometimes she had a job to keep track of which language was which.

It was hard work going down the stairs. She had to concentrate, but it was easier once she reached the flat and was headed into the dining room. Ah yes, there was company, and they were waiting for her. Let them wait. Mario—it must be the weekend again already—and Simona and… looked like a visitor. Good, an extra person might liven things up a bit round here. About time.

For the next little while the mist settled round her again, blocking out the others in the room. All her attention was on the food, and the wine in her glass. Nothing seemed to have much flavour these days, but she enjoyed putting it in her mouth. You had to concentrate though. Food didn’t act like it used to. It slid off the fork and skittered across the plate and sometimes even escaped out of the corner of her mouth right in the middle of chewing it. The wine brightened her up. Even if it did bounce around in her glass like a storm at sea. She got it down, slurping a bit but she got it down.

That was better. The mist was thinning and she could hear voices. She looked round the table. The newcomer was seated right across from her. A woman with dark hair, who, now she looked at her more closely, seemed familiar, somehow. Reminded her of someone, though darned if she could remember who. An uneasy feeling was spreading through her body, up from her gut. It was kind of like fear, only Annette Bertoni had never been frightened of anyone, so it couldn’t be that. Darker than fear. Felt like hate. A sense of black wings flapping across her mind, that plunging terror of sudden loss. She didn’t want this woman here, whoever she was. She ought to go.

‘Who the hell are you anyway?’

Her question punched a hole in the conversation. Three heads swivelled to stare at her.

‘I introduced you already, Mamma. This is Kate Holland, a friend from England. You met her years ago, but you probably don’t remember.’

‘I remember just fine. Don’t you go telling me I have a problem with my memory.’

‘Sure, Mamma, anything you say. Just that I already told you who Kate was ten minutes ago and you’ve forgotten already.’

Annette Bertoni stared. That smart-alec woman speaking was definitely her daughter. Only problem was, she couldn’t figure out which one. Sounded a bit like Francesca when she was getting fresh, but come to think of it, Simona had been pretty hard to handle recently and anyway Francesca was… Francesca was…

It was like someone dropped a dark red curtain down inside her brain. That agony of loss, pitching her into endless darkness. Where was her baby? ‘What have you done with her?’ she asked plaintively, but no one answered, they just carried on talking as if she wasn’t there.

She had to get their attention, before the blackness swallowed her up. ‘I know you,’ she said loudly to the strange woman. ‘You’ve been here before.’

‘That’s right,’ said the newcomer. ‘I’m surprised you remember.’

‘Oh, I remember all right. How would I forget? You were here when my baby girl died. You were—’

‘Mamma, please.’ That was Simona, trying to sound like a dutiful daughter. As if. ‘You’ll only upset yourself.’

‘I’ll say what I want and don’t you try to stop me. What did you say your name was?’

‘Kate. Kate Holland.’

‘That’s right. You wanted to take them away from me, didn’t you? You thought you could interfere in my family and then you tried to run away and… and—’

‘Mamma, stop this right now!’

But she was on a roller coaster, couldn’t stop if she wanted to. ‘You killed my baby! It was all your fault! All of it!’

That shook them. That made them sit up and pay attention. That set the goddamn cat among the goddamn pigeons. Oh yes it did! It made her laugh to see how they all spluttered and gawped. Even Dr Nothing-ever-bothers-me-because-I’m-perfect bloody Mario.

The woman they said was called Kate was open-mouthed and shaking, like she’d just wet herself—ha! And that po-faced daughter of hers—which one did she say she was?—looked like she wanted to wallop her one. But she’d never dare.

Shuffle, shuffle. Everybody flap around and fluster.

‘Mamma, why don’t you keep your foul mouth shut?’

‘Signora Bertoni, you’ve got it wrong.’

‘Annette.’ Only Mario ever called her Annette now. ‘You mustn’t excite yourself.’

‘Why not?’ She turned to him. ‘That woman killed my baby girl. She deserves to pay the price, just like I did.’

‘Mamma, that’s enough.’

More kerfuffle and bother. It was good to be the centre of attention again. She always enjoyed that, but suddenly Signora Bertoni felt hugely tired. As though she wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. That was the trouble when the fog cleared. The view was always of something hateful, something that upset her and made her so goddamn-tired she wouldn’t mind curling up and sleeping right here. Still, at least she’d shown them. They’d know not to underestimate her in future.

‘Where’s Dino? I want to go back to my room.’ It was always better to quit before they threw you out.

Her daughter—it must have been Simona—muttered something about small mercies and rang for Dino. He came at once. He helped her from her chair and it felt good. Like being a child again. A satisfied and naughty child.

A very naughty child indeed. But that was all right. Naughty little girls can get away with anything.

‘W
HY DID YOU COME
back here, Kate?’

A stranger might have thought it a casual question. Kate knew better. She didn’t answer right away—La Rocca was no place for off-the-cuff answers.

She and Mario were alone together in the dining room. Signora Bertoni had retired to her room, much to Kate’s relief, on the arm of the silently smiling Dino. She still felt shaken by the old woman’s outburst. A little later Simona had been called away to the phone. It was apparently some problem to do with the Fondazione and they could hear her voice clearly. Long gaps where she said only,
‘Si
…
si
…
si…
’ followed by a torrent of rapid Italian.

Kate sipped her wine. ‘No particular reason.’ The meal had been excellent, several courses in Italian fashion: delicious
raviolini in brodo,
with the ambrosial scent that only Italian home cooking can achieve, followed by succulent little steaks, then salad. Now a huge plate of cheeses and two plates with fresh figs and white fleshed peaches had been placed on the table. The whole meal was perfect in its simplicity. Which made it all the more of a shame that Signora Bertoni’s attack had robbed her of her appetite. She went on quietly, ‘David wanted to spend a couple of days in Rome… do you remember David Clay? He was in Florence in ’67.’

Mario shook his head. ‘I do not remember.’ Kate wasn’t sure that she believed him. And anyway, was it just David he had chosen to forget, or was it… much more? She said, ‘David’s daughter is studying in Rome and I thought I’d like to see this place again.’

‘Why didn’t you tell Simona you were coming?’

‘I didn’t think the family would still be here.’

‘It’s a long way to travel without an invitation.’

‘What’s the matter, Mario? Anyone would think you didn’t like me being here.’

‘Yes.’ He held her gaze. ‘They might think that.’ Kate felt a prickle of discomfort burning her skin. Long-buried questions were rising to the surface. She had been intrigued at the prospect of rediscovering the man she’d once thought was the love of her life, the man whose loss had affected her far more deeply than the end of her first marriage had done, but this was turning out to be more than intriguing. It was disturbing.