Deep and Silent Waters

Sebastian snapped back at him and the old man jerked away.

‘Non vada in collera!’

She knew those words – Don’t lose your temper, the old man was saying, and he looked frightened.

Laura stood up and dropped money on the table, without taking her eyes from Sebastian.

He leaned towards the old man, his lips parting to snarl a muffled burst of words. Laura saw something in his face that she remembered from those terrifying, recurring dreams. She might love him but somehow she had picked up the violence within him; the murderous fury that showed now in his face. She didn’t understand most of what he said, but she picked up the threat in his tone, in his face. ‘I morti non parlano … un segreto … capisce …’

God, why hadn’t she learnt more Italian? She desperately wanted to know what he was saying.

The old man backed away, his hands held up in a plea. ‘Signore, prego …’ He started talking faster, very softly; she picked up only one or two words she understood. Moglie. Wife – that meant wife, didn’t it? Then again he whispered, ‘Assassinio!’

Laura couldn’t bear to listen to any more: she turned on her heel and began to run, guilt poisoning her mind. If she had never met Sebastian, never fallen in love with him and let him see how she felt, would Clea have died? Life was like a soft-skinned fruit that bruises if you so much as brush it with a fingertip. Every little thing you do can have such far-reaching repercussions.

Had he killed his wife? No! Not Sebastian. He would never kill anyone, let alone a woman he had loved – and Laura knew that he had loved Rachel Lear when he married her. Sebastian would never have married at all if he had not been in love. He had told her that when he first met his wife he had fallen for her at once. Rachel Lear had been the sex goddess of her day and a lot of men went crazy over her. Sebastian had not been the first, or the last.

But even if he had fallen out of love, why would he kill Clea? If he wanted to be rid of her he would only have had to walk out, divorce her. But Sebastian was a Catholic, of course; he did not believe in divorce.

Clea did, though: she had already been divorced once so why not again, if she was tired of her marriage? Marriage was not something Clea took seriously. But had she been tired of Sebastian? She had been very jealous that day when she found her husband and Laura kissing. Laura remembered the look on Clea’s lovely face; the black rage, the viciousness.

Next day Clea had sauntered on to the set and confronted Laura, who was sitting in a canvas chair out of sight of the camera, waiting to be called for a retake.

Laura had gone red, then pale, and had half risen. Clea had waved her back into the chair, had sat down beside her, crossed her legs – showing a lot of silky thigh in the process for the benefit of any men around – and yawned like a sleepy cat.

‘Don’t worry, darling, I’m not going to hit you. I’m quite sorry for you, actually. You don’t really think a gawky, half-baked beanpole like you is going to hold him, do you? He may have taken you to bed, but he does that with every girl who chucks herself at him. It doesn’t mean a thing. Take my advice, darling, get away from him fast. He’ll only hurt you, he’s a mean bastard.’ She turned back the black lace collar of her dress, and gestured to her pale neck: a bruise showed up disturbingly. ‘See what he did to me last night? He tried to throttle me. Those are his fingerprints. One day he’ll kill me. He’s so jealous of every man I look at. That’s why he sleeps around – trying to make me as jealous as he is!’

She had laughed, a clear, light sound that did not match the expression in her famous, violet-blue eyes, and Laura had felt as if she was watching Rachel Lear in one of her films. It was hard to distinguish her real life from her acting. How much of all that had been the truth? Oh, that Sebastian was jealous, Laura believed – what man, married to the most beautiful woman in the world, the modern Helen of Troy, adored and desired by millions of other men, would not have been jealous? He had possession of her, and yet he did not possess her. How could he when she constantly betrayed him, broke her marriage vows lightly – worse, enjoyed his pain, his frustration, his rage? If Sebastian had killed her, he had had good reasons for doing so.

Poor Sebastian. Laura knew how he must have felt. No other emotion was as corrosive: jealousy hurt, burned acidly in your stomach, destroyed your peace of mind, kept you awake at night and, when you did snatch a few minutes’ sleep, tortured you with dark dreams. Laura knew all about jealousy now.

‘Laura! Wait! Laura!’

His voice behind her made her panic. She ran faster but the path she was following now was so narrow that she was afraid she would fall into the narrow canal that wound beside it.

Sebastian caught her arm. ‘Why did you run away?’ He was breathless from running, or from the rage she had seen in his face when he was talking to the old man. She wished she knew exactly what they had argued about.

She didn’t answer, tugging to get away from him, her eyes lowered to the surface of the canal, which sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine, the gleam of petrol turning the water into a spreading rainbow.

‘You’ve changed,’ he said, almost as if it was an accusation.

She looked up into his face. ‘So have you.’ Her tone was heavy with sadness, a voice of mourning. ‘Far more than me.’

He knew he looked older now than he had when they first met, and he felt older. Sometimes he felt like the oldest man still breathing.

‘Far more has happened to me,’ he said, in a harsh, smoky tone.

‘Yes.’ She took a breath, looked up, then plunged in. ‘I was very sorry to hear of your wife’s death.’

Their eyes held. ‘You think I killed her, too.’ Sebastian’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘Go on. Say it. You think I killed her, don’t you? Everyone does. They don’t come out with it but I see it in their faces. They all think I killed Clea.’

‘Did you?’ She stared at him, seeing the dark eyes glittering, the mouth hard and leashed. He looked capable of murder now.

In her head the old man’s words ran like the words of a song. Morte … moglie … morte violente … assassinio …

Sebastian’s tight lips parted. ‘No.’ The word grated though his teeth. His mouth said no, but his face contradicted what he said.

She could not stop staring at him, at the beauty of his face, the lustre of those great dark eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, the powerful bone structure that told of strength and conviction, the stubborn, wilful jawline.