They heard footsteps behind them: an elderly woman with a shopping bag was walking along the narrow path. Sebastian’s hands dropped to his sides and, freed, Laura turned and walked away very fast, towards the open waters of the Grand Canal. He followed and caught up with her.
‘Have you been sightseeing?’ His tone was politely distant, the voice of a stranger making small-talk.
She nodded without speaking, sick with desire, miserable with guilt.
‘Where have you been?’
‘The basilica.’ Her throat was ash-dry – it was hard to speak at all. She forced herself. ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t been there yet.’
Her green eyes opened wide, startled, instantly suspicious. ‘You told me you were born here. You must have visited it some time.’
‘I was six when we left.’
Slowly she said, ‘Yes, of course. I suppose you don’t remember much.’
‘Not much.’ Too much, he thought, yet not enough. It was like seeing in flashes by a flickering candle in a high wind. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Only a couple of days. Have you finished the film you were shooting in South America?’
>
‘Yes, I wrapped it up the day before yesterday, just before we hit the deadline. Are you working at the moment?’
‘No. I just finished filming in Ireland with Ross Kintyre. An Irish novel, The Grey Pebble. A small part, but the money was good, and he’s a wonderful director. It was great experience.’ How easy it was to slip into shop-talk, avoiding anything personal. Easy, but unreal.
They were not talking at all, were they? Not aloud, anyway. Their bodies spoke, but not their minds, which were shut to each other, shuttered rooms full of… what?
‘Work lined up?’
She was hot at the moment: soon producers would be beating down her door to offer her work. He watched her eyes, very green against that delicate pale skin, and her pink mouth, warm and sensitive and unbearably sexy. Did she know how desirable she was? When he first met her she had not had any idea what her body could do to men, but she moved differently now, with grace and control. She knew precisely the effect of her body. He had dreamt of being the one to teach her and hated to imagine her with some other man.
Laura shrugged. ‘I’ve been turning stuff down. Melanie’s getting cross with me. I keep getting offered parts that are dead ringers for the girl in Goodnight, World, and Goodbye. Why are so many people copycats? Why don’t they ever take chances, try something new or different? I don’t want to keep playing the same part over and over again. What about you? What are your plans?’
She was afraid to stop talking shop in case he moved on to something more personal, less safe.
‘I want to make a movie here, in Venice. I’ve had one in mind for years and I think I’ve even got a backer.’
‘How exciting. Who’s doing the script?’
‘At the moment I am. I’ve had a couple of people working on it, but I haven’t been pleased with anything they’ve turned in. The present version has something of the atmosphere but it needs sharpening up.’ They passed a gondola idling on the edge of the Grand Canal and Sebastian asked, ‘Have you been in a gondola yet?’
‘No. Mel said they’re a rip-off.’
‘Well, you can’t leave Venice without having been in a gondola. It’s too special an experience.’ He hailed the gondolier who, silently moved closer to the edge of the path.
Alarmed, Laura said, ‘I have to go, I’m meeting Melanie at Florian’s.’ Floating around Venice in a gondola, alone with Sebastian – the idea was too dream-like, marvellous. She was afraid.
‘I want you to see Ca’ d’Angeli.’
Her heart turned over. ‘The house where you were born?’ Was it real, after all? Were there angels and ancient, faded tapestries on the walls, family portraits, echoing marble floors, a reflection of water on the ceilings?
‘I’d love to,’ she said wistfully, ‘but I can’t. I have to find Mel.’
Sebastian curled a hand around her arm just above the elbow and, without looking at her, spoke to the gondolier in Italian.
‘Ca’ d’Angeli?’ the man repeated, staring. ‘Si, Signore.’ The man contemplated the sky, thought, named a figure.