Deep and Silent Waters

‘In a British film I saw, you wore just bra and panties! Black lacy ones, very sexy.’ His eyes were wicked; she couldn’t help giggling. ‘Oh, what you are wearing now is elegant …’ He stared at the jade green sweater, the warm, chocolate brown woollen pants. ‘But you’ll look gorgeous in this tunic. Please put it on. The Donatello David is naked – Renaissance statues generally are – and this tunic will show me the shape of your body.’

‘Yes,’ she said drily, but took the pile of clothes and looked around the room. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

He gestured to one of the long wall hangings. ‘Behind there. While you’re changing I’ll set up my tripod. First I’ll take a few Polaroids to check the lighting and background, then we’ll get down to work. Oh, yes. I nearly forgot – here’s Goliath’s head.’ He held out a string bag.

‘Well, at least it isn’t a real one!’ Laura said wryly. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

The bathroom was as ornate and spl

endid as the bedroom, and as chilly as a tomb. It had a high ceiling, an arched window, looking down on to a deserted back canal, a white marble floor and green marble walls. The free-standing bath was enamelled dark green with gilt taps, gilt legs and gilded lion’s feet.

An oil heater stood in one corner but it looked so old-fashioned that Laura was reluctant to switch it on in case it blew up, so she stripped off quickly, shivering, and put on the tunic, the boots and the hat.

When she went back. Nico was adjusting his camera on the tall tripod. He straightened to look round, eyes bright. ‘Ah … yes … perfect … Pity your hair isn’t longer, but never mind. Maybe it’s better short, to underline the symbolism.’

‘That bathroom is a morgue. After two minutes in there I feel like a corpse!’ Laura said, accusingly, and rushed over to stand in front of the hearth.

‘My God, if only I was a painter,’ Nico said, as he had earlier. He wandered over to her and put out a hand to smooth down the hem of the tiny tunic. His fingers lingered on her upper thigh for a second too long. ‘The firelight is making that tunic totally transparent – your body’s perfect. You look wonderful standing there with your Titian hair and those cat’s eyes spitting temper at me.’

‘It’s my cat’s claws you need to watch out for, if you touch me like that again,’ she warned him, but he merely smiled at her.

‘Film directors never come over to shift your position, when you’re working on set?’

‘Well, yes … but—’

‘And when you modelled, you never allowed the photographer to push you into poses?’

‘Is that what you were doing?’

He nodded. ‘Put this hand on your hip.’ He watched her, shook his head. ‘No, like this.’ He adjusted her wrist, then took the football out of its string bag, knelt down, lifted her right foot and placed it on the ball. ‘Yes, that’s about it. Now I want you to bend this left knee, hitch your right hip a little, camp it up – yes, that’s the look I want. Tilt your head slightly, half close your eyes, half smile, a sleepily triumphant look. Great. Now, don’t move.’

He backed away, picked up a camera and took some Polaroid shots from different places in the room.

After a minute or two, Laura began to feel the heat of the fire burning her right side. ‘Can I move soon? I’m too close to the fire.’

‘Okay. I’ve got enough of these.’ He inspected the photos, and Laura walked away from the fire and climbed up on to the bed to sit, her hands clasped around her smooth, bare knees, the tiny tunic showing most of her long legs, reflecting on how alike he and Sebastian were. Was it just that they were both Italian – or something more?

The idea had been on her mind ever since she had first seen Niccolo, but she didn’t dare bring it up – how could you phrase such a question?

He walked over to her, dropped the handful of Polaroids on the bed. ‘What do you think?’

She picked up the pictures and looked at them. The gauze tunic in firelight concealed nothing. She might as well have been naked. Nico sat on the bed beside her, staring over her shoulder.

‘You are so lovely. What a body! I can’t wait to make it.’

She looked sideways through her lashes. ‘I hope you’re talking about your statue. You won’t make me, Nico. Get it into your head that I’m not here as a plaything for you.’

He ran a hand up her sleek, bare leg, fingering the muscles in her calf, her thigh. ‘You go to a gym regularly? I can tell – you’ve got such good muscle tone.’ He slid his hand down her spine, like a violinist practising his fingering. ‘Your bones are terrific. I love them.’

She laughed. ‘Will you stop that? I’m not a doll.’ Then she flinched.

‘What is it? Are you ill?’

‘Oh, nothing … A ghost walked over my grave.’

‘Oh, this house is full of ghosts. Any house as old as this would be, and my family were pretty violent over the centuries. Murders, suicides, natural deaths – every room has had a death in it, and this room more than any other.’

She shuddered and slid off the bed, saying, ‘Shall we shoot the rest of your pictures now, then?’