Just after four, he wandered back into the house, grabbing an ice-cold can from the refrigerator. Gulping it down, he went back into the hallway and up the stairs, deciding to check that Cesca hadn’t somehow choked on her own vomit or died in her sleep. Pushing open her bedroom door, he was surprised to see her bed was empty, the covers pushed down at the end of the bed, crumpled and creased. Tilting his head he listened out for her shower, but that, too, lay silent.
She was up then. He hadn’t seen her when he walked through the living room and hallway, and into the kitchen, but he couldn’t believe she was well enough to go out. Not unless somebody had helped her. He thought about that guy living in the villa next door, the one who had made her laugh then made her drunk, and his stomach contracted. Sam hoped to hell she hadn’t disappeared with him, not after the way he’d treated her last night.
When he made it back downstairs, Sam checked all the rooms again, scratching his head when they were devoid of her presence. He was about to wander down to the beach to see if she really was with the guy next door, when he heard some noise coming from his father’s study. The door was slightly ajar, and when he looked through the gap Sam breathed out softly. There was Cesca, sitting at his father’s desk in front of the computer, her reading glasses slipping down her nose as she typed furiously. She had a distant expression, as if her thoughts were miles from here. She was so intent on whatever she was writing that she didn’t even notice Sam standing there.
He noticed her, though. She looked nothing like the hungover, bedraggled girl of this morning, or the screaming woman he’d first encountered that night at the gate. This Cesca looked altogether different; more composed and yet softer. Even the sunlight seemed to agree, bouncing off her blonde hair like a halo, illuminating her as she worked.
It was hard to ignore her energy and fervency. She was like a magnet, and he felt drawn to her excitement, as though their magnetic poles had switched and were now dragging him in.
Sam curled his fingers around the door jamb. He wasn’t sure if it was to steady himself or to stop himself walking in. There was no way he wanted to disturb her, not when she was deep within whatever zone she’d managed to find, but there was something inside him that ached to feel that same powerful emotion. It reminded him of when he was acting, and the character inside him took on a life of its own. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, you just had to stand back, admire, and wonder where it came from.
Cesca paused for a moment, picking up a pen and tapping it against her lips. Sam held his breath, still not wanting to be spotted, or destroy the mojo she claimed he’d destroyed before. Whatever she was writing about was captivating her, and a part of him ached to know what it was. The moment passed, and she returned to typing, as Sam quietly turned around and left the hallway, his thoughts still with the girl at his father’s desk.
He knew the password to that computer. It was his mother’s birthday followed by Varenna. Something simple that nobody would forget. Perhaps he’d use the computer himself that night, and if he happened to stumble across Cesca’s document, that would be a real coincidence, wouldn’t it?
At least, that was the lie he was telling himself.
12
To sleep, perchance to dream
– Hamlet
Cesca barely slept that night. Her thoughts were consumed by her play. Every time she closed her eyes she could hear her characters talking, see them moving, and her inner voice started adding in stage directions until all restfulness disappeared. She’d forgotten about this part of writing. The way you couldn’t switch off, and how the characters demanded you listen, even when your body was exhausted. If she’d remembered she might have brought a notepad to bed with her, ready to scribble any ideas that came in the night. Instead she only had a glass of water and a battered old romance novel she’d been trying to read ever since she’d arrived in Italy.
Every time one of the characters spoke, it was as though she was hearing her sisters’ voices. For a moment she was back in that draughty Hampstead house, the four of them flying around the echoing corridors, shouting at each other when they couldn’t find their homework, or their favourite lipstick.
The nostalgia tasted like metal in her mouth. She yearned for them all, missed being constantly surrounded by her family. Though it was years since Lucy and Juliet left home, quickly followed by Cesca herself, she found herself longing to be back in the kitchen, boiling the kettle for a brew.
Maybe that’s why her characters were shouting so loudly in her brain.
There was nothing else she could do; she was going to have to get up and go downstairs to grab her notebook. Clambering out of bed, she snatched a robe to cover up her bare limbs; in this weather wearing only shorts and a vest top was the best way to get some sleep. Knotting the belt around her waist, she made her way out of her bedroom, her bare feet padding across the marble floor. The villa felt eerily quiet, even more so than usual. As she walked downstairs, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, Cesca found herself wrapping her arms around her torso.
There was a pale yellow light coming from the library, forming a rectangular halo around the closed door. Cesca frowned, stopping just shy of the entrance, cocking her head to see if she could hear sounds coming from within. Was Sam still up? For some reason that made Cesca’s heart stutter. She hadn’t bothered password protecting her play, she didn’t think anybody else was going to be using the computer. Until a few days ago, she was the only one in the house anyway.
Not that she could imagine Sam would be interested in her play. After all, he’d shown such little regard for her last one that he’d walked out on opening night. He was too self-absorbed to care about what anybody else was doing, too caught up in being a movie star. The writings of some nobody from London wouldn’t even register on his radar.
She took a deep breath. She should just go in there, grab her notebook, and check on what he was up to. He was probably just playing around, Googling himself or something.
With a burst of energy she managed to push the door open and step inside the library, but that’s where she stopped. Sam was sitting at the desk, wearing only pyjama bottoms, his torso bare and glinting in the moonlight. It was impossible to ignore the sculpted lines of his chest, or the way his bicep muscles bulged as his fingers hit the keypad. Cesca felt her mouth turn dry as she stared at him, unable to tear her eyes away.
Out of principle she’d never watched any of his movies, and when he’d been rehearsing for her play he’d remained fully dressed. Even since they’d been here together in Varenna, he’d been wearing T-shirts and shirts. She’d never imagined what lay beneath his clothes was quite so . . . beautiful.
Damn, was there no end to his outward perfection?
When he looked up, Cesca quickly dragged her gaze away, fiddling at her robe with busy fingers. ‘I came to get my notebook.’ She spotted it on the desk next to
him. All she needed to do was walk forward and grab it, but for some reason her muscles refused to comply.
Sam turned the screen off. Was it Cesca’s imagination, or did he have a guilty expression on his face?
‘You couldn’t sleep either?’ he asked. When she finally met his gaze she could see the warmth of his face where the desk lamp lit it, and the softness of his eyes. The easy arrogance she was so used to was gone.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been that good at sleeping. I can doze off OK, but then I wake up in the middle of the night with a thousand things on my mind. It’s like somebody forgot to flick the off switch.’ Why was she telling him this?
‘I know that feeling.’
‘I thought if I could just write things on my notepad, then maybe I could wind down enough to drift off again.’