Deep and Silent Waters

That evening, Frederick Canfield arrived at the dark little house. Rosa almost fainted with fright as if a devil was at their do

or.

‘Signora Serrati?’

Rosa fell back without answering. It was Vittoria who met him at the door of the tiny parlour, confronted him, chin up, eyes full of loathing. How had he found out that her mother was here?

‘Toria?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘Is it really you? The last time I saw you, you were just a baby. You’ve been growing up while I’ve been away. But you still don’t look like your mother, do you?’

His voice was so familiar, so English and cool, that she hated him even more. ‘What do you want, Signor Canfield?’ she asked icily.

‘I have come to see your mother, Toria,’ he replied.

‘You can’t. She is very tired. She has only just arrived from Milan.’

He gave her that languid, mocking smile she remembered so well. ‘I know. I escorted her here in my Jeep. There was no other way she would have got here safely from Milan – the roads are still very dangerous and the partisans kill on sight without bothering to ask questions.’

There was a creaking on the narrow little stairs and he looked over Vittoria’s head. His face lit up. ‘Ah … Anna, there you are.’

He walked towards her, holding out his hands, and Vittoria watched bitterly as her mother took them. She saw him kiss Anna’s hands, while she smiled at him, her mouth a passionate curve.

They were lovers. Vittoria knew what that meant now. She was thirteen. She knew all about what went on between a man and a woman. But, then, hadn’t she known from the moment when, at only four years old, she had seen her father on the bed with her nurse and had heard the ugly noises he made? Hadn’t she known when she saw this man with her mother, in the garden in Milan? Oh, then she had not fully understood what she now knew; she had only glimpsed it through a veil of uncertainly and fear.

Now she knew everything. Frederick Canfield had taken her father’s place in her mother’s bed. Vittoria felt sick, hating both of them. Even more, she was frightened. What could happen to her if this Englishman took her mother away with him?

Chapter Eight

‘You look grisly,’ Melanie said with her usual bluntness, leaning forward across their table at the Ivy to peer myopically at Laura’s pallor and the shadows under her eyes. ‘What’s wrong? You sick?’

‘I’m just a bit edgy.’

Melanie nibbled a piece of Melba toast. ‘Edgy about what?’

Laura hesitated, then admitted, ‘Going to Venice.’ She played eyes down, toying with her glass of sparkling Malvern water, watching the ice bob and chink.

Melanie exploded, ‘Why didn’t you decide that before I signed the fucking contract? You can’t say I forced you. In fact, I warned you not to accept that part, but you didn’t listen, did you?’ Half satisfied that she had been right, half irritated that Laura had come to see that too late to get out of the contract without paying a hefty cancellation fee, Melanie then asked, ‘And what do you mean you’re edgy? Are you scared you’ll find the part difficult? Or scared of Ferrese? You don’t think he’s going to push you out of any windows, do you?’ She laughed, but something in her face wasn’t amused.

Wishing now that she had kept quiet, Laura lied, ‘No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous. I guess I’m just nervous about this part. It’s really going to stretch me and I only hope I can pull it off.’

The waiter arrived with their first course: houmous with chick pea relish for Melanie and tomato and basil galette for Laura.

‘You’ll be great,’ Melanie said, picking up her knife and fork, voice thickened by hunger. ‘I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday lunch time, my stomach thinks my throat’s cut.’

Laura hadn’t eaten much for days, she rarely did, lived on salad and chicken or fish, but didn’t say anything. Melanie would take it as a personal attack: when she was dieting her temper was always on a short fuse, she resented anyone who seemed to her to be boasting that they ate less than she did or had lost more weight.

They talked about several other projects that had just come up on offer for the future. ‘Since word got round that you’d got the lead in The Lily the phone hasn’t stopped ringing. You are hot, girl. If this film does big box office, I’ll be able to name my own price for the next job. You can take a few scripts with you to Venice and let me know which one you like, and it had better be one with a big price tag!’

‘I don’t want to think about the future. I’ve got enough problems right now.’ Laura played with the Thai baked sea bass in front of her; it was served with fragrant rice, scented with lemon grass and lime leaves.

‘Isn’t that any good?’ Melanie was visibly enjoying her escalope of veal Holstein, which she had chosen to have with a green salad.

‘It’s delicious, I’m just not hungry.’ Her stomach was like a washing-machine, the contents tumbling over and over. She would be flying to Venice in two days and as the time got closer her fear grew stronger. What was waiting for her there?

‘Oh, lucky you, then,’ muttered Melanie, greedily eying the fish. She had finished her food and was still hungry, but refused a pudding. ‘Just a black coffee,’ she told the waiter as he took their plates away.

When she and Laura parted, an hour later, Melanie said, ‘Bring me back some Venetian goodies, don’t forget – some amaretti and a bottle of grappa would be great.’

‘I won’t forget.’ Laura wished she could talk to Melanie honestly about her fears, but Melanie wouldn’t understand: she was far too down-to-earth. Go to the police, she would say. Get some protection. Don’t ever be alone with Sebastian Ferrese. But Laura was afraid to tell anyone. That might be disastrous, might precipitate the very thing she most feared. It might drive into a frenzy the shadowy figure who had sent those notes and destroyed Jancy, who had threatened to destroy her.