hands are still trembling. It took great determination not to run from him: to remain for a few minutes, instead, and talk as civilly as I could manage. I knew that we might be seen from the house. For that reason, I had to act as normally as I could.
I cannot believe it is him. I worked hard afterwards, to put that night in Rome from my mind. Forgetting is something I am adept at. I had almost been able to convince myself that it hadn’t really happened. Not because the memory of it was abhorrent. The opposite, in fact. This was what made it dangerous.
When I get back to the room, to my relief, Frank is in the dressing room, the door closed. He calls to me, through the door.
‘Did you have a good swim?’
I stop. Is there something in his tone? Does he know? Could he somehow know about Rome, and have orchestrated this?… I am being absurd. If he had known, I would have found out long before now.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘yes. A little cold, but refreshing.’
‘Good.’
I hadn’t swum far. Enough to feel my muscles ache. Off at an angle, to avoid the current the Contessa had warned of: an undertow along this stretch of coast that has been known to sweep swimmers out to sea. The English poet, Shelley, drowned only a little way along the coast from here: it is not so benign as it appears.
I find myself moving, despite my better judgement, to the balcony. I am drawn there in the way one is often compelled to do the destructive thing: to press the bruise.
The view is out to sea and in the broad blue I can make him out. His dark head, the occasional glimpse of a limb, the churned water like a scar about him. It is difficult to tell at first in which direction he is swimming. And then I realize that he is trying for the shore, but is making no progress. Is he in trouble? Frank, I know, has a pair of binoculars. I go to the smallest of his travelling cases and open it. My pulse is thudding in my ears. Because how will I explain myself if he finds me, rooting through his luggage?
I find them in their leather pouch and return to the balcony. I can see, now, that he is in trouble. Some invisible force is preventing him from making any headway, and he appears to be tiring. I understand now: it is the current. I should have warned him. What can I do? If I were brave, I would run from the room, sound the alarm, no matter the attention it would draw to myself. I am a coward …
Such a coward that I am going to let him drown in front of me? I must do something.
But I see that something has changed. He is gaining on the jetty. He has forced himself through the current somehow. The relief leaves me weak.
‘What’s so interesting out there?’
I turn and find Frank framed in the doorway, watching me. He is the picture of relaxed elegance in his powder-blue suit. But he is never quite relaxed – it is the key to his success. If one knows what to look for, one can see the animal alertness beneath the languor.
‘Oh,’ I say, moving in towards him. ‘I was trying to see across to Portovenere.’
‘Can you?’ He moves towards me, his hand outstretched for the binoculars.
‘No,’ I say. I’m not certain. I didn’t even look. Rather than handing them to him, I place the binoculars on the dressing table and step toward him.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘The clasp of my swimsuit – I can’t seem to unfasten it.’
There is something that very few people understand about him. He has been described on numerous occasions as a man of unusual self-possession. But what isn’t known is that he is also bound by certain potent appetites. I step out of the swimsuit, knowing that his eyes are on me. On the skin I have revealed, tightening in the spring breeze from the balcony. This is one of the few times in which I feel the balance shift towards me, in which I become powerful.
By the time he steps out onto the balcony, and I after him, there is no sign of the man I knew in Rome. I could almost bring myself to believe – to hope – that he had disappeared.
*
Hal
Showered and dressed, Hal is summoned to breakfast. The terrace in front of the house, which the night before had supported the band and the bar, is now set with a table bearing breakfast fare. A whole salmon glistens – rather raw and naked-looking in the strong light – beside dishes of charcuterie and cheese, a cornucopia of fruit: strawberries, oranges, grapes; a basket of burnished brioche loaves and other delicacies. There is champagne, but Hal gives this a wide berth. He loads his plate with food, feeling hollowed with hunger after his swim. As he lifts his fork to his mouth it shakes slightly; his body still electric with adrenaline.
Signor Gaspari is there, his little dog on his lap, and next to him sits the photographer, Aubrey Boyd. Hal gestures to the seat next to Aubrey.
‘May I?’
‘By all means.’ Aubrey’s plate, balanced on his lap, bears five segments of grapefruit, fanned out in a bloom-like pattern. He probes one with a fork, speculatively.
‘Not hungry?’
‘Oh, I can never take much in the morning – and I intend to wear a thirty-two until I die.’ Aubrey appraises Hal. ‘You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself last night.’
‘Yes,’ he says, queasily remembering the final drink. Something about a chicken.
Aubrey Boyd watches him, amused. ‘I saw you disappear off into the gardens late on. So I think you missed Giulietta Castiglione dancing in little more than her bathing suit. Spontaneous, apparently. That little white dress simply happened to disappear at some point and then – pouf – there was a great deal more of Giulietta. I got some excellent shots.’ He sips his water. ‘You’ll get to meet her properly on the trip, of course. I’ll introduce you – I took the promotional shots for A Holiday.’
‘Thank you,’ Hal says. ‘In fact,’ he says, with careful disinterest, ‘there was someone else, too. I met her this morning – though I didn’t see her last night.’ He decides not to mention the previous encounter. ‘I wonder if you know her?’
‘Describe her to me.’
‘Her name’s Stella. I don’t know her surname. She’s blonde …’ he is about to say beautiful, but stops himself in time. ‘Short hair,’ he says, instead. ‘American.’
Aubrey frowns. And then he seems to think of something. ‘An odd accent, though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh yes,’ Aubrey says, slowly – with something slightly cruel in his look. ‘In that case I think you have met Mrs Truss.’
It takes several seconds for Hal to digest this. ‘Mrs Truss? She’s …’
‘That American investor’s wife? Yes, old chap.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I don’t know her first name, but I rather think it must be her, from your
