Her throat was tightening. She wanted to scream. One scream, just one, would free her of this awful feeling of suffocation, but it was the very thing she couldn’t do. If anyone realized how terrified she was, things would be worse, and she’d do something she couldn’t undo.
The mirror before her, high on the wall, reflected an image of her tall, gracious form in a dress of clinging red silk. A magnificent body, like that of a crouching panther. But her face—her extremely odd, asymmetrical face, with a high forehead under a helmet of black hair, thin, arched eyebrows and small, twitchy snub nose above a heart-shaped mouth—looked exhausted. Her face, whose impassive mask she knew, had betrayed her this time, and had twisted in a spasm of terror that made it hateful to her.
She would gain control of herself whatever the cost.
She looked around at the ladies seated on sofas and armchairs along the walls and tried to smile. By this time, all three showrooms were full. Milan’s very best clients, the richest—truly the ideal clients for a great fashion house—had accepted her invitation, and now she was about to faint in that very spot, in front of everyone…
She found the strength to shake off the fear that was paralysing her and move towards the nearest door, which led to the corridor.
At that moment the loudspeaker announced the return of one of the three models.
“Number 2449… 2-4-4-9… dressed for evening in black leather embroidered with black pearls in the form of a horse-chestnut leaf…”
The model walked through the door Cristiana been heading for and paraded in front of the assembled ladies, accentuating the artificial rhythm of her steps until she was practically dancing. On her painted face she wore a vacant smile, and her hands were extended in an absurdly showy gesture of offering.
Cristiana heard murmured comments. Everything was coming to her in a sort of feverish dream. The blood in her neck was pumping so rapidly that in her ears she heard the sound of the sea: thick, deep and persistent. She managed to get to the door and into the corridor.
Marta, in a formal gown of black silk short enough to reveal her knees, drew back to let Cristiana go by. She looked at her, curious, but the malice in her sharp gaze quickly changed to concern.
“Signora…” and she approached Cristiana, ready to support her.
“It’s nothing! Watch the models, and above all, check every invitation.”
“But Signora, you—”
“It’s nothing, I tell you! It’s too hot in here.”
The director flinched as she watched Cristiana go. She ended up faintly shrugging her shoulders.
Cristiana marvelled that she’d been able to speak. As soon as she was in the lift, she sat down. Once again, a mirror appeared to confront her with her own image. She could think now. What a shock she’d had! But was it possible? Was she fooling herself? A resemblance, yes, however extraordinary. It had to be a lookalike. Her mouth twisted in disgust. Disgust at herself. She had never, when confronted with danger, attempted to play tricks on her mind or delude herself. Even when she’d discovered the terrible truth about her husband, she’d borne the blow bravely, with calm and knowing courage. And she’d coolly prepared her escape. She’d resorted to hundreds of ploys in order not to betray her project, using them subtly and shrewdly. Her life had been at stake and she’d defended it. But now? She told herself she’d exhausted all her energies in that struggle, which was why she was now defenceless.
She was so lost in thought, so troubled, that she didn’t notice the lift stopping, and she became aware of her sudden immobility only after several moments. When she saw the long white corridor stretched out before her, elongated by the tiled floor striped with black and the stylized herms facing each other on either side of the doors, she opened the lift gate, wondering why she’d fled up here. If the woman she’d seen in the showroom really was her, the one she feared—and she was—how could she hope to escape her? Anna Sage hadn’t come to Italy alone, and she certainly wouldn’t have attended this fashion show without knowing who Cristiana was. Russell would have sent her. Russell, who must also be in Italy. He’d evidently looked for her and found her.
Halfway along the corridor she stopped to enter her bedroom. This was why she’d fled—to take refuge in solitude, and because she absolutely had to lie down, to throw herself on her bed.
Yet she couldn’t, because the bed was occupied—by a dead body.
This time Cristiana O’Brian really did faint, and the thump of her body on the rug echoed dully down the corridor—without, however, toppling a single one of the eight fake marble herms.