– 17 –

Marian and Bronwen were sitting at a small table outside a café at the corner of the Ponte Vecchio, fanning themselves with menus and sipping iced lemonade. Above them, peeping in patches through the Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque towers, the sky was the most beautiful shade of blue imaginable, with not a cloud in sight. As Marian looked up she thought how tranquil it seemed up there, compared with the mayhem created by the street artists, traders and tourists who seethed all around them. She and Bronwen had arrived in Florence the day before, after a rushed meeting at Heathrow with Stephanie and Matthew, whose flight to New York was called just an hour before theirs. Knowing that she had played a part in their reconciliation depressed Marian, but she had hidden it well, and had even managed a cheerful laugh when Matthew took her to one side and told her she shouldn’t believe a word Woody said about him.

Overhearing, Stephanie had laughingly put her arm through Marian’s. ‘You see, he’s so conceited he actually believes you meant it when you said you and Woody spent the evening talking about him.’

‘But we did,’ Marian said truthfully, though her eyes were alive with humour.

‘Of course they did,’ Matthew chipped in. ‘I mean, what else is there to talk about?’

‘I could hit him,’ Stephanie said, seriously.

‘You already have,’ Matthew reminded her.

At that point a voice announced the final call for their flight to New York, and Bronwen returned from the telephone.

‘A few last minute details,’ she said to Stephanie, and the two of them started to walk towards passport control, leaving Marian and Matthew to follow.

‘I’m intrigued by this urgent summons,’ he told her, ‘but I for one will be glad to meet Frank Hastings.’

‘Stephanie mentioned something about him wanting to pull the film forward.’

‘I know. Which we could if we had something to shoot in Italy. So it’s over to you, oh wise one. Dig up what you can, but remember, no wandering from the beaten track.’

Her dismay at his words must have shown, because he gave her a quick hug; then he made a joke about being tearful at goodbyes, before prising Stephanie away from Bronwen and marching her through the barriers.

Now, as she glanced at her watch and calculated what time it would be in New York, Marian smiled sadly to herself. She knew it was foolish to torment herself like this, but Matthew and Stephanie would still be in bed, probably wrapped in each other’s arms, maybe even making love, and a raw despondency crept over her at the complication of her feelings. Her dread of Florence was now nothing to do with Paul, it had only to do with Matthew, and that made no sense at all, except that he wasn’t with her, would never be with her, and Florence – despite the heat and the unbearable tourists – was even more romantic than she’d imagined.

‘If Sergio Rambaldi doesn’t arrive in the next five minutes, I’m going to have my picture done by one of those portrait chappies over there, so that when I melt into a little pool you’ll be able to remember what I looked like,’ Bronwen complained.

‘Do you think he’ll turn up?’ Marian asked, as she watched a party of school children file past.

Bronwen shrugged. ‘Right now I’m so hot I couldn’t care less. Why did he have to suggest we meet here? Couldn’t he have picked somewhere that was at least in the shade?’

Marian moved her chair round to let a Japanese couple pass, then gasped as one of their cameras got caught in her straw hat. ‘Well, that’s good-bye to my dignity,’ she remarked wryly, after they’d apologised, picked up her hat then gawked at the way her hair was plastered in tiny clips to her head.

‘Put it on again before anyone sees,’ Bronwen laughed, then watching the ebb and flow of tourists as they crossed the bridge, she pulled a face. ‘They must be mad, coming here at this time of year. Look at them, they’re all sog and dust, and the smell of those drains is making me ill.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Marian said, as a particularly foul stench wafted past on a solitary breeze. Though she liked the city herself, she could see now why Paul had described it as being steeped in its own past; despite the crowds and the roaring traffic, the ancient buildings had an air of detachment from what was going on around them, as if they were yawning sleepily and closing their shutters to the mild irritation of twentieth-century life.

‘Do you know if Matthew’s ever been to Florence?’ Marian asked casually.

‘I’ve no idea, cariad, but heaven help us if he were to come here filming at this time of year. Can you imagine poor Woody trying to stop the traffic?’ She chuckled at the very absurdity of it. ‘And knowing Matthew, he’d make him. Mind you, knowing Woody, he’d probably succeed.’

‘They go back a long way, those two, don’t they? Woody was telling me all about it the night I went out with him.’

‘I think so, yes. They were certainly working together when Stephanie first knew Matthew. What do you think of Woody? No romance blossoming there between you two, is there?’

‘No. Apart from anything else, he’s married. And even if he weren’t, I don’t think I’m quite his type.’

‘No offence, cariad, but I think you’re right. He likes the ones who carry their brains a bit lower than their heads, if you get my meaning.’

Marian chuckled. ‘So that they’ll be on a level with his, you mean?’

Bronwen burst out laughing. ‘You’ve obviously got Woody well and truly sussed. But you wait ‘til we start shooting, then you’ll see some real sharks. Woody’s quite mild by comparison, according to Stephanie. But he’s good at his job, which is all she’s concerned about, and apparently he calms down quite a bit once the filming gets under way.’

‘I wonder what Matthew’s like when he’s shooting?’

‘Unbearable, probably. Most directors are.’

‘Why?’

‘Tension.’

‘Signora Evans?’

Both Marian and Bronwen looked up, squinting through their sunglasses, and Marian almost gulped when she saw the face of the man standing over them.

‘Er, Signor Rambaldi?’ Bronwen stammered, equally overcome by his magnificent looks. Stumbling to her feet, she held out her hand. ‘I am very pleaSed to meet you. This is my secretary, Marian Deacon, I hope you don’t mind if she sits in on the interview.’

‘Not in the least.’ And as he smiled Marian felt as though she were sinking in the compelling depths of his black eyes. ‘It is very hot here, no?’ he said, turning back to Bronwen, whose pale skin had already turned to an angry pink. ‘Maybe you would like to come to my studio, there it is a little cooler, I hope.’

Bronwen snatched up her bag. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said, delving into her purse for the several thousand lire needed to tip their waiter.

‘It is not far from here,’ he told them, and as he glanced at Marian she was again affected by his overwhelming charisma.

‘I wouldn’t care if it was as far away as Venice,’ Bronwen said. ‘Anything to get out of this sun.’

Laughing, he stood aside to let them out from the table, then guided them through the crowds in the direction of the Palazzo Torrigiani.

In less than ten minutes they were in his studio, gazing wide-eyed at his remarkable paintings and drawings of details taken from fifteenth-century paintings.

‘Did you do all these?’ Marian asked, looking up from an easel that was supporting a charcoal sketch of Andrea del Sarto’s Charity.

‘Some,’ he answered, opening the window and pushing back the shutters. ‘Some were done by my students.’

Marian and Bronwen exchanged looks, but as he turned round Marian moved on to study a Leonardo Madonna.

‘Are any of them Olivia’s work?’ Bronwen asked nonchalantly.

He laughed and shook his head. ‘No. Once I have her work here, but now I have removed it.’

‘Oh?’

As he answered he sat on the window ledge, then waved his arm in a gesture that told them to make themselves comfortable on what little furniture there was. ‘You understand, in the five years since Olivia was here I have many students. I cannot hang all their work, so I change things around each few months.’

‘Of course.’ Bronwen slipped her bag from her shoulder and settled on the arm of the voluminous chair that Marian had chosen. Marian had intended to perch on the edge of it, but had found herself sinking further and further to the ground so that now her head was on a level with Bronwen’s legs. She had never felt quite so absurd, especially since she was still wearing her hat.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Sergio offered. ‘I have fresh mango juice if you would like it.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ Bronwen answered. Incapable of stopping herself, she watched him as he walked out to the kitchen. ‘Have you ever seen such a gorgeous man?’ she whispered, turning to Marian. Then her eyebrows arched in astonishment. ‘Heavens above, cariad, what on earth are you doing down there?’

‘I think the springs have gone,’ Marian answered, ‘you wouldn’t like to give me a hand out, would you, while he’s not looking?’

Trying to smother her laughter, Bronwen took Marian’s hands and hauled her out of the chair. ‘Sit on the other arm,’ she told her, ‘and listen carefully from now on, because I’m feeling decidedly awful and he’s our only real contact here in Florence.’

‘Will do,’ Marian nodded, as she balanced on the arm of the chair.

When Sergio came back with the drinks he gave Marian a look of surprise, then smiled mournfully. ‘I am sorry. The chair, she is broken. Are you comfortable there?’

‘Oh yes, very,’ Marian assured him, then thanked him for the mango juice.

‘So you would like me to tell you what I know about Olivia,’ he said, resuming his position at the window. Both Marian and Bronwen were thinking the same thing – that with the light behind him it was impossible to see his face. And both wondered if that was his intention. ‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘Why not start with what she was like as a student?’ Bronwen suggested. ‘I mean, was she a good artist?’

‘She was not outstanding, no. Though I think in America they thought so.’

‘Was she disciplined?’

‘On occasions. Sometimes her mind – her mind was not always with what she was doing.’

‘Would that be because she was taking drugs, or because she was maybe not as devoted to art as she made out?’

‘A little of both, I think. But no, it would have been the drugs. It was very sad, she took heroin, you know.’

Bronwen nodded. ‘Can you tell us something about her class life? Who her friends were, where she went in the evenings – that sort of thing?’

‘The class life you will be welcome to see for yourself if you care to visit the Accademia,’ he answered. ‘As for her friends, she had many. They were mostly American, I believe. I can find in the records who they were, maybe they can help you to know where they go in the evenings.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Bronwen smiled, ‘it’ll be very helpful.’ She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised, ‘it’s the heat. We’ll be visiting the village where the American boy dropped her off while we’re here,’ she went on. ‘Do you know it at all?’

‘Paesetto di Pittore? Not well, I am afraid.’

‘So you haven’t got any idea why Olivia went there?’

Sergio shrugged, and Marian turned to Bronwen. It was quite unlike Bronwen to put answers into the mouths of her interviewees, especially negative ones.

Bronwen took a gulp of air and continued. ‘Can you paint us a picture of Olivia – in words, I mean; what she was like when she was in Florence, how she looked, how she behaved.’

‘Ah ha,’ he laughed, ‘I am not so good with the words, but I will try. She was very, how you say, statuesque? Yes, that is the word. Tall and upright, and her eyes often had the appearance of being alert, but that was the drugs. When she was coming down, as they say, then her eyes were . . . they were not so good to look at. She had blonde hair, very fine, and her face was very beautiful. Though sometimes not so beautiful, but again that was the drugs. But when she took the drugs, afterwards she was filled with life and energy. All the students wanted to be her friend. She was a little crazy and they like that.’

‘Crazy? How do you mean?’ Bronwen’s voice was thin, and when Marian turned to look at her she saw that she had turned a peculiar colour.

‘I mean crazy, like students are sometimes. She would do extraordinary things to her paintings, sometimes blasphemous things.’

‘Blasphemous? In what way?’

‘I would not like to tell you. After all, I am a Catholic and it was a profanity that I think is now best forgotten.’

‘I understand,’ Bronwen answered, then suddenly she lurched forward, clutching her stomach. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, ‘but can I use your bathroom, I’m feeling a little . . .’

‘But of course.’ Sergio was immediately on his feet, and taking her by the shoulders, he guided her into an adjoining room.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she heard Bronwen mumbling, then a door slammed and Sergio came back into the studio.

‘It is probably the heat,’ he told Marian. ‘She should be sensible, like you, and wear a hat.’

Marian smiled, then gazed awkwardly about the room. She wasn’t sure if this was some ploy of Bronwen’s, but she really had looked strange, and if she was ill, then perhaps she had better continue the interview alone. She asked Sergio if he had any objections.

‘Not at all,’ he answered, moving back to the window.

‘The blasphemous paintings,’ Marian reminded him. ‘Why do you think she did it?’

‘Again the drugs.’ He paused. ‘But that is too simple an answer. It was as if she wanted to paint something from her soul – to exorcise it, you understand?’

Marian nodded.

‘I believe she was disturbed in some way. I cannot say how, but that is my opinion.’

‘Disturbed by something that had happened in New York, perhaps?’

‘Maybe. Yes, I think so.’

Marian knew that if Art Douglas’s suspicions were right, and Sergio Rambaldi did know something about what had happened in New York, then she was approaching dangerous territory, so she smiled stupidly and said, ‘I wonder what it was. Perhaps she had a boyfriend over there and wanted to get back to him.’

‘It could have been that.’

Marian shook her head. ‘No, that wouldn’t account for the blasphemy in her paintings, would it?’

‘It might, if he had broken her heart. Maybe she was feeling God had deserted her. A lot of people feel such anger when a lover lets them down.’

Marian’s eyes grew large with feigned excitement. ‘Perhaps that’s it. It would make an interesting turn for the film, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m sure it would,’ Sergio laughed. ‘And with all the boyfriends she had here in Florence, maybe she was, how you say, on the rebound.’

‘She had a lot of boyfriends here, you say?’

‘Oh, very many. As I say, she was very beautiful. And exciting.’

‘I wonder where she is now,’ Marian mused. When he didn’t answer she made a pretence of pulling herself back to the present. ‘Are there any incidents you can think of that might make for a good scene for the film?’

As Sergio searched his memory Marian wished she could see his face, but the sun was dazzling her eyes, making it impossible. But as he answered she could hear the laughter in his voice, and she listened intently as he told her about the night Olivia had come to his studio and told him she could not make love with him.

‘Had you asked her if she would?’ she enquired, then blushed as she realised the impertinence of the question. She started to apologise, but he interrupted.

‘As a matter of fact, I had,’ he admitted. ‘You see, I too was a little in love with Olivia. She had a very magnetic personality. Maybe that is another scene for your film, the time that I ask her to come to me. It happened in the Casa Buonarotti, while we were making sketches from Michelangelo’s Battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs. She was watching my hand as it moved over the paper, then she touched it and held it. Then she tell me that she is in love with me. I tell her that students often think that way about their tutor, but she insist that for her it is different. I am a man, you understand, it is not always easy to resist a woman, especially a woman like Olivia. I say to her that I would like to make love to her, and then we continue to sketch. It was two days after that she came to this apartment and said she could not do it. The lady who is like my wife was here, but she is used to students behaving like that with me. It is immodest of me to say so, but it does happen often.’

Immodest or not, Marian was thinking, it’s hardly surprising. ‘Does the lady, your wife, know that you asked Olivia?’

‘No.’

‘Then wouldn’t it make things a little awkward for you if we were to put that in the film?’

‘Of course. But we will say that it is fiction to enrich the film, no?’

Marian’s face broke into a smile as she nodded. ‘When you next saw Olivia, was it . . . ?’

‘I did not see her again,’ he interrupted. ‘Very soon after, I think one or two days, she disappeared.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Marian said pensively. Then, ‘Did you know that her father received a note telling him Olivia was alive?’

‘Yes. I read it in the newspaper.’

‘It was signed by someone with the initial A. Did you know any of her boyfriends? Did any of them have the initial A?’

Again Sergio laughed. ‘It is a difficult question because many men have the initial A. Maybe when you go through the records of that year you can check to see.’

They both turned as the door opened and Bronwen came in, looking pale and drained. ‘I do apologise,’ she said to Sergio, ‘it must be the heat.’

‘I am sure,’ he smiled. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘No, no, I’m feeling much better now. If you just carry on, I’ll join in where I can.’

Sergio turned back to Marian. ‘We were speaking of Olivia’s boyfriends,’ he said, ‘and the initial A. Have you considered that the A may stand for a woman’s name?’

As that had never occurred to her, Marian looked at Bronwen. ‘It is something we have discussed,’ Bronwen answered, ‘but the handwriting has been analysed by experts and all concerned believe it to be a man’s.’

Sergio nodded. ‘But maybe you should not rule out the possibility it is a woman.’

Though Marian still couldn’t see his face, she knew his eyes were fixed on Bronwen, and for no accountable reason she had the feeling that he was trying to lead her along the wrong track.

‘We are none of us keen to rule out anything,’ she told him, ‘but the note is something we won’t be putting into the film. It is too vague.’

‘I see.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have soon to be back at the Accademia, so unless there is something else you would like to ask me . . .’

‘Only about when Olivia first arrived in Florence,’ Bronwen interrupted. She looked at Marian. ‘Unless you have already covered that?’

Marian shook her head.

‘Did she come alone?’ Bronwen asked, turning back to Sergio.

‘As far as I know.’

‘Did she seem happy to be here?’

‘All I can say is that when she came to me, after the summer term already begins, she was very famous in America and I think she did not really want to be here.’

‘Because of her fame, you mean?’

‘I would say so.’

‘I wonder why she came, then?’ Bronwen said, giving Marian a bemused look. Then suddenly her face paled again, and she clenched her bottom lip between her teeth.

‘All I know is that she applied, late, but in the usual way. I confess before she came I had not heard of her, but now, of course, everyone in Italy has heard of her.’

‘But I thought Rubin Meyer had told you about her?’ Marian blurted out. Immediately her mouth snapped shut, and she couldn’t believe she had said it.

Sergio smiled. ‘Rubin Meyer? I do not know Rubin Meyer. Does he say that he knows me?’

‘No, no,’ Marian assured him. ‘But I expect a man in his position must have heard of you. I just thought that he might have recommended Olivia to you – I mean, you to Olivia.’ She was thrashing wildly about in her mind. Did the others know that it had been Meyer’s suggestion that Olivia should go to Florence, or was it something Art Douglas had told her? Whichever it was, Sergio had denied knowing Rubin Meyer, just as Rubin Meyer, when they’d interviewed him, had claimed not to know Sergio. That was it, he had said that he didn’t know Sergio, but that naturally he had heard of him by reputation, and that was why he had recommended to Frank Hastings that Olivia should study under him for a time. So the others did know. However, Art Douglas had said that he was certain these two men were in some way involved in what had happened to Olivia – if they were not the very perpetrators of it.

She knew she was in grave danger of betraying both herself and Art Douglas, and as she had made a pact with herself not even to think about it, she threw out her hands and laughed. ‘I’ve got things a bit muddled. Forgive me, I was thinking of something else.’ She groaned inwardly as she realised she was only making things worse.

But as Sergio got to his feet she saw from his relaxed expression that he was in no way perturbed by what she had said, and she gave an audible sigh of relief. She watched him as he put a hand on Bronwen’s shoulder and his face broke into a smile of sympathy. ‘You should go back to your hotel,’ he said kindly.

‘Yes,’ Bronwen mumbled, ‘yes, I think you’re right. Thank you very much for seeing us. You’ve been a great help.’ She looked to Marian for confirmation and Marian nodded.

As he walked them to the door, Sergio said, ‘I have your name, it is Bronwen Evans.’ Then turning to Marian he said, ‘But I am afraid I have forgotten yours.’

Marian looked up into his face. He was smiling urbanely, and as the smile washed over her it brought a spot of colour to each cheek.

‘Marian Deacon,’ she told him.

He nodded. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Marian . . .’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Bronwen gasped when they were out on the street. ‘A man like that, and I have to go and chuck up in his bathroom. But I do feel terrible, cariad, I really do.’

‘Yes, you look pretty dreadful,’ Marian informed her. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of this heat as quickly as we can.’

But their progress was slow as Bronwen was continuously engulfed by dizziness. ‘You’ll have to type all this up on your own tonight, Marian, do you mind?’ She howled as she was gripped by another wave of pain. ‘What was all that about Rubin Meyer?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Marian said as she took Bronwen’s arm and walked her a little further down the street. ‘I just got confused, that was all.’

‘I think I’m in love with that man,’ Bronwen gasped. ‘What do you reckon he thinks of me?’

‘Depends what a mess you made of his bathroom.’

‘Oh, don’t make me laugh,’ Bronwen groaned . . .

From the window of his studio Sergio watched them until they disappeared round the corner. Then he walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

He didn’t have long to wait before the connection was made and a sing-song voice came over the line saying, ‘Meyer’s Gallery.’

‘Put me onto Rubin Meyer,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid he’s out right now. Can I take a message?’

Sergio thought for a moment, then said, ‘Tell him to contact the bottega.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, can you spell that, please.’

‘The bottega,’ Sergio repeated, and hung up.

Frank Hastings’ office was situated in the south wing of the penthouse suite at 55 Water Street, downtown Manhattan. His company occupied floors fifty-five to fifty-nine. They’d moved to this address three years ago from the corner of Wall Street and Broadway – the financial district of New York had well and truly broken its boundaries.

Frank was standing at the vast window, looking down at the ceaseless flow of traffic that swarmed over the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. He was a tall man, well-built, with a shock of grey hair that glinted silver in the sunlight. Beneath his dark, heavy brows the expression in his brown eyes was normally a captivating combination of shrewdness and humour, though at that moment he was frowning. He ran a finger down the length of his regal nose, and his wide mouth was a compressed line of concentration. After a while he followed the progress of a chopper as it swooped out of the Downtown Heliport until it disappeared from view behind the tower blocks of Brooklyn Heights; then he inhaled deeply, slid his hands into his trouser pockets and turned back into the room.

Sitting round the mahogany mini-conference table that jutted from the rear of his desk were Stephanie, Matthew, Deborah Foreman and Grace Hastings, his wife. He looked at them all, one at a time, then strolled back to his desk.

‘I understand your reservations about bringing the movie forward,’ he said, resting his large hands on the back of his chair. ‘I understand all you’ve said about weather, light, short days and what that’ll mean in terms of cost’ – his eyes returned to Matthew – ‘but you got Bronwen and Marian out there in Italy now, and it’s not gonna take them long to sort out what you’re gonna shoot there, ’cos Olivia wasn’t there more than four weeks. And I want to get this movie on the road.’

Stephanie looked at Matthew as he answered. ‘You’re probably right about Italy,’ he said, ‘and I’ve got no objections to shooting in late autumn; I just wanted you to be aware of what it could entail – not only in terms of cost, but weather too.’ He shrugged. ‘However, at the end of the day, it amounts to the same thing. Bad weather costs money.’

Frank nodded.

Matthew went on, ‘And it also means that Deborah here will still be writing the end of the screenplay while we’re shooting the beginning of it in Manhattan.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ Deborah chipped in, and Matthew tried not to wince at the sycophancy in her voice. Deborah had a certain reputation as an investigative journalist, but nothing she had come up with – either in her book, or for the screenplay – had so far impressed him. Her writing was lazy, repetitive and very often included straight lifts from the newspapers of the time. He guessed that in her day she might well have been a force to be reckoned with, but now she was little more than a tired old hack whom Frank Hastings had taken on because her fading glory made her malleable. She was a large woman, probably in her early fifties, though the thick powder on her cheeks, black-pencilled lines round her eyes and syrupy coating of tangerine lipstick gave her the look of a gruesome thirty-year-old caught up in a sixties time-warp.

Matthew turned back to Frank. ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘plenty of films have been shot this way before – I mean, without the script being complete – but what I want you to realise is that there could be developments in Italy that might entail a re-shoot in Manhattan.’

‘How do you mean?’ Grace asked.

‘I don’t know until Deborah has written the Italian scenes, but what I’m thinking is that if she fictionalises something to take place in Florence, or the Tuscan village, that should have its roots in Manhattan, we might not know in time.’

‘Know what?’ Deborah asked sourly.

‘What you’re going to write,’ Stephanie explained patiently.

‘Well, how can I know until we’ve spoken to Bronwen?’

‘You can’t. But what Matthew and I are trying to point out is that scenes can’t be scheduled until you have written them. Now, what we have for Bennington stands, so do most of the New York scenes – those we can schedule; but if we’re shooting in Manhattan while you’re writing the Italian scenes, and you come up with something that affects New York, we won’t be able to put it into the schedule.’

‘Why?’

‘Because once the schedule has been drawn up, actors will be contracted according to that schedule, as will locations, camera equipment, special effects – the list is endless. Therefore we won’t be able to change it without incurring enormous costs. So unless you can come up with a working script for Italy within the next three to four weeks . . .’

‘That’s impossible,’ Deborah interjected heatedly.

‘Precisely.’ Stephanie turned to Frank. ‘The bottom line is that there should be something in the budget to facilitate a return to New York, should it be necessary. If there is, then Matthew and I are right with you on pulling the film forward.’

Frank chuckled. ‘Thank you, Stephanie.’ He looked at Grace, and though neither of them spoke, both Stephanie and Matthew could sense the almost tangible bond that held them in mental and physical togetherness. ‘Yeah, sure, it figures.’ Frank nodded, and pulled out his chair to sit down. ‘When are you speaking to Bronwen?’

‘Later, I hope,’ Stephanie answered. ‘I called her yesterday, but it must have been around ten o’clock at night in Florence and she wasn’t very coherent – she seems to have got herself a bad case of heat-stroke. I did manage to get out of her that they’d interviewed Sergio Rambaldi yesterday afternoon, and got some pretty useful stuff, but apparently Marian has the details, and when I tried her room there was no answer.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll try again when this meeting’s over, and naturally, if she’s come up with some draft scenes – which, knowing Marian, she will have – I’ll get her to call Deborah straightaway.’

Frank rested his chin on a bunched fist and again looked at his wife. She gave an almost imperceptible nod and he said: ‘OK, I’ve got no objection to the cost in principle, but I’d like to take a look at the figures before I give the go-ahead.’

‘Of course,’ Stephanie answered, and unzipping her attaché case she took out the rough breakdown she and Bronwen had cobbled together since Frank had mooted the suggestion that the film be brought forward. She handed it to him, and watched as his keen eyes perused it, but they gave nothing away. In her lap her hands were clenching and unclenching; she knew that what it amounted to was little short of a further million dollars. She glanced at Matthew, but his mind didn’t seem to be on what was happening in the room. He was sitting with an arm hooked over the back of his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, while he tapped a pen thoughtfully against his chin. But when he caught her eye he winked, and Stephanie pursed her lips as she realised that his nonchalant air was a deliberate ruse to tease her.

When Frank had finished he pushed the budget across the table to Grace.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘if that’s what it costs, then that’s what it costs. But if I paid my boys even twice what you’re paying yourself, Stephanie, they’d be out of here faster than you can say God Save the Queen. Now all I wanna know is when to free up the capital?’

Again Stephanie delved into her case, and this time she handed him a calendar breakdown of estimated financial commitments.

‘Very impressive,’ he said, as she passed it over. ‘Shrewd anticipation breeds healthy results.’

Matthew grinned as Stephanie preened herself at the compliment, and noticing, she dealt him a swift kick on the shin.

‘I’ll have my accountants look this over,’ Frank told her, then after exchanging yet another look with his wife, he said, ‘I want you to talk with my lawyers about the film, Stephanie. You and Deborah. We don’t want any libel suits, or anything that might cause embarrassment. I know you’ve heeded my request not to dig too deep on this, and I appreciate it. I also appreciate you not asking me to explain. Now, I’ve instructed the attorneys to be here at three thirty, so why don’t we take a break until they arrive. Matthew, my wife would like to talk to you, in private, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ Matthew answered, unable to hide his surprise.

‘Just a minute, before you go,’ Deborah said stiffly. She looked at Frank. ‘Rubin Meyer.’

Frank sighed. ‘Yeah, sure.’ And his lips tightened as Deborah Foreman folded her arms and sat back in her chair with a supercilious look on her face.

Frank turned to Stephanie. ‘The scenes with Meyer, did Marian write them?’

‘More or less,’ Stephanie answered.

His eyes met Grace’s. ‘Yep, I thought so.’

‘Why? Is there something wrong with them?’ Stephanie asked, baffled.

‘No, they’re all great. The guy’s as jittery as she’s written him, and just like the script suggests, he’s been feeding narcotics to art students in this town since the mid-seventies. Which reminds me,’ he said, as he made a note on the pad in front of him, ‘that’s something else we’ll have to bring up with the lawyers. I notice Marian’s already changed Meyer’s name, but it’s not enough. We’ll work on that. No, the real point is the final scene with Olivia and Meyer in New York. There are undertones of an ulterior motive for telling her to go to Italy. I want it changed.’

It was on the tip of Stephanie’s tongue to ask why, but she knew that Frank’s answer would be evasive.

‘Deborah’s already drafted an alternative scene,’ he went on, ‘which she’ll show you. There’s nothing portentous in it and that’s the way I want it to be.’

Stephanie nodded. ‘OK.’

Frank smiled. ‘Now is there anything else before we break up?’

‘Nightclubs,’ Matthew said. ‘We’ll be engaging a location manager as soon as we get back to London, but my feeling is that he’s going to have some trouble getting permission to film if we’re going to say that drugs were taken in the club. Can you help?’

‘Sure. I’ll have my secretary get onto it right away. I guess there’ll be no problem with Bennington?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘Not according to Bronwen.’

‘Good. And I’ve got a couple of downtown art galleries in mind that you might like to take a look at while you’re in town.’

Matthew smiled, and it was clear to everyone in the room that the two men both liked and admired one another. ‘Just lead me to ’em,’ Matthew said, affecting Frank’s New York accent.

Frank’s amusement was evident as he said, ‘I think you’re gonna like ’em, Matthew.’

‘So all we’re needing now is a workable script for Italy.’ Matthew thought it odd that it was Deborah who had reiterated the obvious, especially as she made it sound like someone else’s responsibility. Still, considering what she’d been coming up with, it probably was.

‘Shame Marian didn’t come over with you,’ Frank said, as he capped his pen and poked it into his inside pocket. ‘Grace and I would like to meet her. Sounds like a bright kid, judging by her latest ideas.’

‘She is,’ Matthew answered, wondering if the snub to Deborah was deliberate.

‘Now, you all coming out to the house for dinner tonight?’ Frank said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll have my chauffeur pick you up at your hotel around seven, that do you?’

They all stood up, and catching Stephanie’s eye, Grace smiled. ‘When it comes to mundane matters like eating, you can always rely on a man to overlook what’s important,’ she said. ‘Is anyone a vegetarian?’

Stephanie laughed. ‘No vegetarians.’

‘Except me,’ Deborah added.

‘And there was I thinking she was a cannibal,’ Matthew breathed in Stephanie’s ear – and from the smile that flitted across her face, it was evident that Grace had heard too.

‘See you tonight, then, Matthew,’ Frank said, walking Stephanie and Deborah to the door.

‘Looking forward to it,’ Matthew responded. ‘It’ll give me a chance to do a recce on the place.’

He was still smiling as he turned back to Grace, and she waved a hand for him to sit down again. She was a woman whose manner held all the poise and serenity her name suggested, and when Matthew was first introduced to her he had been hard put to it to hide his surprise. Though her hair – which she wore in a knot at the back of her neck – was greying, and fine lines fanned the corners of her blue eyes, her delicate face was an uncanny replica of Olivia’s, though of course older – and devoid of malevolence. He’d watched her over the past two hours, how she held her position at Frank’s side with sensitivity and subtlety, and he knew intuitively that although it was unlikely that she was responsible for Frank’s success, she was almost certainly at the core of his strength. Not, he imagined, because she was in any way manipulative or cunning – she probably knew little about the day to day running of the Hastings’ empire – but because she truly loved her husband and he her.

Grace waited for him to sit down, then folded her hands on the table in front of her, and as she spoke her blue eyes were watching him carefully. ‘I want to talk to you, Matthew, to ask you if you’ve ever heard of a man by the name of Art Douglas?’

Matthew frowned as he searched his memory. ‘I don’t think so. Who is he?’

‘He’s a reporter, here in New York. Used to be a reporter, would be more correct.’

‘Should I know him?’

‘No, but now I know you don’t, it makes this conversation all the more necessary.’

Mystified, Matthew waited for her to continue.

‘Art Douglas knows what happened to Olivia before she went missing.’ Grace paused, and her eyes dropped to her hands. ‘You have heard about the newspaper editor who died in a car smash?’

‘Yes.’

‘Art Douglas believes that it wasn’t an accident’ – and as she lifted her head she looked straight into his eyes. ‘He believes that certain people here in Manhattan killed his editor.’

Though she hadn’t emphasised any of her words, hadn’t altered the tone of her voice nor changed her expression, there was suddenly an air in the room that Matthew found unsettling. He held her gaze, but when she didn’t continue he ventured, ‘Something to do with Olivia?’

Grace nodded. ‘Eddie Kalinowski – the editor – knew things about the people Olivia was involved with. He told Art, and consequently Art considers his own life to be in danger. After the car smash he went into hiding – went to ground, as they call it. Frank has regular contact with him, but respects Art’s wish to remain hidden; after all, if Art is right about the accident, he has cause to think his life is in jeopardy. I’m telling you this, because that’s what it could mean to know what Olivia was mixed up in. So if you don’t wish to know, please say so now.’ Her expression was deadly serious and Matthew felt a cold chill run down his spine.

‘Is there a reason why I should know?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘You should know because Marian knows.’

Matthew couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d hit him.

‘Marian knows,’ he breathed. ‘How?’

‘Art Douglas told her.’

‘He what? When?’ He dashed his fingers through his hair, then suddenly leapt to his feet and started to pace the room.

‘If you just hang on, I’ll tell you. As far as Art is aware, he and Frank don’t agree on what might have happened to Olivia. Art believes that Olivia is in Italy, and that there was a conspiracy between Rubin Meyer and Sergio Rambaldi to keep her there.’ She paused. ‘In fact, that’s exactly what Frank thinks too, and that is why he doesn’t want that scene in the film, because if Rubin Meyer does know where Olivia is, he’s the last person Frank wants to upset. The reason Frank hasn’t confided his suspicions to Art is because he’s afraid Art might do something stupid, like confront Meyer.’

‘But why did Douglas tell Marian? Jesus Christ, Marian of all people. She’s only a kid.’

‘He told her because she’d been to see Jodi Rosenberg, an old friend of Olivia’s, and Jodi and Art are both of the opinion that Frank should be persuaded into accusing Meyer through the movie. As Marian had expressed more interest in the cover-up than anyone else, Jodi and Art assumed her to be the person to tell, in the hope that she would join them in persuading Frank.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because Art’s conscience was troubling him after he told Marian, so he confessed to Frank what he had done – for Marian’s protection.’ She pronounced the last three words with ominous deliberation. ‘If she were to let something slip to the wrong person, then . . . Well, who knows what might happen to her.’

‘Oh God,’ Matthew groaned. ‘Why hasn’t she told anyone about this?’

‘Both Art and Jodi swore her to secrecy. The only person she was to speak to was Frank. It is a dangerous thing to know, but . . .’

‘But what about Jodi? If she knows, why isn’t she in hiding?’

‘She employs a team of bodyguards to watch over her twenty-four hours a day. Art doesn’t have that kind of money.’

Matthew slumped back in his chair and dropped his head in his hands. ‘Neither does Marian.’

‘Which is why I’m telling you.’

He nodded. ‘Shit!’ he muttered, as he remembered the scene he’d had with Marian after she’d been to see Jodi. He looked at Grace. ‘She did it for me, you know.’ And when Grace looked perplexed, he waved a hand dismissively. ‘She had some notion in her head that I thought she didn’t count for anything, so she went to see Jodi in the hope of getting to the bottom of things, to try and make me change my mind about her.’

‘I see.’ Grace smiled inwardly as she realised that she probably understood a great deal more from that than he did. ‘Well, now it’s only for me to tell you what Olivia was doing. Of course, you don’t have to know . . .’

‘No, no, I do,’ he interrupted. ‘She can’t carry this on her own.’

‘Sure, but it could put you in a position of . . .’

‘Don’t let’s worry about that.’

‘OK. But obviously, once I’ve told you it should go no further. It can’t possibly go into the movie, and we don’t want to put anyone else at risk.’

‘Of course not.’

‘I don’t even know if Marian is at risk, but there’s no point in taking chances.’

He nodded, then he noticed that her expression was changing, and as he listened in growing horror and disgust to what she was telling him, a look of such suffering came over her face that he told her to stop. But she shook her head and went on, pouring out the loathsome exploits of the paedophile club and her daughter’s part in it, as if she were going through some kind of ritualistic exorcism. Images of his own children at that age sprang to Matthew’s mind, and he clenched his teeth against the revulsion and violence he felt not only towards the men who were committing the rapes, but towards Olivia Hastings too. He knew that even if he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand why a girl with parents like Frank and Grace, a girl who had the world at her feet, had ever needed to take the drugs that drove her to commit such atrocities.

By the time she finished, Grace’s face was ashen and her eyes were filled with tears. ‘Frank does everything he can to help the families of the children who died,’ she said, ‘anonymously, of course. And he’s set up a charity for abused children, to make sure that the victims who have been maimed by what happened are helped. But I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. He believes that if he hadn’t frozen Olivia’s money at the bank, she’d never have got into it. But it was my idea to do that, to try and stop her taking the drugs, so if anyone’s to blame it’s me.’

As Matthew looked at her he felt such overriding compassion that he had to swallow hard on the lump in his throat. What could this woman ever have done to deserve such torment? ‘The sins of the children,’ he whispered, and Grace’s answering smile was so tragic it tore right through his heart.

‘Our concern now is for Marian,’ she said, ‘which is why Frank asked me to tell you.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know yet, but one thing’s certain – she won’t be able to come filming with us in New York. But how am I going to explain that to Stephanie?’

‘I think you should bring her,’ Grace told him. ‘She will be safer here, with you and Frank’s people watching over her, than she would in London, alone. The same goes for Italy. Keep her with you, make sure she’s surrounded by people the whole time. We could be over-reacting, but we can’t take the risk. Of course, no one but Frank, Art Douglas, Jodi and ourselves, knows that she has any idea what went on . . . What’s the matter? Did I say something . . .’

Matthew was shaking his head, and a look of foreboding had come over his face. ‘She’s in Italy now,’ he said. ‘She saw Rambaldi yesterday, and she wasn’t in her room when Stephanie called last night. If she’s let something slip to him . . .’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Can I use the phone?’

‘Of course.’ Grace too was on her feet. ‘Use the grey one, it’s a direct line.’

Matthew snatched up the receiver, then remembering he didn’t have the number of the pensione where Bronwen and Marian were staying, he slammed it down again. ‘I’ll have to get the number from Stephanie.’

Grace immediately picked up another phone and pressed a button. ‘Is Frank still with the attorneys, Lydia?’ she enquired, and when she had got the answer she rang off. ‘Stephanie left ten minutes ago, to go back to the hotel.’

Matthew looked at his watch. ‘She won’t be there yet. Look, I think I’d better jump in a cab and get back there myself. Maybe Marian’s left a message.’

‘Sure. I’ll call the front desk and have them hail you one while you’re on your way down.’

After he’d told the driver his destination Matthew sank back in the seat, trying to think himself into a state of calm as the traffic thickened round them, making the journey agonizingly slow. ‘Marian, Marian,’ he muttered, gazing blindly out at the heat-soaked streets, ‘why did you do it?’ But he knew the answer, and his eyes closed as a dreadful premonition swelled through his gut.

After their meeting with Sergio Rambaldi two days ago, Marian had finally managed to get Bronwen back to the pensione where they were staying, near the Pitti Palace, and had put her to bed. Afterwards she had carried her typewriter up to the roof garden to work in the fresh air, careful to position herself in a sheltered corner under the shade of a rose-covered pergola. She had spent the first hour gazing out over the crazy pattern of Florentine rooftops, watching the lizards as they scuttled in and out of the warped sienna tiles, and letting her eyes wander from Brunelleschi’s splendid dome to the long, thin towers of the Bargello and Signoria, then on to the slumbering mountains far in the distance. All the while she was mulling over in her mind exactly how she was going to commit the afternoon’s findings to paper, but for a long time not even so much as a sentence would fuse itself together.

Her stumbling block had nothing to do with what Sergio Rambaldi had said – that she had quite clearly in her mind. What was causing her the problem was Sergio Rambaldi himself. How was she even going to begin to describe a man like that when he had such magnetism, such presence, such . . .? Again the words escaped her, but if she didn’t get it right, how on earth was Matthew ever going to cast someone who could even remotely match up to him? But did such a man exist? She strongly doubted that there could be two men in the world like Sergio Rambaldi; but then, for no apparent reason, Paul drifted into her mind. Yes, in some ways they were similar, she decided, but Paul was blond, and not only that, he wasn’t an actor, so that was of no use at all.

Finally, as a welcome breeze drifted across the garden, she turned to her typewriter, and once she began to type she found the words flowing from her fingertips, and became so immersed in what she was doing that daylight faded into dusk, residents wandered up for pre-dinner drinks and a waiter placed a lamp on the table beside her – but she didn’t notice a thing. It was past midnight by the time she packed up and went downstairs to her room. She dropped off her typewriter, then looked in to check on Bronwen before she attempted to persuade a sandwich out of the kitchen – if indeed there was anyone still there at this hour.

‘Did you speak to Stephanie?’ Bronwen asked when she saw Marian’s straw hat peeping round the door.

‘No,’ Marian answered, coming further into the moonlit room. ‘I’ve been up on the roof. How are you feeling?’

‘To tell you the truth, cariad, I wouldn’t mind too much if I died right now. Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Look, why don’t you let me get you a doctor?’

‘No, no. There’s nothing he can do, I’ve had this before. But there is something you can do.’

‘What’s that?’ Marian asked, perching on the edge of the bed.

‘First of all, you can close my window, I don’t think I can stand the noise any longer. What are they all doing out there at this time of night, it sounds like Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour. Anyway, tomorrow, if I’m not any better, I’d like you to walk round Florence and photograph anything and everything for Matthew. Oh yes, and those records Sergio talked about, maybe you’d . . .’ Her voice was fading, and from the look on her face Marian could see that the effort was too much for her.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Marian said, walking over to the window. ‘Why don’t you go back to sleep now, and if you’re feeling up to it in the morning, I think we should go out to the mountains and carry on our research there. It’ll be cooler, and a lot quieter, and we can always come back to Florence when you’re feeling more like yourself.’

‘Did I ever tell you you were brilliant?’ Bronwen whispered. ‘Mountain air, it sounds like heaven.’

So the following morning Marian organised a taxi to pick them up and drive them the eighty or so kilometres to Paesetto di Pittore. As it was then the middle of the night in New York, and as neither of them knew where – if anywhere – they would find to stay in Pittore, Marian hadn’t called Stephanie back.

As they sped along the main autostrada towards Lucca, Bronwen sat hunched in a corner of the back seat, shivering, perspiring, and cursing the sudden change in the weather. They had woken that morning to a grey, overcast day that had quickly produced a series of thunderstorms.

‘What’s the matter with this country?’ Bronwen grumbled. ‘First of all it frazzles me to a chip, then the next thing I know it’s pissing all over me. I want to go home.’

Knowing that she probably didn’t mean it, Marian smiled and turned to watch the passing scenery, trying to imagine what the undulating hills, olive groves and vineyards would look like on a bright day.

The steady beat of the rain and the monotonous rhythm of the car engine eventually lulled both her and Bronwen to sleep, and by the time Marian woke they were approaching the outskirts of Lucca. Realising that if this weather kept up they were going to need protective clothing, Marian instructed the driver to turn into the town so that she could buy wellington boots and umbrellas. As the car stopped in the Piazza Napoleone, Bronwen stirred. Quickly Marian told her what she was doing and Bronwen somehow summoned the energy to tease her for her indomitable common sense.

‘You go to Pittore, sì?’ the driver asked, as they drove out of Lucca and rejoined the autostrada.

‘Sì,’ Marian answered, running the full extent of her Italian.

The driver nodded, and it seemed only minutes later that he turned the car sharply off the road, and with much grinding of gears and roaring of the accelerator they started to climb a steep, forbiddingly narrow hill. Marian wished he would slow down a little; the rain was sweeping down in torrents, making it difficult to see, and the hairpin bends they seemed to fly past had nothing round them to prevent the car skidding over the edge and plunging into the vineyards below.

‘Pittore, sì?’ the driver said again.

‘Sì,’ Marian confirmed.

‘You know Pittore?’

‘No.’ Marian looked at Bronwen, but she was asleep.

‘You rest there? Tonight?’

‘If we get there,’ Marian gasped, as he took his hands off the wheel and made one of those gestures peculiar to the Italians. ‘Do you know if there is a hotel there?’ She spoke precisely and loudly so that he could understand.

‘Sì, sì. There is piccolo albergo. In the café.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a relief,’ Marian said, assuming albergo meant ‘inn’.

‘You no want to stay at the albergo,’ he said a few minutes later.

Thinking it was a question, Marian said, ‘Yes, we do want to stay there. If there is room.’

‘No. You no stay at albergo. You stay in Camaiore,’ he waved an arm, ‘the town, over there.’

‘Why?’ Marian said, confused.

‘Because Pittore is no good in the night.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In the night there are, how you say, the screams. You hear her scream.’

‘Who?’

‘The girl.’

‘What girl?’

‘The American girl. In the night, she scream.’

Marian’s mouth was open and she stared at the driver in the mirror. ‘You mean, she is there, in Pittore?’

‘Sì. She is there. She scream in the night.’

‘But if she’s there, if you can hear her screaming, why doesn’t somebody help her?’

He answered in Italian; then in English he added, ‘Maybe she is dead.’

‘But if you can hear her screaming . . .’

‘It is the ghost, no?’

‘Oh my God,’ Marian muttered as an icy chill slithered down her spine. Then she remembered how the Italians loved to dramatise, and decided that the story had very probably been invented by superstitious and over-imaginative tourists who had been to the village since Olivia disappeared.

‘You like me take you to Camaiore?’ the driver offered.

‘No, no. Paesetto di Pittore, please,’ Marian told him – then only just managed to swallow a scream herself as the car swerved dangerously to avoid a motor-cyclist coming in the opposite direction. Bronwen woke up then, and Marian recounted what the driver had just told her.

‘Well, I hope he is making it up, cariad,’ Bronwen said, looking gloomily out of the window, ‘’cos this place looks spooky enough without screaming in the night. Just look at those clouds coming in over the mountains. Do you think that’s Pittore over there, in amongst the trees?’

‘Sì, Pittore,’ the driver confirmed.

‘Thank God, because if I don’t get to a loo pretty soon there’s going to be a dreadful accident.’

A few minutes later they drove into the village. It was bigger than Marian had imagined it would be, but nevertheless there were probably no more than thirty cottages scattered over the hillside – most of them nestling amongst the trees on either side of the narrow main street. She frowned, thinking that there was something odd about the place, and then she realised what it was. There wasn’t a soul in sight. And as they inched their way along the cobbled road she gazed at the closed shutters with a feeling that the entire population was watching them from between the slats. Quickly she pulled herself together, and when the car came to a halt beside the deserted café, which was at the far end of the street, she opened the door and got out. ‘I’ll just run in and check they’ve got rooms,’ she said to Bronwen. ‘Wait here. I won’t be long.’

She ran up to the door of the café, shielding herself from the rain with her new umbrella, but the door was locked. She turned back to the car, throwing out her hands as if to say, No good, but she saw that Bronwen was pointing towards the side of the café. Quickly she ran round the corner and onto a wide terrace that jutted out over the mountain, and there she found another door which, thankfully, was open.

Inside, at the opposite end of the café’s sparsely furnished main room, an old woman was sitting beside a great stone fireplace, a string of rosary beads in her lap and a black woollen shawl round her shoulders. Hearing the door open, she looked up, and when she saw Marian, her crinkled, nut-brown face broke into a smile of welcome.

‘Buon giorno, signora,’ she rasped, heaving herself to her feet. ‘Desidera bere qualche cosa?’

Laughing, Marian waved her hands and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian,’ she explained.

The woman stopped dead. ‘You are American?’ And Marian very nearly took a step back at the venom in her voice.

‘No, no, English,’ Marian told her.

‘Ah, sì, Eengleesh.’ The old woman relaxed and was smiling again as she said, ‘You like coffee?’

‘Actually, I was hoping you might have some vacancies. Some rooms. In the hotel – albergo.’

‘Sì, I have room. How many?’

‘Two. Two rooms, that is.’

The woman nodded. ‘How long you stay?’

Marian shrugged. ‘Four days perhaps.’

‘Four days, this is good. My name is Signora Giacomi. I call my husband, he help carry the bagagli.’

Marian thanked her and went back to the car. ‘We’re in,’ she told Bronwen, and dug into her purse to pay the driver several hundred thousand lire. As he drove away he muttered something under his breath, and though Marian didn’t catch what it was, she guessed he was put out because he hadn’t succeeded in frightening her.

Signora Giacomi took one look at Bronwen and marched her straight across the café and up the stairs to an oppressively beamed garret at the back of the house. It smelt of mothballs, but everything was scrupulously clean, and there was even a jar of wild flowers on the small table beside the bed. ‘You are sick, no? I take care, but first you rest,’ she told Bronwen, then turning to Marian, ‘You have the room the other side.’ Leading the way, she took Marian into the next door room which was a mirror image of Bronwen’s.

‘Thank you,’ Marian said, smiling at the old woman and liking her instinctively.

‘You come to have meal with my family in one hour, sì? We have the tripe, a good dish here, but not in your country I think.’

Marian laughed. ‘No, not in my country. But I’ve never had it, so yes, I’ll join you. Thank you. I’m not sure about Bronwen, though.’

‘I make something special for your friend, make her well soon, and I have the cream to soothe the skin,’ and chuckling happily, she went out of the room.

Marian flopped down on the bed, and lay quietly listening to the rain outside. The wind seemed to have picked up too, but she guessed that was because they were so high up. She must have dozed off then, because the next thing she knew there was a tap on her door and Signora Giacomi was calling out that her meal was ready.

When she got downstairs she was surprised to see Bronwen. She was huddled into a blanket by a fire that hadn’t been lit when they first arrived, and sipping from a bowl of hot soup.

‘How are you feeling?’ Marian asked.

‘Better now we’re out of Florence. You should taste some of this, Marian, I don’t know what it is, but it’s delicious.’

‘This is only for the sick one,’ Signora Giacomi informed them as she bustled into the room, carrying a tray of piping hot tripe. ‘Here is for you,’ she told Marian, and as she set the tray down on the table her husband came in, followed by a young man with a thin, dour face, dressed in shabby clothes as though he had just come in from the vineyards, and a woman who looked rather smarter. Signora Giacomi introduced them as her son and daughter-in-law who lived in the village.

The meal passed pleasantly, the tripe was delicious, Marian told the Signora – and she meant it. From her place in the corner Bronwen joined in the conversation – much to Marian’s relief, for Bronwen’s Italian was good and, apart from the old woman, none of the Giacomi family spoke English. It was odd, Marian thought, that neither she nor Bronwen mentioned Olivia, especially since there had been no pre-arranged pact not to do so, but she told herself that it was a sensitive subject and not one to be broached so soon after their arrival.

When lunch was over, Bronwen returned to her room and Marian went off in search of a phone, but all she could find was a battered old contraption in a booth that opened off the café. She sighed wearily; it looked as though it hadn’t been used since the war. Signora Giacomi saw her looking and laughed. ‘You like to make telephone call?’ she said.

Knowing she was about to ask the impossible, Marian made a grimace of apology. ‘I need to call America,’ she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t because the Signora’s face became suddenly hostile.

‘America?’ she repeated. ‘But you say you are Eengleesh.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Marian assured her, ‘but . . .’ She searched her mind for ways to explain, but they all seemed hopelessly complicated. In the end she said that her sister was in New York on business and that she had promised to call to let her know when she was returning to England.

Apparently satisfied with the explanation, Signora Giacomi resumed her cheerful manner, and with a beckoning finger told Marian to follow.

She took Marian into a cosy sitting-room at the rear of the café which Marian assumed to be the family’s private quarters. ‘You like to make call in your room?’ the old woman offered.

‘Yes, if I can,’ Marian answered doubtfully, and then she watched in amazement as the Signora unplugged a modern telephone, carried it upstairs and plugged it into a socket beneath Marian’s window.

Marian laughed at her own stupidity. The village might be ancient, the couple old, but nevertheless both were approaching the end of the nineteen eighties along with the rest of the world, so why shouldn’t they have modern technology? It was just that it seemed so out of place here.

After the Signora had gone she sat in the window seat, curling her legs under her, and picked up the receiver – Stephanie and Matthew were probably just getting up, so she should catch them now. After she had dialled the number she rubbed a circle into the steamy window and gazed out at the mountains, not for a moment expecting to make the connection. There was little to see; thick clouds were now swirling about the village and floating in wisps through the dense foliage that lined the steeply sloping banks of the valley. The village seemed to be even higher up than she had realised, which would account for the sudden drop in temperature. Then, to her astonishment, a voice came over the line announcing the Dorset Hotel. Impressed and amused, Marian gave the number of Stephanie’s room, but the phone rang and rang until the operator intercepted and asked if she could take a message. Marian read out the number on the dial, then spelt Paesetto di Pittore, and hung up, wondering if it would be as easy to call into the village as it was to call out. Well, it doesn’t really matter, she told herself, I can always ring them again later. Then she dashed the tears angrily from her eyes, wondering what in heaven’s name she was crying about – yet knowing the answer, too.

She rested her head on the hard stone wall behind her and closed her eyes. ‘I just wanted to hear his voice,’ she whispered aloud.

‘Whose voice, cariad?’

As she jumped, the phone fell from her lap and clattered to the floor.

‘Oh, no one’s,’ she answered quickly, stooping to retrieve the phone. ‘I was just . . . I was just . . .’ She couldn’t think of anything to say and knew she was in grave danger of bursting into tears.

‘It’s OK, I understand,’ Bronwen smiled. ‘Like I told you before, it sometimes takes a long time to get over a broken heart, and being in a place like this makes you just yearn for the one you love, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Marian said, on a laugh. Obviously Bronwen thought she’d been talking about Paul. ‘Anyway, what are you doing out of bed?’

‘I just came in to see if you’d managed to speak to Stephanie or Matthew yet?’

‘No, not yet. But I’ll keep trying.’

‘Good girl.’ She sat down on Marian’s bed and wrapped her arms round one of the corner-posts. ‘Have you mentioned anything to the Giacomis about Olivia yet?’ she asked.

Marian shook her head. ‘No. To be honest, I don’t think it would be a good idea.’

‘That’s what my instincts are saying.’

‘I made the mistake of mentioning America just now, and the old woman looked at me as if I were the devil incarnate.’

‘Did she? Well, I suppose they must be pretty fed up with people coming round asking questions about Olivia, it must have been going on for years.’

They both thought about that for a while, then Bronwen said, ‘What are you going to do for the rest of the day?’

Marian turned to look out of the window again. ‘Not a lot I can do, really, with the weather like this. I’ve typed up everything from yesterday, I suppose I could go over it again, but I’m still reading the last book in Dorothy Dunnett’s Lymond saga, so I might as well curl up with that.’

‘Lucky you,’ Bronwen said, as she got to her feet. ‘Francis Crawford did things to me no other character in literature ever has. Just wait until you get to the end.’ She sighed rapturously. ‘I think I might read it again one of these days.’

Laughing, Marian said, ‘He reminds me of Matthew in a way.’

‘Does he?’ Bronwen said, turning round in surprise. ‘What, you mean invincible, like?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Well, if Matthew Cornwall is anything like Francis Crawford, all I can say is, our Stephanie is one lucky woman.’ Chuckling quietly, she picked up a sheaf of notes from the chest by the door. ‘This yesterday’s stuff?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I take it, give it a read-over?’

‘Of course,’ Marian answered, surprised, though pleased that she had asked. That was the best part of working for Stephanie and Bronwen, neither of them treated her as though she was a secretary. If anything, they treated her as an equal; both encouraged her to become as involved as they were in the film, and listened to her ideas with the kind of appreciation that made her want to do all the more. Which was why, during the lonely evenings in Chelsea, she had spent her time watching films on the video to get an idea of how they were made. She had watched everything Matthew had done, so many times that she now recognised his style and understood why he was so successful. So it was for him that she was throwing her heart so profoundly into the research, as well as for Stephanie and Bronwen; she wanted him to respect her – which was, she knew, the most she could ever hope for from him . . .

It was well past midnight when she suddenly sat bolt upright in her bed. Sweat was pouring from her skin, and her heart was booming violently against her ribs. She could see nothing, all around her was total blackness, and in a panic she groped for the lamp. But the light that flooded the room did nothing to quell the furore of pounding blood that charged through her veins. The screams. She had heard them, whining, echoing, shrilling through the hills. As if paralysed, she sat listening to the wind outside, to the rain against the windows, straining her ears . . . And then it was there, piercing through the night, a blood-curdling, panic-stricken cry that seemed to surge out of the mountains, tear through the sky, then coil round the house like a lashing whip.

She shot from the bed and ran out to the landing. Everything was in darkness, the whole house was still. She looked at Bronwen’s door, and seeing that it was ajar she pushed it open. The bed was empty.

‘Oh no,’ she sobbed, and in that moment she knew the true meaning of terror.

Then, hearing voices below, she swung round. She listened, trying to make out what they were saying, but she could only hear the muted tones of Signor Giacomi. A door opened, and instinctively she shrank back into the shadows. But then, as she heard Bronwen’s voice saying ‘Grazie, grazie’, she rushed to the top of the stairs.

‘Bronwen!’ she cried.

‘Marian?’ Bronwen looked up. ‘What are you doing out of bed, cariad? It’s almost two in the morning.’ As she came further up the stairs, her face creased with concern. ‘Are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I have,’ Marian gasped. ‘At least, I heard one.’

‘What?’ Turning back to Signor Giacomi, who was staring up at Marian with wide, curious eyes, she gabbled something in Italian, then ran the rest of the way up the stairs. ‘Come into my room,’ she said, and taking Marian’s arm she ushered her over to the bed and sat her down. ‘Here, have a sip of this, I don’t know what it is but Mr Giacomi swears by it.’

‘No, no,’ Marian said, pushing it away. ‘Oh God, Bronwen, it was awful.’

‘What was?’

‘The scream. I heard it, just now. Didn’t you?’

Bronwen shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t hear anything except the wind.’

‘But you must have heard it, it was terrible.’

‘No, I’m sorry, cariad, but . . .’ She laughed. ‘It’s that blasted taxi driver, putting the spooks up you. You had a nightmare, that was all. Honestly, you frightened me for a minute out there, I thought the place was haunted.’

‘It is,’ Marian insisted. ‘Either that, or Olivia really is out there, screaming.’

‘No, no,’ Bronwen soothed. ‘You had a nightmare. It’s not surprising on a night like this. I had a bit of one myself, that’s why I went downstairs to get a drink. Here, have some.’

This time Marian took the mug, and as she sipped the warm spicy brew she felt herself beginning to relax. ‘A nightmare,’ she grinned sheepishly. ‘But, oh Bronwen, it sounded so real.’

‘They usually do,’ Bronwen told her, taking the mug back. ‘Now, this might seem a bit unorthodox, and heaven knows what the Giacomis will think, but would you like to sleep in here with me for the rest of the night?’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Marian confessed.

‘Neither would I, so come on, in you jump.’ And she pulled back the sheets for Marian to get in.

The next morning Marian felt extremely foolish when she woke to find herself in Bronwen’s bed and remembered how she’d come to be there, and she silently cursed the taxi driver for planting the screams in her mind.

‘Signor Giacomi has offered to drive me into Camaiore this morning,’ Bronwen informed her over breakfast. ‘I’ll see if I can pick up a hire car there, it’s a bit isolated out here so I think we need one. Besides, I think we’d better start looking round for an alternative village to shoot in, I can’t see them letting us film here, somehow, can you?’

Marian shook her head.

‘And just to cap it all, it’s suddenly the time of the month for me, so I’ll have to find a chemist and apparently there’s not one here in the village. I wonder how on earth they manage. Do you want to come with me?’

‘I’ll go for you,’ Marian answered. ‘I mean, do you think you should be up and about? It’s still raining out there. And I can drive, though I haven’t done for ages, but the roads aren’t too busy. Besides, the general rule here seems to be, put your foot down and pretend you’re the only one on the road. I think I could manage that.’

Bronwen laughed. ‘The Italian highway code, now there’s a mystery that makes even our own pale to insignificance. But a bit of rain won’t hurt me, it’s not as if I’ve had the flu. Mind you, it felt like it, and worse. No, I’ll go myself, cariad. I can do a bit of asking around about you-know-who as well while I’m there.’

‘OK,’ Marian said, helping herself to more of the delicious hot chocolate Signora Giacomi had just put on the table. ‘I think I’ll take a walk round the village, see what I can come up with here – if anything.’

‘Right you are, and if you hear any screams it’ll be me, flying over the edge of the road.’

Two hours later Marian was wandering back through the main street of Paesetto di Pittore. Her wellington boots were covered in mud and grass from the mountain path she’d strolled along, and her flimsy jacket was buttoned and zipped to keep out the wet. It was mid-morning and the rain had just stopped, but from the look of the clouds it would be a brief interlude.

Again there were no signs of life, and as she looked around she wondered where everyone could be. No one had come to the café the night before, and apart from the Giacomi family she had seen no one. It was as if the village were uninhabited. But then a door opened further down the street, and a portly man waddled out and got into a battered old Fiat. Marian pressed herself against the high wall as he drove past, a ready smile on her face, but he didn’t even glance in her direction. She shrugged. Probably hates tourists, she told herself.

A light drizzle started up again then, and she strolled on until she reached a gap in the wall where she turned in. It was an alternative route to the café that would lead her part way down the mountain, circle round, then up onto the terrace; so, taking care on the treacherous stone steps, she made her way down them, peeking surreptitiously into the windows of the cottages whose battered doors opened onto the steps. She was toying with the idea of knocking on one of them when suddenly she slipped and sat down hard on a jagged stone. Fortunately she managed to hang on to the wooden rail that lined the steep path, and this stopped her falling any further, but she was bruised and winded, so she gave herself a few moments to regain her breath. As she sat there, massaging the ankle that had twisted, she noticed that the clouds were once again thickening menacingly overhead, and then a low rumble reverberated through the eerie silence of the village. ‘Where is everyone?’ She said it aloud in the hope that her own voice would break the ungodly spell that seemed to have invaded the air. But her only answer was the wind, moaning through the trees. ‘I don’t like this place,’ she murmured. ‘Nightmare or no nightmare, it gives me the creeps.’

Then suddenly every nerve in her body spiked and her blood turned as cold as the rain. Something had moved in the bushes, only feet away. She sat very still, listening, then her heartbeat jarred as she heard it again. She turned slowly, on the point of screaming – then, as a chicken broke free of the bramble, fluttering its wings and clucking irritably, she all but choked on her relief. Then pulling herself up she limped on down the steps.

Fat drops of rain dripped from the bamboo canopy over the café’s terrace. The tables looked strangely as though they had been recendy abandoned, but she knew no one had been there. She walked over to the door, but when she turned the handle she found it was locked. She was about to knock when she heard voices coming from inside. They were raised in anger, and she recognised them to be the voices of Signora Giacomi’s son and daughter-in-law.

Naturally they spoke in Italian, so she couldn’t understand what they were saying, but nevertheless she felt uneasy at eavesdropping, and was about to turn away when she heard one of them shriek Olivia’s name. Instantly she was alert, and a sixth sense told her that the argument was not only to do with Olivia, but with her and Bronwen too. Even knowing that it was futile, she pressed her ear to a crack in the door, but several minutes went by during which neither of them said anything she understood. Then, suddenly, she knew that someone was standing behind her. Every muscle in her body tensed, froze, as an icy chill gripped her. She could hear the quiet breathing, so close it could be no more than a foot away. Slowly she started to turn, but before she had a chance to scream a hand closed over her mouth. She sprang back, hitting her head on the wall, and as she looked up at the face looming over her, her eyes dilated with terror and her knees buckled under her.

‘I am sorry,’ Sergio said, ‘it was not my intention to frighten you.’

‘No, no, I understand,’ Marian mumbled.

They were sitting inside the café now, and Signora Giacomi was fussing around them with wine and prosciutto, and from the way she was behaving anyone would think she was in the presence of a deity.

Sergio smiled at her, said something in Italian, and she backed out of the room, bowing and muttering, ‘Sì, signore. Sì, sì.’ Then turning back to Marian, he asked, ‘Are you all right now?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. You startled me, that was all.’

He laughed. ‘More than the snake, you mean?’

Marian shuddered with revulsion as she remembered seeing the tail end of it slither into the undergrowth. ‘I didn’t even know it was there,’ she said. ‘Oh God, what if it had touched me?’ She shuddered again.

‘They are unpleasant creatures, no?’ Sergio said, as he poured wine into two glasses. ‘But there are a lot of them here in the mountains. They are mostly harmless, though.’

‘I don’t care,’ Marian said, ‘I hate them. I don’t even like worms.’

‘Worms? Ah, il verme.’ He laughed.

Grudgingly, Marian smiled, then looking at him curiously, she picked up her wine. ‘If it’s not an impertinent question, what are you doing here?’

‘I come to see you,’ he answered. ‘I have little to do at the Accademia today, so I call your hotel to see if you would like to look at the records. Then I find you have come to Pittore, so I think, maybe I can help some more, so I come here too.’

He was lying. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just did. And he’d been lying when he said he didn’t know the village well, for Signora Giacomi obviously knew exactly who he was. ‘Help?’ she said. ‘You mean, you have more to tell us?’

‘I can think of nothing specific, but if you would like to tell me what you have discovered so far, maybe it will prompt my memory.’

‘As a matter of fact, you’re the only person we’ve spoken to about Olivia since we’ve been in Italy. We’ll be going back to Florence in a few days, and hopefully talking to more people there, but as you are our only source of information so far . . .’

‘I see.’ He nodded thoughtfully, and helped himself to salami. ‘And New York?’ he said. ‘You have completed your research there?’

‘More or less,’ she said, instinctively cautious.

Signor Giacomi came into the room then, but as he was behind her she was surprised when Sergio looked past her and spoke rapidly in Italian. ‘Perchè non mi hà fatto sapere che aveva degli ospiti?’

‘Ho provato, signore, ma lei non ha mat risposto al telefone.’

‘Gli altri ci sono?’

‘Sì, signore, sono già nella bottega.’

Marian looked over her shoulder at Signor Giacomi and wondered what Sergio had just said to him to make him look so edgy.

‘I am telling Signor Giacomi that I am disappointed for you that the weather is not good,’ Sergio explained.

‘Oh, I see.’ Marian smiled and turned back to the old man, but he was no longer there.

‘You were telling me about New York,’ Sergio reminded her, and as his curious eyes seemed to melt into hers, Marian wrested herself from the gaze and looked down at her wine. ‘The script is written for this part of their film already?’ he prompted.

‘Yes. We’re just waiting for final approval from Mr Hastings.’

‘This is very good, no? So soon you will begin to make the film?’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure really.’

‘Is something the matter? Are you unwell?’

‘No, no,’ Marian assured him. ‘I think I’m still a bit shaken by what happened outside.’

‘Ah. Again, I am sorry.’

The urge to look at him was almost overpowering, but she knew that she must avoid his eyes. There was something strange about them, hypnotic, and she was afraid that once they held her she would lose control of what she was saying. Then, to her overwhelming relief, the door opened and Bronwen came in.

‘Ah, Signora Evans,’ Sergio said, and smiling, he got to his feet.

‘Signor Rambaldi?’ Her astonishment was so obvious that it made Marian laugh.

‘You are feeling a little better now?’ he said. ‘Come, sit down and drink some wine with us.’

As Bronwen sank into the chair he held out for her, she shot a look at Marian, but with Sergio standing over them there was nothing Marian could say.

Having heard the door open, Signora Giacomi came into the café and took another glass for Bronwen from a shelf behind the counter. By the time she went out again Bronwen had regained her composure. She said to Marian, ‘I think I’ve found a village, just over the brow of the hill. We’ll take a drive over there later.’ Then turning to Sergio, her jolly expression was suddenly transformed into one of unmistakable lust and she proceeded to flirt outrageously.

Deciding that it would be politic to leave them to it, Marian excused herself, saying she wanted to ring her mother. Signora Giacomi gave her the telephone, which she carried up to her room to make the call in private.

‘Mum, it’s me, Marian,’ she said when she heard her mother’s gentle West Country tones at the other end of the line.

‘Oh, Marian!’ Celia cried, sounding surprised. ‘I thought you were in Italy.’

‘I am.’

‘But you sound like you’re in the next room. How are you, lovely?’

‘I’m all right, Mum. The weather’s not too good, though, but we’ll battle on. I’m really calling to see how you got on with Madeleine. Did you write to her in the end?’

‘Yes, I did. I sent it to that address what you gave me, the one for her agent, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Have you heard anything?’

‘No.’ And Celia’s voice sounded so flat that Marian wished she was there to hug her.

‘Never mind, Mum. I’m sure you will. Maybe she’s out of the country and hasn’t got it yet.’

‘Yes, you might be right.’

There was a pause, and Marian said, ‘Are you all right, Mum? There’s nothing else, is there?’

‘Well, yes, there is, I’m afraid. You see, Mrs Cooper came up the other day and she brought this saucy magazine with her, one of her husband’s, she said it was, and there’s these pictures of our Madeleine in it – well, Marian, I shouldn’t like for you to see them, not really.’

‘Oh Mum, I’m sorry. But Mrs Cooper shouldn’t have shown you.’

‘Yes she should. After all, our Madeleine is my responsibility and now I don’t know what she’s up to. There’s her face always there on the telly, with the make-up and stuff, and she looks so beautiful I feels right proud of her, I do. But then when I saw those pictures . . .’

‘Mum? Are you crying, Mum?’

‘No, no.’ But Marian knew she was, and suddenly her own eyes were full.

‘Look, I shall be in Italy for another week or so, but I’ll come down and see you as soon as I get back. Have you got something to take your mind off things in the meantime?’

‘’Course I have. I’m going down the Legion tonight with Mr Butcher, you know, the man who comes round for the football pools. I still do them for you, Marian, so I might make you rich one day.’

Marian laughed, but because of the lump in her throat it sounded more like a sob. ‘There’s not a new romance blossoming, is there?’ she teased.

‘Oh no,’ Celia cried. ‘He just said he was a bit lonely like, now his wife’s passed on, and did I fancy a drink down the Legion one night. So I said yes.’

‘And why not!’ Marian declared. ‘No getting drunk, mind you?’

Celia chuckled. ‘Drunk! Listen to you, our Marian. When have you ever seen me drunk?’

‘There’s always a first time. Anyway, I’d better ring off now, but try not to worry, Mum, and if anything happens, ring me. I’ll give you the number here, and I’ll call you again when I get back to Florence.’

‘All right, then. I’ve got a pen here, so I’m ready.’

Marian gave her the number, then said, ‘Bye now, and try not to worry too much about Madeleine, I’m sure she’s all right really.’

‘Yes, I ‘spect so. Cheerio then, my lovely, enjoy yourself over there, and keep yourself warm.’

‘I will,’ Marian answered, and she rang off quickly before her mother could realise that she was crying. ‘Oh Mum,’ she sighed, as she wandered over to the bed, ‘why does loving you so much make me want to cry?’ And laughing at herself, she took a tissue from the box beside her bed and sat down to blow her nose.

For a while she toyed with the idea of rejoining Bronwen and Sergio, then decided that Bronwen might not appreciate an intrusion. But though Bronwen was undoubtedly enjoying Sergio’s company, Marian realized that his unexpected appearance in the village was making her distinctly uneasy. His enquiries about New York had seemed innocuous enough, but she was half-afraid that his visit might have something to do with what she had said about Rubin Meyer. But that was nonsense, she’d hardly said anything – at least, nothing coherent enough to draw any conclusions from.

She leaned back against the pillows and stared blindly at the foot of the bed. Art Douglas, Rubin Meyer, Sergio Rambaldi, Olivia Hastings. What was it all really about? She knew about the children in New York, but something had happened after that, and now she was as convinced as Art Douglas that Sergio Rambaldi knew what it was. But how had she managed to become so deeply embroiled in it? Why did she feel that events were moving beyond her control? She wondered about Pittore, why there were so few people around, why Sergio had said he didn’t know the village when she was certain he did. She wondered if she really had heard screams the night before, or if, as Bronwen said, they were part of a nightmare. She remembered then what her mother had said about Madeleine. ‘Our Madeleine is my responsibility and now I don’t know what she’s up to.’ What would Celia say if she knew what she, Marian, was involved in? She would worry herself to an early grave, was the answer – and the thought of her mother dying brought the tears back to her eyes. She was such a wonderful mother, so trusting, so innocent and so warm.

Suddenly the phone rang, and having forgotten it was there, Marian’s heart nearly leapt from her body. ‘God, I’m a bag of nerves since I’ve been here,’ she mumbled to herself as she looked at it. Then remembering it was the only one in the house, she supposed she ought to answer it – though with no Italian she wasn’t going to be of much use to anyone.

She got up from the bed to lift the receiver, then sat back in the window seat. ‘Hello, Paesetto di Pittore albergo,’ she announced, hoping that was the right thing to say.

‘Marian? Is that you?’

‘Matthew!’ And again her heart lurched, but this time it was from pure joy. ‘You got my message? What time is it there?’

‘Ten in the morning. Look . . .’

‘You must have been up early. I called . . .’

‘We spent the night at the Hastings’ house, Stephanie’s gone off to another meeting with their lawyers and I’ve just got back. Now listen, Marian, I need to speak to you.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do I need a pen and paper?’

‘No, I just want you to listen. Are you alone at the moment, or is Bronwen with you?’

She swallowed, wondering what on earth he was going to say. ‘Yes, I’m alone, Bronwen’s . . .’

‘Good. Marian, Grace has told me about Olivia – I mean, everything about Olivia – and she’s also told me about Art Douglas.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Marian said, and her mind was suddenly spinning. ‘I would have told you, Matthew . . . I wanted to . . . I just . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter, my darling, just as long as you’re all right. When we couldn’t get in touch with you I was afraid you might have said something to Rambaldi. You didn’t, did you? Marian? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ she breathed. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘I said, did you say anything to Rambaldi about Rubin Meyer?’

‘Well, yes, I did, but I made a bit of a hash of it and I don’t think he took much notice. He’s here at the moment, downstairs talking to Bronwen.’

‘He’s there, in Pittore? Why?’

‘I’m not sure, really. He said he wanted to help with the research.’

‘Did he?’ There was a pause, but she knew he was still there because she could hear him breathing. Finally he said, ‘Now look, I don’t want to alarm you, Marian, we’re none of us certain about anything as far as Meyer and Rambaldi are concerned, but I want you to make certain that wherever you go, Bronwen is with you. Have you got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if anything untoward happens you’re to ring me straightaway. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Now tell me what’s been happening over there.’

In a state of utter jubilation, Marian told him all about Pittore, starting with the taxi driver who had brought them there, and going on to the screams in the night and how she had ended up sleeping with Bronwen, then to the chicken in the undergrowth, and Sergio, and the snake on the terrace – remembering to spice it all up with gruesome details of the weather. ‘I promise you, Matthew, I don’t think my heart can stand any more shocks,’ she finished, but he was still laughing and she doubted if he’d heard.

‘Sounds one hell of a place,’ he said.

‘Hell being the operative word. It’s really creepy. I honestly won’t be sorry to leave.’

‘Well, we’ll be back there for the film, but you’ll have me to look after you then, so no more snakes or chickens. I’m not too sure about the screams in the night, though; with a film crew around there’ll probably be plenty of them. You’ve gone quiet again, are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ she answered, relieved that he couldn’t see her face. ‘I’m not sure we’ll be able to shoot in this village; they seem to despise Americans.’

‘Yes, that could be a problem. Is Bronwen working on it?’

‘Yes, in fact she may already have found an alternative village. It’s just round the brow of the mountain from here.’

‘Good. When are you going back to Florence?’

‘I’m not sure yet, maybe in a couple of days. Shall I call you before we go?’

‘If you want to. Now don’t worry about any of this, you’ll be all right just as long as you remember not to mention Rubin Meyer. Come to that, tell Bronwen not to, either, and if she asks why, say it’s an instruction from Frank.’

‘OK.’

‘Take care of yourself now, I want to see you back in London pretty soon, we’ll get together then and talk.’

‘OK. Matthew?’ But the line had already gone dead, and she wasn’t sure what she’d intended to say anyway.

She looked out of the window, and laughed as the sun suddenly broke through the clouds and perched haughtily on the mountains – it was as if it was trying to outshine her. But it would take more than the sun to out-dazzle the way she was feeling at that moment. He had called her ‘darling’, he had said he would be here to look after her. She had heard his voice, had listened to him breathing, and she’d made him laugh. You’re as bad as Signora Giacomi, she told herself, behaving as though Matthew’s some kind of god. Well, at the very least he was her protector, but the funny thing was, now she’d spoken to him she wasn’t afraid any more.

Smiling, she got to her feet, then unplugged the telephone and carried it downstairs. She shouldn’t be thinking this way, she knew she shouldn’t, but his voice had sounded so intimate over the phone, as if he really cared about her, and impossible as it seemed, and disloyal to Stephanie as it was, she truly believed that maybe there was a chance he was beginning to feel something for her. Just to think of it sent a thrill shooting through her body – and in its wake a longing to feel his strength embrace her, not only mentally but physically.

With a beaming smile she handed Signora Giacomi the telephone, then wandered into the café to find Bronwen. She was alone, studying a map spread out on the table in front of her.

‘What with you and the sun, I think I’d better dig out my sunglasses,’ she remarked when she saw Marian’s face. ‘I take it your mother’s heard from Madeleine?’

‘No,’ Marian laughed. ‘No, I was just talking to Matthew. Where’s Sergio?’

‘Had some business to do locally, he said, but he’s offered to take us to dinner when we get back to Florence. By the way, very obliging of you going off like that, cariad, leaving me to do my worst.’

‘Never let it be said that I don’t know when I’m not wanted,’ Marian said chirpily. ‘And you a married woman. Whatever next?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Bronwen grinned. ‘Now, what did Matthew say was happening in New York?’

‘I don’t believe it, Matthew,’ Stephanie said as she walked ahead of him into their room at the Dorset Hotel. ‘You say you spoke to Marian, but she didn’t tell you what they managed to get from Rambaldi?’

‘No.’

‘But why didn’t she?’

‘I confess, I forgot to ask.’ He closed the door, and when he turned back it was to find her standing beside the bed, staring at him with bewildered eyes. ‘Then what did you talk about?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Chickens, snakes, and things that go bump in the night.’

Irritation flashed through her eyes as he grinned. ‘Oh, very amusing,’ she said curtly.

‘Yes, it was, actually.’

‘Matthew! I’m trying very hard to remain patient here. Now what did Marian tell you about Rambaldi?’

‘That he was downstairs talking to Bronwen.’

‘And nothing about the afternoon they spent with him?’

‘Nothing.’

She watched as he walked over to the phone and dialled the number for messages, then waited while he scribbled them down.

‘There’s one here for you,’ he told her.

She ignored it. ‘Matthew, what is going on? Only two days ago you couldn’t wait to speak to Marian, and now you have, you tell me you talked about snakes and bumps and God knows what.’ She peered at him suspiciously. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘I told you I loved you last night,’ he teased.

She stamped her foot. ‘Matthew! For heaven’s sake, I’m the producer of this film, so stop playing games with me and treating me as if I’m still you’re PA. And you haven’t told me yet what Grace Hastings wanted to talk to you about, either.’

He strolled over to an armchair and sat down. ‘Olivia, what else?’ he said.

‘I don’t know what else. You tell me.’

‘Characterisation.’

‘Is that it? Characterisation?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll go into more detail if you like, but right now I think you should return that call. It was Eleanora Braey’s agent, and after all, as the producer of this film you should be pandering to our star.’

‘Don’t mock me, Matthew,’ she snapped, but realising she was getting nowhere, she stalked across the room and snatched up the phone.

Making himself comfortable, Matthew picked up the remote control and started to flick through the profusion of TV channels. He wasn’t particularly happy about having to lie to Stephanie, but he couldn’t tell her the truth, so evasion, he’d decided, was the only route open to him. But it had been damned stupid of him, forgetting to ask Marian what she’d got out of Rambaldi, and he couldn’t think now why he hadn’t. But he hadn’t, and as they’d find out what Rambaldi had said soon enough, there was no point in dwelling on it.

He was just getting involved in Oprah Winfrey’s ‘Good News’ show and chuckling as some man turned down his girlfriend’s proposal of marriage in front of twenty million viewers, when Stephanie cried: ‘But the contract’s ready for her to sign! We start shooting in September. No, I know you didn’t know that, but we had an option, right? For Christ’s sake, she’s playing the part of Olivia, we can’t re-cast just like that.’ There was a long pause, then Stephanie said: ‘I see. Well, of course I’m very happy for her’ – which, it was clear from her tone, she wasn’t. ‘OK. Yes, thank you, goodbye.’

She slammed down the receiver, then thumped her fist on the table. ‘Damn! Damn and fucking damn!’

‘Something wrong?’ Matthew asked, not taking his eyes from the screen.

‘Eleanora Braey is pregnant! Five bloody months pregnant!’

‘Oh.’

She swung round. ‘Oh? Is that all you can say? Our star goes down the pan and you say oh.’ She tapped her foot, her pale skin darkening with anger. ‘I’ll sue,’ she declared.

‘Fine.’

‘Matthew, this is serious. Where are we going to get someone else at this short notice?’

‘We’ve got two months. We’ll find someone in that time.’

‘Like who?’

‘Off the top of my head, I don’t know.’

‘Oh, great! She was your choice, you could at least express some disappointment.’

‘I am disappointed, but five months is very pregnant and there’s not a lot we can do about it. Except find ourselves another star.’

‘Oh well, if it’s so easy I’ll leave it all to you.’

‘Good. Now, come and sit down. Better still, get room service to bring us up a couple of gin and tonics.’

‘Matthew!’ Her hands were pressed either side of her head as if she was trying to hold in the frustration. ‘I can’t stand this any longer. What’s got into you? Doesn’t anything I say get through to you?’

‘All of it. Especially when you’re shouting.’

‘I’m shouting because I feel as if I’m going out of my mind. I tell you we’ve lost our star and you don’t bat an eyelid. Grace Hastings asks for a private meeting with you and you won’t tell me what was said. And then you talk to Marian on the phone and don’t find out what’s happening in Italy. What is it with you? Or should I say, what is it with you and Marian? You get back here after that meeting with Grace and the first thing you ask is, has Marian called? Not Bronwen, but Marian – and not a word about what you and Grace have talked about. Then you proceed to ring Italy, every hour on the hour, getting increasingly agitated when you can’t get an answer – and you never once asked for Bronwen’s room, only Marian’s. Then, when you finally speak to Marian, you talk utter gibberish – at least, that’s what you tell me – but over lunch this afternoon you cheerfully inform Frank Hastings that she is your great white hope for the script, with, I might add, a total disregard for Deborah Foreman’s sensibilities. And that’s not all, is it? What about the night you made me call Marian after she’d been out with Woody? You wouldn’t let it drop until I did. So just what is going on, Matthew? Are you falling for her or something?’

‘Come and watch this,’ he said, ‘it’s hilarious. That woman has just informed her boyfriend she’s . . .’

‘Matthew!’ she screeched. ‘Please listen to me. Perhaps I’m sounding hysterical, perhaps I’m paranoid, but you can hardly blame me when you remember what’s happened to us in the past. And now, with all this business with Marian, I’m terrified it’s going to happen again. Please, Matthew, tell me it won’t.’

‘It won’t. Oh, and by the way, now we’ve seen the Hastings’ house I’ve had a great idea for the opening sequence. It involves a helicopter, two cranes and two crews. How does that grab you?’

Stephanie closed her eyes. It was useless, utterly and completely useless. She looked at him again, but he was still watching TV, so she turned on her heel and walked into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he strolled in after her, carrying a gin and tonic in each hand. ‘Feeling a bit calmer now, are we?’ he said, pulling back the shower curtain.

‘Don’t patronise me, especially when I haven’t got any clothes on.’

‘Sorry.’

He put her drink on the washbasin and perched on the edge of the lavatory. ‘Do you really feel so insecure? I mean, about me?’ he asked as she stepped out of the shower.

‘No, I was making it up.’

He nodded and handed her a towel.

‘For God’s sake, Matthew, don’t you ever see yourself the way other people do?’

‘No, I can’t say I do. To be perfectly honest, I’m not too sure how to go about it.’

‘Stop making me laugh, I’m furious with you and you know it.’

‘Yep, I guess you are.’

‘Well, don’t you think I’ve got good reason to be? I mean, first there’s Kathleen, then there’s Samantha, now there’s Marian. Do I figure anywhere in the picture?’

‘Sure. You’re the producer.’

‘God help me, Matthew, I’m going to take a swing at you in a minute. Pass me that body cream behind you and then start psyching yourself up to tell me what the hell’s going on inside your head.’

He picked up the body cream, but instead of handing it to her he held onto it.

‘What now?’

‘I’m psyching myself up, remember? Stop interrupting. Ah, that’s it, I think I’m ready now to tell you what’s in my mind. Yes, yes, I definitely am. Stephanie, will you marry me?’

She stared at him, her mouth half-open, her hand frozen in mid-air. He looked back, his eyes full of irony and the corner of his mouth drawn in a smile. Then he stood up and went to turn the shower on again. She watched him, but said nothing as he removed his clothes; then he picked her up, put her back under the water and got in with her. He looked round for the soap, then he rubbed it between his hands and started to lather her shoulders.

‘Would you like to say that again?’ she whispered, the blood rushing through her veins with the same vigour as the water that cascaded over her face.

‘What’s that?’

She stood aside, so that she was no longer under the water. ‘What you said just now.’

‘Oh, that. I said, will you marry me?’ He looked into her face, but she still seemed to be in a state of shock.

‘Why now?’ she breathed. ‘I mean, what happened?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘I want you to believe that I love you. That Kathleen, Samantha, Marian, none of them figure in the picture, only you.’

She gulped as he pulled her back into the shower, but the soap slipped from his fingers, and as he bent to retrieve it she caught him by the hair and pulled him back up again. ‘I love you,’ she said.

He grinned. ‘You know, I had an idea you might.’

‘And despite the fact that I hate you, I’ll marry you.’

‘Then why not stop talking and kiss me, woman.’

They decided that for the time being they would keep their engagement secret, mainly because of Samantha, but also because there was still the worry of Kathleen – although she had been keeping a low profile of late, if she were to discover their plans then, given the way she felt about Stephanie, she would probably do something to delay the divorce proceedings which she herself had put in motion. However, it didn’t stop Matthew taking Stephanie into Tiffany to buy a ring, which she wore on her left hand when they were alone together, on her right when they were in company. While they were in Tiffany Matthew also bought a trinket for Marian – to thank her for the way she’d handled Kathleen, he explained when Stephanie protested.

The rest of the week in New York was taken up with lawyers, location-finding, deals and casting. Now that the role of Olivia was again open, Judith, the casting director Stephanie had hired just before they left London, flew over to handle the bombardment of young hopefuls. Frank, true to his word, set about fixing the nightclubs they wanted, and he and Stephanie, together with an army of lawyers, went through contracts, clauses and disclaimers until she began to feel as though the whole of life was one big loophole.

Bronwen called from Florence and at last Stephanie found out what Marian had learned from Sergio Rambaldi. ‘And just wait until you see the Scenes she’s written as a result,’ Bronwen enthused, ‘they’re out of this world. We’re going to have to do something about her when we get back to London. I mean, she should be paid for all this work, and credited.’

‘I quite agree,’ Stephanie told her. ‘Where is she now?’

‘In her room, getting changed. Sergio’s taking us to dinner tonight. She didn’t want to come because she knows I fancy him like crazy, but I can’t leave her in on her own, not on such a beautiful night as it is here. Besides, apparently Matthew’s told her she’s got to glue herself to my side.’

‘Matthew told her that? Why?

‘Because he thinks I’m a loose woman, to quote Marian.’

Stephanie burst out laughing. ‘Well, he’s not far wrong, is he? Enjoy your dinner, and see you in London next week.’

When Stephanie teasingly tackled Matthew about his instructions to Marian, he snapped at her and told her to stop bothering him about the girl. He’d been on a short fuse ever since they had seriously discussed the opening sequence of the film. Stephanie had given a categoric no to Matthew’s idea; it involved enormous expenditure, and as far as she could see the shot did nothing to tell the story, it was merely a vehicle for opening credits. She liked straightforward credits, white on a black background.

Not a day passed that wasn’t spiced by a bitter row on the subject. He accused her of having a parochial mind typical of someone from television, and she hit back by reminding him that she held the purse-strings so she called the shots – an unfortunate choice of phrase that sent him slamming out of the room before he became violent.

‘If you wanted the helicopter and cranes for an action sequence, it might be different,’ she told him the next time the matter was raised. ‘What if they don’t have the cranes in New York? We’ll have to get them shipped out from California, and just imagine what that will cost! Plus the extra camera crew. No, Matthew. You heard what Frank said, the budget won’t be increased, and I’ve got to make sure the money’s used where it’s absolutely necessary.’

They were in the art-deco bar of the Dorset Hotel, so Matthew refrained from raising his voice as the place was jammed with media people. ‘Am I going to have to justify every shot of this fucking film?’ he hissed. ‘Is that what you want? Or are you just after my balls?’

Stephanie’s implacable stare began to crack. She kept up the struggle as long as she could, but ended up exploding into laughter.

The irony of what he’d said didn’t escape him, but though he let the matter rest for the time being, he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

‘By the way,’ she said as they rode the elevator up to their room, ‘why did you tell Marian to glue herself to Bronwen’s side?’

‘Stephanie,’ he sighed, ‘just let it drop about Marian, will you? It’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t want another row tonight.’

‘Row? But why should it cause a row?’

‘Because that’s what happens every time you mention Marian’s name.’

Stephanie’s next words died on her lips as she realised that this was true – and it was her fault. Even though he’d asked her to marry him, she was still unable to disentangle herself from the web of unreasonable jealousy and insecurity she’d wound herself into.

Later, as they got into bed, she settled into the crook of his arm and started to curl her fingers through the hair on his chest. ‘I’m very fond of Marian, you know,’ she told him in a quiet voice.

‘Yes, I know.’

She looked up at his face and he bent his head to kiss her. ‘And I’m sorry,’ she said afterwards.

‘What for?’

‘Because she called this morning and left a message for you to ring her, and I didn’t pass it on.’

He threw her aside. ‘She called me this morning and you’re only telling me now?’

She flinched as his arm shot past her, reaching for his watch. ‘Matthew, for God’s sake, why are you so angry?’

‘I’m angry because of your damned jealousy,’ he said through clenched teeth, and throwing back the covers, he got out of bed.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Down to reception to ring her,’ he answered as he pulled on his jeans.

‘But why can’t you do it from here?’

‘I just can’t. Now leave it at that, will you?’ And before she could say anything else, he slammed out of the door.