‘But exhausted. That can be just as deadly.’
He felt the weight of her concern, her caring, and sighed. ‘I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Valerie.’
She watched him drive away, and he felt those dark eyes burning through his skull. One day he would have to do something about her. She was his right hand, he needed her, but she knew too much about him and never took her eyes off him day and night. He had to get rid of her. The question was: when and how?
It wasn’t until the start of December, after Laura had finished work on the thriller, that Sebastian sent her a new version of the script. She recognised the name on the front, that of a screen-writer with a high reputation, who commanded equally high fees. He was worth his money: the script was now faster, clearer, with shorter scenes and half the dialogue; a cinematic script that let the camera do a lot more of the work, and Sebastian had taken up her suggestion of a narrator, which gave the script an added depth, an elegiac feel that echoed the original book.
Two weeks later Sebastian rang her. The sound of his voice on the line made her heart turn over, but if hers affected him he didn’t show it.
‘Hi, Sebastian here,’ he said tersely. ‘Get the script?’
‘Yes—’
‘Read it? What did you think?’
‘It’s brilliant! What a difference! He’s terrific, Jack Novotni. I was riveted all the way through.’
Sebastian came in again before she had finished speaking, the way people do when they’re phoning from the other side of the world, an echo behind them.
‘He was the first writer I approached but he was too busy with other projects. Luckily, one fell through and he suddenly had a few weeks free so I snapped him up at once. I think he did a marvellous job, too. So, will you play Bianca?’
‘Yes—’ she began, and was interrupted again, before she could hedge her agreement with the proviso that he had to talk to Melanie first.
‘Good. This film is going to be important – for both of us.’ A pause, then he asked, ‘What are you doing over Christmas?’
‘What I always do. I’m going home. We always have a big family Christmas. What are you doing?’
‘Working, I’m busy editing at the moment – this film’s a pig to cut. I’ll probably have a nice quiet Christmas Day here, in my beach-house. A California Christmas, very different from yours.’ Then he said, ‘But the really good news is that I’ve got the money and we’re all set. I’ll be talking to that agent of yours tomorrow.’
Within a week, Melanie had had a meeting with the contract manager of Sebastian’s film company, who flew to London to talk to her and hammer out an agreement. Laura signed in early January, and was told that she would be needed in Venice within five weeks.
‘So soon?’ She was startled: that gave her a such a short time to get used to the idea of working with Sebastian again.
‘Apparently, all the pre-prod stuff is done, they’re ready to go. They’re shooting some key scenes during the Venice Carnival, and they have to have you there.’
‘And after that?’
‘The entire crew moves back to Los Angeles to finish the picture in the studio.’ Melanie shivered dramatically. ‘Brrr! Venice in February – Don’t ask me to come this time. You’ll need lots of warm clothes, and don’t forget your wellies! St Mark’s Square will be under water, even if it isn’t snowing. It’s amazing the place hasn’t sunk altogether.’
Venice, 1998
The snow started during the first week of February, a few days before the film crew were due to arrive. The Contessa stood at the high windows of Ca’ d’Angeli, watching great white flakes blowing past in the keening wind, dancing in the air, blinding her so that she could not see the snow-encrusted roofs on the other side of the Grand Canal.
It was so cold that she was wearing a woollen vest under her black dress and two thick cardigans over it. They still used open fires to heat the great, barn-like rooms because they’d been advised that central heating could cause serious damage: it would dry out the medieval wood, opening great fissures, and might make the marble crack.
In weather like this the only way she could keep warm in the evenings was to sit hunched over the fire with a rug over her knees. During daylight hours she kept busy, and there was always plenty to do, especially since Nico had insisted on letting Ca’ d’Angeli to Sebastian.
The Contessa and the servants had been hard at work from morning to night getting the house ready for the invasion. They were leaving the tapestries and furniture in place since Sebastian wanted the atmosphere of the palazzo to be intact during the filming, but everything breakable or particularly valuable had been hidden away upstairs in locked rooms or in a bank vault. The Contessa saw no reason why she should risk having one of her beloved possessions broken or stolen, however much the film company were paying and however good the insurance. Money would not compensate her for the loss of something she loved.
Most of the film people were staying in small hotels nearby, but Nico had invited Sebastian and Laura Erskine to stay with them, which was something else that was preying on the Contessa’s mind.
She was his mistress, obviously: the whole world believed it. Would they do it under her roof, in the bedroom Nico had picked out for the girl, overriding all protests, all pleas?
No, no, she must have that room, the best in the palazzo, the maste
r bedroom, Nico had said. That red hair of hers would burn like a forest fire among the green and gold of the bed-hangings, the tapestries, the floor-length curtains.
The Contessa ground her teeth, a jagged, icy pain inside her, a pain that had been with her for many years. Was the anguish and humiliation never to end?