The Invitation(86)

He leaves the room.





Her


After he has gone, I sit for a long time on the bed, thinking. It would be an act of madness, exactly as I told him. But I wonder if he saw how I was pulled towards it, this idea of his. I am, even now. It would mean starting again, rewriting myself. The prospect excites as much as it terrifies. It is what I did in Madrid. That, though, was an act of survival. The necessary thing. But the last time I did it, I was so young. I was still a child. I had even less to lose. I had nothing, in fact – except myself.

*

Hal sleeps badly. He tries telling himself that it is for the best, that it would only have caused complications. This way will be cleaner. The problem is that the future, without her in it, appears less complete. If none of this had happened, he might have been content – or as near to it as possible.

And then he sees the door opening.

‘Explain it to me again,’ she says, coming towards him, ‘how it would work.’





PART FOUR





34


It is the Contessa who sees her first. ‘Ah, la mia barca!’

All turn to see. And there she is: the distinctive shape of the sails, gleaming like silver in the morning light, the twin masts good as new.

She gains upon them all too quickly, growing from a speck to a toy yacht to the real thing, and Hal watches in trepidation, as one might the approach of an advancing enemy. This only increases when the yacht is close enough for him to see the figures on deck. Truss is talking to Roberto at the stern.

‘Ah,’ the Contessa says. ‘But of course. Roberto must have picked him up in Genoa. How sensible.’ Yet she does not seem overly pleased at the sight of him.

Hal glances at Stella, and finds her looking at him, her expression unreadable. Is she slipping a little away from him? Is her resolve already becoming muddied? He will have to trust her: there is nothing else. Out of sight, below the wall, he brushes his hand against hers. He feels her fingers thread through his, and grip them, briefly, before she moves them away.

A couple of hours later, sitting on the deck of the Pygmalion once more, with the castle lost to view, the events of the last couple of days become yet more unreal. Hal cannot help but notice that both Stella and Truss have disappeared. He tries not to pay it any attention, not to let those thoughts take root in his mind. In only a few days’ time they will be alone together once more. Now they cannot risk suspicion. Naturally, for the time being, she must play her part.

They will leave when they reach France – during Cannes. Of course there are doubts. The important thing, he thinks, is that none of them are powerful enough to change his mind.





35


San Remo


A place of blowsy splendour: sea-front phalanxes of tall palms, orange trees laden with ripe fruit, the wedding-cake grandeur of the Casino and the Russian Orthodox church.

‘It is a little vulgar,’ the Contessa says to Hal, joining him at the bow. ‘But that is the French influence, naturally.’

‘Of course. God forbid the Italians are ever ostentatious on their own.’

She laughs. And then, suddenly, she grows serious. He hasn’t seen her like this yet.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘Be careful, Hal.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, carefully.

‘I know it is easy to believe that we elderly ones see less, because our eyesight may not be as clear as it once was. Or that we feel less; that the passion is withered up in us. But we have seen more of everything, because we have lived longer. Because of it, we are perhaps better able to read certain signs. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘I’m not sure.’

She frowns. ‘Will you make me say it out loud?’

‘No,’ he says, too quickly, suddenly fearful. ‘No, don’t do that.’

‘So it is true.’ She smiles. ‘I am pleased for you, Hal. You deserve that happiness.’ She lowers her voice. ‘As does she. That is why I am telling you to be careful.’

There is a moment of pure pantomime outside the Casino. Giulietta, garbed in gold shantung silk, ascends the steps like a queen. Earl Morgan acts as her escort – and there is a delicious moment when, not recognizing him, one of the waiting photographers calls for him to stand aside. Flashbulbs explode about her. The Casino’s president rushes down the steps and, at a loss in the face of such a spectacle, bends at the waist in a deep bow. Giulietta acknowledges him with a regal nod.

Inside they are each presented, ceremoniously, with a bag of chips. Hal looks about him and sees, to all intents and purposes, a palace – or perhaps a temple to some ancient god. The light from the chandeliers spills upon gilt and stone, red velvet and chrome.

Truss, he sees, is not given a bag of chips. Aubrey Boyd asks him why.

‘Oh,’ he says, with a smile. ‘I don’t gamble.’

‘Ah – you are afraid you’ll lose?’

‘I prefer to choose not to leave anything to chance. There is such a thing as making one’s own luck.’ He turns to Hal, and says, ‘And yet I think I can see you as a gambling man, Mr Jacobs. Would that be a fair assessment?’

‘No,’ Hal says, keeping his tone light. ‘On my salary it wouldn’t be a wise hobby to adopt.’ He is aware of the man’s eyes on him. Does Truss mean something specific by it, or is it merely another attempt to diminish him? It is impossible to tell.