The Venice Sketchbook(29)

“May I kiss you?” he asked. “I should like to say goodbye properly.”

“I think saying goodbye properly would involve shaking hands.” I gave a shaky laugh.

“Well then, I should like to say goodbye improperly.” He laughed, too.

And without waiting, he took my chin in his fingers and drew me towards him. His kiss was incredibly gentle—the merest brushing of his lips against mine. He moved away, looking at me almost angrily, then suddenly grabbed my shoulders, pulled me close and kissed me again. This time his mouth was demanding, crushing against mine, and I didn’t try to resist. I could feel his heart thudding against mine through the flimsy dress.

At last we broke apart.

“I should go. I can’t be late.” I found it hard to get the words out. I had a horrible suspicion that I might cry if this went on any longer, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

He nodded. “Yes, you should go. I should go, too. Goodbye, Julietta. I hope you have a beautiful life.”

“And you too, Leo.”

He nodded, reached out to put two fingers on to my lips, then walked away at a great pace.



“Back in good time, I see, Miss Browning,” Miss Frobisher said as I entered the room.

“Yes.”

“A successful evening, I hope?”

“Very pleasant. I heard the updates on his family, and the meal was delicious.” I turned away and stared out of the window into the blackness of the street beyond.





CHAPTER 11


Caroline, England, October 2001

“I must need my head examined,” Caroline muttered as she stared at the clothes she had laid out on her bed. She had taken holiday leave from work, moved in with her grandmother in time for Aunt Lettie’s funeral, helped her to go through her great-aunt’s things. In truth there was not much either of them wanted to keep. The clothes were hopelessly old-fashioned and too large for Granny. There were indeed a couple of good pieces of jewellery from Victorian times—a gold brooch studded with small diamonds and a heavy gold bracelet, neither of them Caroline’s taste. “I suggest we sell these if you don’t want them,” Caroline said.

Granny smiled. “When do I ever have the opportunity to wear a gold brooch these days? No, let’s put the money towards Teddy’s education.”

“I’m going to make sure Josh pays for that,” Caroline said bitterly. “It’s the least he can do.” Then she paused, correcting herself. “No, I don’t think I do want his help after all. I want to forget about him. I just want my son home with me. That’s the only thing . . .” She broke off, turning away from her grandmother to hide the tears.

“We’ll get him back, don’t you worry,” Granny said gently.

“But how? What chance do I have against the millions of that Desiree person?”

“You may find that she is the type of person who will soon lose interest in another woman’s child,” Granny commented.

Caroline met her gaze and managed a little smile.

“Come on. Let’s get his room ready for him,” Granny said, taking Caroline’s sleeve. “That will make you feel better.”

It was good to be busy and positive. Teddy would love having more room to himself, to have a window that looked out on a bird feeder and a great big lawn to kick his football around. Then, at Granny’s urging, Caroline had bought herself an air ticket to Venice. What did one pack for Venice in October? What if it rained all the time? And what would she do there after she’d seen the art galleries? She hadn’t known that Great-Aunt Lettie had once studied art. Had she, too, dreamed of being an artist, just like Caroline? What had I wanted? she asked herself. She had been good at art in school but had gravitated towards fashion design, seeing it as a way to rebel against the strict rules of her boarding school—and a way of actually earning a living as an artist. After years of working on the periphery of the fashion industry, she had come to realize the whole thing was an underhanded attempt to force women to keep buying clothes. Fast fashion had taken over. Topshop, H&M, Primark. What was in would be out in a month.

Josh had loved haute couture, to be outlandish and to shock. She realized that he had been dying inside, trapped in high street fashion, designing white T-shirts, and she felt a flicker of understanding for him. But not enough to forgive him for what he had done.

“You’ll see, Josh Grant,” she muttered. “You’ll see that I’m not sitting around waiting for you to jerk the strings and play me like a puppet. How will you feel when you know I’ve gone off to the Continent without you?”

She hoped this speech would give her some satisfaction, but it didn’t really. She realized that she didn’t care if Josh stayed with Desiree and her mansion in Beverly Hills. All she wanted was her son, safely home again with her.

She telephoned Josh to tell him she’d be going abroad for a while.

“What do you mean, ‘going abroad’?” His voice sounded sharp, wary.

“Exactly what I said. I just wanted you to know that I’ll be out of the country for a while, should you need to call me. Granny will have my phone number when I’m settled.”

“Settled? You mean you’re moving abroad?” Now he sounded quite rattled.

“No, just going on a mission,” she said.