Chapter 9
9
The make-up woman had been and gone. Natalie paced the entrance hall, catching sight of her newly sculpted face in the extravagantly framed, Venetian mirrors. According to Lucia, Cate was aboard the taxi-boat; all had gone smoothly. Natalie could only hope the same was true of what was going on in the Red Room where a second camera crew, sound technician and assorted burly men carting cables, reflective panels and other paraphernalia about had made it clear her presence was undesirable. She had to trust them to know their jobs but it was hard to concentrate on memorising her opening lines when raised voices, thumping, banging and something that sounded worryingly like a box full of broken crockery being scraped across the palazzo’s polished floor emanated from the other side of the wall.
She stepped out into the corridor. The door closed with a click behind her. She took the steps that led to the upper floor. Taking a closer look at the ancestors whose portraits she had seen this morning might help while away the time until the taxi-boat pulled alongside the landing stage. She strolled the corridor, admiring the oils: a previous Count Vicenzi, splendid in a red dressing gown, a spaniel at his feet; a long-deceased great, great aunt, hair coiled and powdered, reflected in a looking glass.
It was no use; Natalie was still feeling jumpy. It was all very well Floella telling her she could pull off her audacious attempt to step into Mandy’s shoes but when it came to the countdown to Cate’s arrival, Natalie felt as helpless as the weak-looking kitten in the corner of the portrait in front of her. Somehow, she had to channel her inner Mandy Miller and make this work. So much was at stake. And she didn’t want to disappoint her mum and dad either. They were so excited about the prospect of watching her ‘on the box’ in their little retirement flat down in Devon.
She wished she knew what Cate looked like. Natalie’s email to Bettany reminding her to send over the missing file of photos had received only a bounce back telling her Flo’s PA was out at an industry event, and there had been no point bothering the girl again at this late stage, when she’d be seeing Cate in real life soon enough.
It didn’t feel right snooping about in the Gold Room where the couple would be staying. Instead, Natalie opened the door to the eau-de-nil bedroom and strode towards the full-length windows. A taxi-boat was approaching the peach and gold poles outside the palazzo, the driver turning the prow towards the landing stage. They were several minutes early; at any moment, Cate would enter the building. It was too late for Natalie to descend the stairs without colliding with the film crew. She’d have to wait up here, chancing that she chose the right moment to make her entrance.
Of course! How could she have forgotten? She crouched down at the edge of the patterned runner and rolled it back. She removed the diamond-shaped stone. Peering through the grill in the bedroom floor, she could see right down onto the Red Room’s dazzling terrazzo floor. Now she would be able to check everything was in place before she descended.
Lucia’s disembodied voice floated upwards, giving the camera crew last-minute instructions. Someone outside Natalie’s field of vision was entering the room below.
‘Welcome to Venezia!’ The housekeeper, Nunzia, stepped forwards, holding out a flute of Prosecco on a silver tray, exactly as they had rehearsed.
An elegant arm encased in a toffee-coloured jacket reached forward, taking the glass in a manicured hand. Natalie could see the top of her contestant’s white-blonde hair.
‘Thank you, grazie . I am so happy to be here.’
A cold hand crept up Natalie’s spine. That voice. It sounded just like her ex-school friend, Cathy. A posher version, but even so. But it couldn’t be. Scruffy little Cathy couldn’t have bagged a millionaire husband whose high-class, handmade furniture was rumoured to grace the private bedrooms at Buckingham Palace.
Natalie crouched lower; she was almost lying down now, getting as close to the metal grill as she could without imprinting a geometric design on her forehead. She narrowed her eyes. Her old classmate’s features came into view. Cate Beresford and Cathy Laidlaw were one and the same. There was no mistaking it.
‘What beautiful frescoes!’ Cate’s head tipped back; her brown eyes stared straight up at the ceiling.
Natalie froze but the hidden spy grill was well concealed in the dense foliage surrounding the fresco’s dancing nymphs. Her heart was racing; beads of sweat prickled on her cleavage. She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. How could she cope with meeting the woman whose betrayal had started the chain of events that had wrecked her life? But she had no choice. Lucia would be consulting the time, glancing at the double doors, wondering where Natalie had got to. If Mandy Miller could smile her way through the agonies of endometriosis, Natalie could play the professional. She would walk tall and greet Cathy – oops, Cate – without batting an eyelid.
Natalie stood up and smoothed down her dress, thankful she hadn’t worn linen. She tiptoed across the room, opened the door to the upstairs corridor and crept down the stairs, shoes in hand. Slipping into the library adjoining the Red Room, she steadied one arm on the back of a low sofa to put on her heels.
She squared her shoulders, flung open the double doors and advanced on her old school friend, head held high, arms stretched out. Their eyes locked. Cate took a step backwards. Natalie stepped forward. She swept Cate into a warm, Mandy Miller-style hug.