Chapter Six #2
He couldn’t bear the thought of confronting Olivia when she got back to the hotel.
He didn’t want to spoil the magic they’d shared there.
He was a ferocious adversary in court, but when it came to his private life, he shied away from any kind of conflict.
The thought of telling her what he’d seen, and demanding an explanation, was anathema.
He would simply take himself out of the picture.
Back at the hotel, he packed his carry-on case as quickly as he could and scribbled a note.
He couldn’t bear to look at her things, scattered around the room: her hairbrush, her nightdress, the paperback she was reading – The Glassmaker, by Tracy Chevalier.
Her bookmark showed she was three-quarters of the way through.
He pictured her next to him in bed in her pyjamas, her glasses on the end of her nose as she raced through the pages wide-eyed, completely absorbed in the story.
Her perfume bottle was on the dressing table – the scent lingered as if she were in the room with him.
He snapped his case shut, tucked his passport inside his jacket, and left.
Rebecca tailed Marcus expertly through the crowds as he left the square and slipped into a street in the far corner.
She followed him as far as the wooden bridge near the Accademia, where he climbed to the top, stopped for a moment as if he was going to join the crowds of youngsters snapping the idyllic view of the Grand Canal, then doubled back on himself.
As he passed her, she turned too, keeping him in her sights as he dived down another side street.
She was thinking on her feet as they made their way through the throngs.
The final part of the conversation between Olivia and Marcus had made her heart beat faster.
What was she going to do with this information?
It altered things dramatically. A valuable painting, lying in a shop where no one knew its worth?
Her old instincts kicked in, and she heard her father’s voice in her head.
He had always taught her three things.
‘Information is power. Observation – of other people and their behaviour – is power. Combine that with balls, sweetheart, and you’ll get on in life. Balls, front, chutzpah – call it what you like. But it’s a winning combination.’
There was no way she could get to the shop before Marcus, because she didn’t know the city. But he would lead her to it. She just needed to keep her wits about her, and stay one step ahead.
Olivia sensed something was wrong as soon as she walked into the hotel.
The receptionists exchanged glances as they saw her come in, but they smiled brightly and wished her a good afternoon.
She ran up the sweeping staircase and along the corridor to their room.
When she opened the door, she was surprised not to see him.
She’d expected him to be at the little desk by the window in front of his screen, his earphones in, wrapping up the meeting.
But the room was empty. And silent. As she took off her coat, she looked around, prickling with unease.
There was no sign of him at all. No iPad.
No shoes. No jacket. No bag. Just her things, scattered around.
And then she saw it. A note on the desk.
Dry-mouthed, she picked it up to read it.
I guess I wasn’t the right man for you after all. But it was a dream honeymoon, Seagull, and I’ll never forget it. I’ve left my credit card details with the desk – charge whatever you want to the room. Bye bye love C x
For a moment, Olivia thought she was going to be sick as she tried to work out what on earth had led him to write this.
He must have seen her and Marcus together, somehow, and got the wrong idea.
Poor, darling Christopher – how horrible.
She could feel her chest tighten with panic.
She should have told him her plan, should have put him in the picture right from the moment she’d spotted Marcus in the gallery, but she’d never told him about that summer.
She’d never felt it was an important part of her history when they were sharing those intimate bits of themselves early on, as they got to know each other.
She hadn’t wanted to let that time in Paris define her, so she had left it out.
Being confronted with it at the gallery had reignited her rage, for she was older and wiser and could see Marcus for what he was: someone who preyed on the vulnerable and took what he wanted from them. She hadn’t been able to resist the chance to turn the tables on him.
But at the cost of her marriage? Revenge wasn’t worth that.
She dialled Christopher’s number with shaking fingers as she fled the room and ran down the stairs, but it went straight to voicemail.
Her voice sounded high, strangled, as she left a message.
Ring me. Please. It’s not what you think. She ran to the reception desk.
‘Can you get me a water taxi? To the airport? Straight away? Thank you.’
The shop Marcus went into made Rebecca’s mouth water.
It was full of things she would love for her own home – if she had her own place one day.
It was easy to browse amongst the shelves, imagining what she would buy if she could afford it.
And all the while, she had one eye on Marcus, who had reassured the woman who owned the shop that he was just looking.
He wandered amongst the shelves casually, before heading to the back of the shop.
After a few minutes he approached the till holding a small painting.
‘I’d love this, as a present for my wife. It’s perfect.’
‘Of course,’ said the woman. ‘Let me wrap it for you.’
Rebecca waited while the transaction took place, and as Marcus left the shop, she headed for the door too.
‘Complimenti,’ she said hastily to the owner, to indicate that she loved what she was selling. She vowed she would come back one day, but for now, she had other business.
It was easy to overtake Marcus, then manufacture bumping into him. She’d taken off her beanie, to make herself more recognisable from the day before, but also to make sure he didn’t remember her from the café. He looked alarmed as she touched his arm, as if she’d caught him off guard.
‘Oh, hello!’ she said, feigning delight. ‘I was on your tour yesterday. It was fascinating. Honestly, you’ve opened my eyes.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, unable to resist her compliments.
‘You’ve made me look at paintings in a different way.’ She put a hand to her heart. ‘I feel a whole new level of depth. I wondered if you could recommend some further reading?’ She widened her eyes. ‘Maybe you’ve written a book yourself?’
He laughed. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But you speak so knowledgeably. And passionately.’ She gazed at him in awe. ‘You should have a TV series. You look the part.’
‘Oh, I think I’m too old.’ He tried to look modest.
‘Not at all. You’re very distinguished.’
‘Well, thank you. And I can certainly recommend a few books.’
‘Maybe over a drink this evening?’ she said boldly, remembering the third weapon in her father’s armoury.
He hesitated, then smiled. ‘Why not?’
‘Perhaps you could suggest somewhere? I’m sure you know all the best places.’
He gave her the name of a bacaro near the Rialto.
‘Enoteca al Volto. We can have an aperitivo and some cicchetti.’ His Italian accent was unnecessarily exaggerated.
‘This place is good. It’s not full of tourists.
You will love it.’ He took a quick glance at his watch.
Rebecca smiled to herself. She knew a Cartier knock-off when she saw one.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to dash. But I’ll see you later, yeah? Ciao.’
‘Look forward to it.’ She watched him as he hurried over the bridge, his parcel under his arm.
Information. Observation. Balls. It was going to be a fun evening.