Chapter Thirty-Three
Olivia made her way up to the roof. Led by Felicity and Valentina, the others had gone into the arcade wing to look at some other exhibits, while Olivia had gone to the bathroom, so she didn’t think anyone would be up there yet.
But as she emerged on to the roof – a high, flat lawn, bordered by those dwarf hedges, overlooking the city – there was Leo.
He was perched on one of the low bordering walls and he was talking on his phone.
Olivia stood on the threshold for a while, watching.
Leo was chatting animatedly. Smiling. The occasional laugh.
His words were carried away on the breeze to the canal beyond, so she could not decipher them.
Was he talking to the same woman as before?
When the call was finished, he placed his phone in his jacket pocket, pulled his orange notebook from his satchel to his lap and started scribbling in it, the curl of the damaged spine resting on his thigh, the press of the loose sheets tucked inside, just visible.
‘Hello.’ She had walked over.
He looked up. ‘Hello.’
‘I thought you were still downstairs.’
‘I came up.’
‘What are you doing?’
The terrace had a blazing patio heater stationed in each corner and the one by Leo gifted a mellow glow to the side of his face, like he was in candlelight.
‘Making a list,’ he said. ‘Ideas for a new book.’
‘Murder at the Guggenheim?’
Above them, the grey clouds of hovering dusk were readying to make themselves disappear into the night. The rooftop was an amber glow against soft grey; a platform from which to enjoy the pretty lights of Venice, coming on one by one.
‘Something like that,’ Leo replied. ‘A murder in a museum could be really interesting, I think.’
‘What sort of things do you have on your list?’ She sat now, as she wanted to see.
‘Fish out of water, artsy people. A stolen sculpture,’ he said, showing her his open page. ‘White space. Cool marble. Moneyed accents. I’m thinking one, maybe two, murders,’ he added. ‘A beautiful stranger.’
‘That’s a great list,’ she said. ‘And always a good idea to have a beautiful stranger.’
‘Yes, I think so. It’s a starting point, at least – something to work from.’ He frowned, scribbled something else at the bottom of the list: ‘The local mayor. Do you still write little scenes wherever you go?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She thought of the scene her godmother had discovered, now in her bag.
‘Written any since you’ve been here?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you show anyone these days what you’re working on? Before anything goes to your agent, I mean?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I used to have someone who was really good at reading for me. But these days I just rely on myself.’
They stared at each other. She liked the play of shadow on his face. The light in his eyes, eyes staying on her for far too long. He looked like he was about to say something, but then voices sounded.
‘Ah. Here they come,’ he said.
The other authors and Meryn and Tanya were wandering out on to the terrace, Claire and the curator, Sofia, close behind, with three interns.
Then the mayor, Beth and the Italian book bloggers.
Between them, they were carrying small crates of champagne, wobbling trays of glasses.
They wore jackets over dresses. Shawls wrapped over shirts.
The mayor was wearing a mohair trench coat over his suit.
Tanya held a speaker; she set it up in one corner and attached it to her phone. The lull and lilt of Andy Williams singing ‘Music to Watch Girls By’ drifted over the roof and up into the sky. They talked in clusters in the glow of the patio heaters under a night sky, silver and gold.
The light was ambient, the music timeless: the sugar-crusted smoothness of the old crooners – Sammy Davis Jr, Burt Bacharach, Tony Bennett; the husk of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.
The interns disappeared and returned with a tray of bellinis and a picnic basket of mini savoury tarts: mozzarella and basil, smoked salmon and crème fraiche, prosciutto and honeydew melon.
Then hot soup from a nearby trattoria – minestrone – in pretty bowls and huge soup spoons.
And Meryn’s wife, Junie, appeared, fresh from Milan, to much delight and hugs all round.
She brought Disaronno and a bag with shot glasses in, releasing more delight.
And Tanya started singing along to Billie Holiday in a startingly high voice, and everyone stopped to listen.
Always, Olivia was aware of Leo. Where he was, who he was talking to, what he might be thinking as he sipped his liqueur.
The music changed to something more up-tempo.
The Mavericks – ‘Dance the Night Away’, and spirits were high enough, this Venice night, for shouts of ‘I love this one!’ and a spot of swaying to turn into a dancing circle of people with lit-up faces up there on the roof.
And among them danced the living ghost of Gillian Goddard, lighter than air.
Leo was singing along, full of energy and gusto, his two left feet entertaining them all. Olivia tried not to recall another evening in Italy when they had danced, and she’d thought – mistakenly, once again – there might be another chance for them to be perfect.
‘Hey, Leo!’ Tanya was waving to him. ‘Can you help me with something?’
‘What’s the trouble?’ Leo’s face was flushed. Olivia’s heart was way too full.
‘Sofia the curator needs a chair. A proper one, not just the edge of the roof. There’s one down in the office – would you be OK to go and get it?’
‘Sure,’ said Leo. ‘Give me a minute.’ He turned to her. ‘Want to come with me, Olivia?’
‘Me?’
‘Could you? I might need a hand.’
‘OK,’ she replied before she had even thought about it at all.
The gallery was now only dimly lit. The interns had placed the hessian covers on the paintings; the sculptures cast soft shadows on the floor. Inside the office, one small lamp in the corner illuminated the ordered space.
‘This one?’ Leo gestured to the only chair in the room. It was cream, and button back.
‘I guess so,’ Olivia said. She was not sure what she was doing down here. Why Leo had asked her. But now they were alone together, she knew her heart was beating faster and that all her senses were pricked up, watching, waiting.
Leo sat down on the chair. ‘Harder than it looks,’ he observed. The open door behind him was kissing the back of the chair so he pushed it gently and the door closed with a click. ‘Oops,’ he said, with a bashful smile.
‘You don’t need me,’ Olivia said, walking towards it. She would deny her senses, not give them something to get excited about. ‘I’m going to go back up.’
‘Really? Could we not talk for a while?’
She paused at the door. ‘We’ve talked a lot since we’ve been here.’ And she didn’t want to talk in a room with a closed door and dim lighting. She went to turn the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.
‘I can’t get the door open.’
‘Really? Let me have a go.’
Leo got up. He tried the handle, pulled at the door – nothing.
‘Oh no.’ Olivia tried it again, and the door was stuck fast. ‘What do we do?’
‘Have you got your phone on you?’
Olivia shook her head.
‘No, me neither. Well, there’s no point yelling like maniacs. There’s no one out there. So, I guess we just sit tight until they send a search party. Here, take the chair.’ He gestured to it. She took off her coat, placed it on the desk, and sat down.
‘You’re right,’ she said with a smile. ‘This is singularly uncomfortable.’
Leo shrugged his coat off and laid it on top of the filing cabinet. He sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, and started undoing the lace of his left shoe.
‘I bought them this morning in a chichi shoe shop just off St Mark’s Square,’ he said.
‘They’re killing my feet.’ He eased off the shoe with relief, revealing purple socks, and set it on the floor.
He started on the other one. ‘Damn! I’ve done it too tight.
’ He stopped fiddling with his shoelace and looked up at her.
She looked down at him. ‘I need your nails,’ he said.
She raised her eyebrows. The room was silent but for the soft hiss of the radiator and the beating of her heart, which surely he must hear? His eyes were hazel pools of light; hers couldn’t be dragged from him. She saw a swallow pulse up and down his throat.
‘Why don’t you come down here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
But she slipped. She always slipped when it came to Leo Greene. She got off the chair and came and sat down on the floor next to him, folding her legs underneath her skirt. She leaned over and undid his lace, trying not to look at his face. Leo took the shoe off and placed it next to the other one.
‘That’s better,’ he said softly. ‘Now my dancing might improve.’
‘Unlikely,’ she replied, but her blood was bobsleighing around her body. He was too close; they were too alone. This wasn’t right, but it was also really, really unbearably, confusingly, giddyingly wonderful. Why else was she down here?
‘It’s lonely in Venice, don’t you think so?’ he said, staring at her.
She laughed a nervous laugh. ‘We’re surrounded by people.’
‘I know, but it’s the romance here, isn’t it? The architecture, the beauty. It makes me feel a little lonely.’
She couldn’t bear to look at him, kept face-forward. What about the woman you keep speaking to? she thought. ‘I can’t imagine you ever feeling lonely.’
‘Well, I do, sometimes, in a room full of people.’ She made the mistake of turning her head towards his. ‘You never made me feel like that.’
She sighed. ‘You left me, then I left you – when we were friends. Then we left each other. A sad little three-act play we both would have walked out of halfway through if we’d gone to see it.’
‘I liked being in that play with you.’
‘Did you? When it was both a tragedy and a farce?’
‘I liked it,’ he repeated, and his gaze made her breathing feel exaggerated. ‘I haven’t seen another play I’ve been as interested in. And maybe we’re only at the interval. Maybe the play’s not over.’