Lucy Gordon: A Family For Keeps

'Yes, I know,' he murmured grimly, but she rushed on, unheeding.

'I have to do it. I can't stop and I won't, and I can't help who gets hurt, don't you see that?'

'I'm afraid the person who gets hurt will be you,' he said.

For answer she grasped him back, digging her fingers into him painfully.

'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Nobody can hurt me any more. When you've reached your limit, you're safe, so I don't have to worry, and there's nothing to stop me doing what I have to.'

Abruptly she released him and buried her face in her hands as the feverish energy that had briefly sustained her drained away, leaving her weak and shaking.

For a moment Vincenzo was nonplussed. Then he put his arms right around her and held her in a tight clasp.

He didn't try to speak, knowing that there was nothing to say, but his grip was rough and fierce, silently telling her she was not alone.

After a long time he felt her relax, although even that had a strained quality, as though she had forced it to happen.

'I'm all right,' she said in a muffled voice.

He relaxed his grip and drew back slightly. 'Are you sure?'

'I'm all right,' she insisted fiercely. 'I'm all right, I'm all right.'

'I just want to help you.'

'I don't need anyone's help!'

Instantly he got to his feet and stepped back.

'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I didn't mean to be rude, it's just-'

'You don't have to explain. I know how it is.'

She looked up at him, and in the dim light he had an impression of a pale face, surrounded by long fair hair, like one of the other-worldly creatures that populated the pictures that had once filled this palace. He had grown up with the ghostly faces, accepting them as a normal part of his world. It startled him to meet one in reality.

'It's like that for you too?' she asked.

After a moment's pause he said, 'For everyone in one way or another. Some less-some more.'

He said the last words hoping she would tell him about herself, but he could see her defences being hastily reassembled. The moment was already slipping away, and when he heard the sound of Piero approaching he knew it had gone.

Piero pushed open the door, his face brightening when he saw the visitor.

'Ciao,' Vincenzo said, clapping him on the shoulder.

'Ciao,' Piero said, looking around. 'Ah, you two have met.'

'Yes, I'm afraid I gave the signorina a fright.'

'Why so formal? This isn't a signorina . It's Julia.'

'Or are you perhaps a signora ?' Vincenzo queried.'You understand, a signora is-?'

'Yes, thank you, I speak Italian,' she said edgily. 'A signora is a married woman. I'm a signorina .'

She wasn't sure why she insisted on parading her knowledge of Italian at that moment, unless it was pride. Vincenzo's understanding had made her defensive.

'So you speak my language,' Vincenzo said. 'I congratulate you. So often the English won't trouble to learn other languages. Do you speak it well?'

'I'm not sure. I haven't used it for a while. I'm out of practice. I can brush up on it here.'

'Not as easily as you think. In Venice we speak Venetian.'

After that he dived into the bags he'd brought, seeming to forget her, which was a relief. She took the chance to wander away to the window and stand with her back to them, watching the canal, but not seeing it.

Instead she saw Vincenzo in her mind's eye, trying to understand the darkness she sensed, in his looks and in the man himself. Everything about him was dark, from his black hair to his deep brown eyes. Even his wide mouth, with its tendency to quirk wryly, suggested that he was not really amused. Or, if so, that the humour was bleak and fit only for the gallows.

A man whose inner world was as grim and haunted as her own.

But still she tried to thrust him from her mind. He was dangerous because he saw too much, tricking her into blurting out thoughts that had been rioting in her head, but which she'd kept rigidly repressed.

I have to do it-I can't help who gets hurt.

Say nothing. Never let them suspect what you're planning. Smile, hate, and protect your secrets.

That was how she had lived.

And in one moment he had triggered an avalanche, luring her into a dangerous admission.

Nobody can hurt me any more-so there's nothing to stop me doing what I have to.

She looked around, and saw to her relief that Vincenzo had gone. She hadn't heard him leave.

Piero was beaming at her, waving a bread roll in invitation.

'We feast like kings,' he announced grandiloquently. 'Sit down and let me serve you the Choice of the Day. Trust me, I was once the head chef at the Paris Ritz.'

She wasn't sure what to believe. Unlikely as it sounded, it might just be true.

Her cold grew worse over the next few days. Piero's care never failed her. From some store room he managed to produce a bed. It was old, shabby and needed propping up in one corner, but it was more comfortable than her sofa, and she fell onto it blissfully.

But he refused to let her thank him.

'It comes easily to me,' he assured her. 'I used to be a top physician at Milan's largest hospital.'

'As well as being a great chef?' she teased him.

He gave her a reproachful look. 'That was the other night.'

'I'm sorry. I should have thought.'!

She knew that Vincenzo sometimes came to visit, but she always lay still, feigning sleep. She did not want to talk to him. He threatened secrets that she must keep.

But he too had painful secrets. He'd hinted as much.

Every second afternoon Piero would go out, returning three hours later. He never told her where he went, and she guessed that these occasions were connected with the events that had brought him to this limbo.

One afternoon he entered wearing his usual cheerful look, which became even brighter when he saw her.

'Did you find what you were looking for?' she ventured.

'Not today. She wasn't there, but she will be one day.'

'She?'

'Elena, my daughter. Ah, coffee! Splendid!'

She respected his desire to change the subject, but later, when the darkness had fallen, she asked gently,

'Where is Elena now?'

He was silent for so long she was afraid he was offended, but then he said, 'It's hard to explain. We sort of-mislaid each other. But she's worked abroad a great deal, and I've always been there to meet her when she returned. Always the same place, at San Zaccaria-that's the landing stage where the boats come in near St Mark's. If I'm not there she'll want to know why, so I mustn't let her down. I just have to be patient, you see.'

'Yes,' she said sadly. 'I see.'

She wrapped the blanket around her and settled down, hoping that soon her mind would start working properly again, and she would know what to do next.

Then she wondered if that would ever happen, for when she closed her eyes the old pictures began to play back, and there was only grief, misery, despair, followed by rage and bitterness, so that soon she was hammering on the door again, screaming for a release that would never come.

Sometimes she would surface from her fever to find Vincenzo there, then go back to sleep, curiously contented. This was becoming her new reality, and when she awoke once to find Vincenzo gone she knew an odd sense of disturbance. But then she saw Piero, and relaxed again.

He came over and felt her forehead, pursing his lips to show that he wasn't pleased with what he found.

'I got you something,' he said, dissolving a powder in hot water. 'It'll make you feel better.'

'Thanks, Piero,' she said hoarsely. 'Or do I mean Harlequin?'

'What's that?'

'Harlequin, Columbine, Pierrot, Pierrette,' she said vaguely. 'They're all characters from the Commedia dell'Arte. Pierrot's a clown, isn't he?'