Lucy Gordon - Swept Away!

‘Trust Dante to go back for the dog,’ Hope said.

‘He loved it,’ Ferne said. ‘It was as though risking his life gave him some sort of kick.’

‘His father was the same,’ Toni sighed. ‘Always finding excuses to do crazy things.’

‘Yes, but—’ Hope began to speak, then stopped.

Puzzled, Ferne waited for her to continue. Then Hope met her husband’s eyes and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘If a man is like that, he’s like that,’ she finished lamely. ‘I’ll just go up and see if he’s all right.’

She returned a moment later saying, ‘I looked in. He’s asleep. I expect he needs it.’

Then she deftly turned the conversation, leaving Ferne again with the impression that where Dante was concerned there were strange undercurrents.

Next morning he’d already left for town when she rose. She tried not to believe that he was avoiding her, but it was hard.

Her new credit cards arrived in the post, and news came from the consulate that her passport was ready. She drove down and collected it, then went to a café by the water and sat, considering.

Surely it was time to move on? Her flirtation with Dante had been pleasant but it would lead nowhere. Forgetting to take pictures was an ominous sign, because it had never happened before. But the mere thought of a serious affair with him was madness, if only because of his habit of withdrawing behind a mask.

On the surface he was a handsome clown who could tease his way into any woman’s heart. But, when she’d given him her heart, what then? Would she be confronted by the other man who concealed himself inside, and whose qualities were beginning to seem ominous? Would he frighten her? Or would Dante keep her at bay, allowing her only to see what suited him? Either prospect was dismaying.

She thought of their first meeting on the train when they had sat together, thundering through the night, talking about the circles of heaven and hell. It had seemed a trivial conversation, but now she had the conviction that Dante was mysteriously acquainted with hell. Yesterday he had looked into its fiery depths not once but twice. Unafraid. Even willing.

Why? What did he know that was hidden from the rest of the world? What was his hell, and how did he confront it?

She was sunk so deep in her reverie that it took a while to realise that her mobile phone was shrieking.

‘Ferne—at last!’

It was Mick Gregson, her agent, a cheerful, booming man.

‘You’ve got to get back here,’ Mick said. ‘There’s a great job coming up, big time, and I’ve put your name forward.’

He outlined the job which was, indeed, ‘big time’. Following Sandor’s example, a major Hollywood actor had just signed up for a West End play, seeking the prestige of live theatre. Next to him Sandor Jayley was peanuts.

‘The management wants only the best for the pics, and when I mentioned you they were very interested.’

‘I’m surprised anyone wants me after last time,’ she observed wryly.

‘I’ve heard that they value your “self-sacrificing honesty”. Don’t laugh; it’s doing you a world of good. Seize this chance, sweetie. Gotta go.’

He hung up.

So there it was, she thought, staring at the silent phone: the decision was made for her. She would say farewell to Dante and return to England, glad to have escaped.

Escaped what?

She would have to learn to stop wondering about that.

The phone rang again. It was him.

‘Where are you?’ he asked in a voice that sounded agitated. When she told him, he said, ‘Don’t move. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

She was waiting for him, baffled, when he drew up at the kerb.

‘Sorry to hassle you,’ he said as she got in. ‘But I need your help urgently. I’ve had a call from a man who owns a villa a few miles away and wants me to sell it. I’m going up there now, and I need a great photographer, so of course I thought of you.’

‘I’m flattered, but my experience is showbiz, not real estate.’

‘Selling a house can be a kind of showbiz, especially a house like this. In the nineteenth century, it was notorious. The owner had a wife and three mistresses and kept each one in a different wing. Then he was murdered.’

‘Good for them.’

He laughed. ‘It’s odd how people always assume that it was the women.’

‘If it wasn’t, it should have been,’ Ferne said without hesitation.

‘It probably was. The police never found out. I want you to bring out the drama, while also making it look a comfortable place to live.’

After an hour they came to the villa, set on a hill with an extravagant outline, as though it had been built as part of a grand opera. Inside, the place was shabby with few modern comforts. The owner, a tubby, middle-aged man, followed her around, pointing out what he considered the attractions, but she soon left him behind and made her own way. The atmosphere was beginning to get to her.

It took three hours. On the way home, they stopped off for a meal and compared notes. Now Dante was a serious businessman. His notes were thorough, and he was going to do a first-class job with the house.

‘My text, your pictures,’ he said. ‘We’re a great team. Let’s get back home and put it all on my website.’

‘Fine, but then I’ve got something to tell—’

‘Naturally, I’ll pay you.’

‘So I should hope.’

‘Of course, I can’t afford your usual fees. I expect you get top-dollar now for the right kind of picture.’

‘I’ll ignore that remark.’

‘But you’re the best at this kind of thing, and I could sell these houses much faster with your help.’

‘I’m trying to tell you—’

‘I’m going to leave soon, driving all over this area, drumming up business. Come with me. Together we’ll knock ‘em all dead.’ When she hesitated, he took her hands in his. ‘Say yes. It’s time to have a little fun in your life.’

This was the Dante she’d first known, the chancer who faced life with a smile. The darkness of the recent past might never have been.

‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly.

She was more tempted than she wanted to admit. Just a little longer in his company…

‘Look, I know what you’re thinking,’ he said persuasively. ‘But you’re wrong. I’ve accepted your rejection.’ His voice became melodramatic. ‘Bitter and painful though it is.’

Her lips twitched. ‘Oh, really?’ she said cynically.

‘Why don’t you believe me?’

The mere idea of Dante meekly accepting rejection was absurd. It was a ploy, telling her that he was settling in for a long game, but if she admitted that she would be conceding a point in that very game. If there was one thing she knew she mustn’t do, it was let him win too easily.

‘Are you seriously asking me to believe that you’ll act like a perfect gentleman at all times?’

‘Ah, well, I might not have been planning to go quite that far,’ he hedged cautiously. ‘But nothing to offend you. Just friendly, I promise.’

‘Hmm,’ she observed.

‘Hmm?’ he echoed innocently.

‘Hmm.’

In this mood, he was irresistible. On the other hand there was the promise of the biggest job of her life, maybe a trip to Hollywood eventually.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

‘Don’t take too long.’

They drove back to the villa and spent a contented hour at the computer, marrying his text and her pictures. The result was a triumph, with Ferne’s flair for the dramatic balancing Dante’s factual efficiency. He sent a copy to the owner, who promptly emailed back, expressing his delight.

At the end of the evening Ferne went out onto the terrace and stood looking up at the stars, wondering what she was going to do. It should have been an easy decision. How could any man compete with such a career opportunity?