Джеффри Арчер - Cat O'Nine Tales

A forty-piece string orchestra, almost hidden among the trees behind the altar, struck up the opening chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. A thousand guests rose from their seats and turned to see the bride as she progressed slowly up the thick grass carpet on the arm of her proud father.

‘What a beautiful dress,’ said the lady standing in front of Gian Lorenzo. He nodded his agreement and, staring at the yards of Persian silk that formed a magnificent train behind Angelina, didn’t express the one thought that must have been on everyone’s mind. Nevertheless, the look on Angelina’s face was that of a bride displaying total contentment with her lot. She was walking towards the man she adored, aware that many of the women present would have been only too happy to take her place.

As Angelina climbed the steps up onto the stage, the boards creaked. Her future husband smiled as he took a pace forward to join his bride. They both turned to face Cardinal Montagni, the Archbishop of Naples. One or two guests failed to stifle a smile when the cardinal turned to Paolo and enquired, ‘Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, for better for worse, for richer for poorer...’

Once bride and groom had been joined together in holy matrimony, Gian Lorenzo made his way to the Long Garden, to join a thousand other guests for dinner. A feast followed that began with champagne and truffle risotto, and ended with chocolate soufflé and a Chateau d’Yquem. Gian Lorenzo could barely move by the time Paolo rose to reply to his best man’s speech.

‘I am the happiest man on earth,’ he declared, as he turned to face his beaming bride. ‘I have found the ideal woman for me, and I am only too aware that I must be the envy of every bachelor present.’ A sentiment which Gian Lorenzo could not quite agree with, but he quickly banished the ungracious thought from his mind. Paolo continued, ‘You know, I was the first suitor to win Angelina’s heart. No longer will I have to search for the perfect woman because I have found her. Please rise and join me in a toast to Angelina, my little angel.’ The gathering rose as one and toasted, ‘Angelina.’ One or two even managed ‘his little angel’.

After the speeches were over, the dancing began to yet another band — this time one that had been flown in from New Orleans. Gian Lorenzo overheard that Angelina had once mentioned to Papa that she liked jazz.

As the band struck up and the champagne continued to flow, the newlyweds moved among their guests, which gave Gian Lorenzo a fleeting moment to thank Paolo and his bride for including him in such an unforgettable occasion. ‘Medici would have swooned,’ he told her, as he kissed her hand. She gave him a warm, gentle smile, but didn’t respond.

‘Let’s keep in touch,’ suggested Paolo as the two of them drifted away. ‘Angelina is fascinated by art, you know, and is thinking of starting her own collection,’ were the last words Gian Lorenzo heard, before Paolo moved on to another guest.

Just before the sun rose and breakfast was about to be served, Signor and Signora Castelli set off for the airport, with a thousand hands waving their farewells. They drove out of the grounds of the Borghese with Paolo at the wheel of his latest Ferrari — not the ideal car for his bride. When they reached the airport, Paolo drove out onto a private airstrip and brought the car to a halt by the side of a Lear jet that was waiting for two passengers. The newlyweds left the Ferrari parked on the runway, climbed the steps and disappeared inside Papa’s aircraft. Within minutes of fastening their seatbelts, the jet took off for Acapulco, the first stop on their three-month honeymoon.

Despite Paolo’s parting words, when the Castellis returned from their honeymoon they made no attempt to keep in touch with Gian Lorenzo. However, he was able to follow their exploits on an almost daily basis in the gossip columns of the national press.

A year later he read that they would be moving to Venice, where they had purchased the type of villa that makes the covers, not the inside pages, of glossy magazines. Gian Lorenzo assumed that he and his old friend were unlikely to bump into each other again.

When Antonio Venici retired, he happily handed over the responsibility for the family business to his son. As the new owner of the Venici Gallery, Gian Lorenzo spent half his time travelling around Europe in search of that elusive painting which makes collectors gasp, while not insulting the dealer with any suggestion of bargaining.

One such journey was to Venice, to view a Canaletto owned by the Contessa di Palma — a lady who, having divorced her third husband and sadly no longer possessing the looks to guarantee a fourth, had decided she would have to part with one or two of her treasures. The Contessa’s only stipulation was that no one must discover that she was facing temporary financial difficulties. Every leading dealer in Italy knew of her mounting debts and unpaid creditors. Gian Lorenzo was only thankful that the Contessa had chosen him to share her confidences with.

Gian Lorenzo took some time to study the Contessa’s considerable collection and concluded that she had an eye not only for rich men. After he had agreed a price for the Canaletto, he expressed the hope that this might be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.

‘Let’s start with dinner at Harry’s Bar, my darling,’ said the Contessa, once she had Gian Lorenzo’s cheque in her hand.

Gian Lorenzo was making up his mind between an affogato or an espresso when Paolo and Angelina strolled into Harry’s Bar. Everyone in the room followed their progress, as the maître d’ ushered them unctuously to a corner table.

‘Now there’s someone who can afford to buy my entire collection,’ whispered the Contessa.

‘Without a doubt,’ agreed Gian Lorenzo, ‘but unfortunately Paolo only collects rare cars.’

‘And even rarer women,’ interjected the Contessa.

‘And I’m not altogether sure what Angelina collects.’

‘A few extra pounds each year,’ suggested the Contessa. ‘She once came to tea with my second husband and literally ate us out of house and home. By the time she left we were down to the water biscuits.’

‘Well, let’s try and make up for that tonight,’ said Gian Lorenzo. ‘I’m told the zabaglione is their signature dish?’

The Contessa showed no interest in the zabaglione, but simply sailed on, ignoring her companion’s unsubtle hint. ‘Can you imagine what those two get up to, when they’re in bed?’

Gian Lorenzo was surprised that the Contessa was willing to voice a question he had often thought about but never felt able to express. And there was worse to come as the Contessa went on to describe things that hadn’t, until then, even crossed Gian Lorenzo’s mind.

‘Do you think he climbs on top of her?’ Gian Lorenzo didn’t offer an opinion. ‘A feat in itself,’ she continued, ‘because if they did it the other way round, surely she’d suffocate him.’

Gian Lorenzo didn’t care to think about the image, so he tried once again to change the subject. ‘We went to the same school, you know — one hell of an athlete.’

‘You’d have to be, to satisfy her.’

‘I even attended their wedding,’ he added. ‘A truly memorable occasion, though I doubt after all this time that he would even remember I was among the guests.’

‘Would you really be willing to spend the rest of your life with such a creature, however much money she had to offer?’ asked the Contessa, not paying attention to her host’s words.

‘He claims to adore her,’ said Gian Lorenzo, ‘calls her his little angel.’

‘In that case, I wouldn’t want to meet up with his idea of a big angel.’