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His collapse into realism made them all laugh.
‘It’s nice to meet a lady with such an adventurous approach to life,’ he added. ‘But I expect it’s only while you’re on holiday. You’ll go back to England, your sedate nine-to-five life, and your sedate nine-to-five fiancé.’
‘If I had a fiancé, what would I be doing here alone?’ she demanded.
This made him pause, but only for a moment.
‘He betrayed you,’ he said dramatically. ‘You are teaching him a lesson. When you return, he will be jealous, especially when he sees the compromising pictures of us together.’
‘Oh, will he indeed? And where will these pictures come from?’
‘It can be arranged. I know some good photographers.’
‘I’ll bet you don’t know anyone better than me,’ she riposted.
‘You’re a photographer?’ Hope asked. ‘A journalist?’
‘No, I do theatrical work.’ Some inexplicable instinct made her say to Dante, ‘And he wasn’t sedate. Anything but.’
He didn’t reply in words, but his expression was wry and curious. So was the way he nodded.
‘Let the poor girl eat in peace,’ Hope admonished him.
She watched Ferne like a mother hen, finally declaring that it was time for bed. The four of them made their way back along the corridor and said goodnight. Ferne and Hope went into one sleeping car, Toni and Dante went on to the next.
As Ferne hung up the trousers she’d been wearing, a few coins fell out onto the floor.
‘I’d forgotten I had some money in my pocket,’ she said, holding them out.
‘Three euros,’ Hope observed. ‘You wouldn’t have got far with that.’
They sat down on the bed, contentedly sipping the tea they had brought with them.
‘You said you were English,’ Ferne recalled. ‘And yet you speak as though you’ve been here for some time.’
‘Over thirty years,’ Hope told her.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘Six. All sons.’
She said it with an air of exasperated irony that made Ferne smile and say, ‘Do you ever wish you had daughters?’
Hope chuckled. ‘When you have six sons, you have no time to think of anything else. Besides, I have six daughters-in-law and seven grandchildren.
‘When our last son married, a few months ago, Toni and I decided to go on our travels. Recently we’ve been in Milan to see some of his relatives. Toni was very close to his other brother, Taddeo, until he died a few years ago. Dante is Taddeo’s elder son, and he’s coming back to Naples with us for a visit. He’s a bit of a madman, as you’ll discover while you’re staying with us.’
‘I can’t impose on you any further.’
‘My dear, you have no money or passport. If you don’t stay with us, just what are you going to do?’
‘It just seems dreadful for you to be burdened with me.’
‘But I shall love having you. We can talk about England. I love Italy, but I miss my own country, and you can tell me how things are there now.’
‘Ah, that’s different, if there’s something I can do for you.’
‘I look forward to you staying with us a long time. Now, I must get some sleep.’
She got into the lower bunk. Ferne climbed to the top one, and in a few minutes there was peace and darkness.
Ferne lay listening to the hum of the train speed through the night, trying to get her bearings. It seemed such a short time since she’d made the impulsive decision to leave England. Now she was here, destitute, reliant on strangers.
While she was pondering the strange path her life had taken recently, the rhythm of the train overtook her and she fell asleep.
She awoke to find herself desperately thirsty, and remembered that the snack bar was open all night. Quietly she climbed down and groped around in the darkness for her robe.
The three euros she’d found would just be enough for a drink. Holding her breath and trying not to waken Hope, she crept out into the corridor and made her way to the dining-car.
She was in luck. The snack bar was still open, although the tables were deserted and the attendant was nodding off.
‘I’ll have a bottle of mineral water, please,’ she said thankfully. ‘Oh dear, four euros. Do you have a small one?’
‘I’m afraid the last small bottle has gone,’ the attendant said apologetically.
‘Oh no!’ It came out as a cry of frustration.
‘Can I help?’ asked a voice behind her.
She turned and saw Dante.
‘I’m on the cadge for money,’ she groaned. ‘Again! I’m desperate for something to drink.’
‘Then let me buy you some champagne.’
‘No, thank you, just some mineral water.’
‘Champagne is better,’ he said in the persuasive voice of a man about to embark on a flirtation.
‘No, water is better when you’re thirsty,’ she said firmly.
‘Then I can’t persuade you?’
‘No,’ she said, getting cross. ‘You can’t persuade me. What you can do is step out of my way so that I can leave. Goodnight.’
‘I apologise,’ he said at once. ‘Don’t be angry with me, I’m just fooling.’ To the bartender he added, ‘Serve the lady whatever she wants, and I’ll have a whisky.’
He slipped an arm about her, touching her lightly but firmly enough to prevent her escape, and guided her to a seat by the window. The barman approached and she seized the bottle of water, threw back her head and drank deeply.
‘That’s better,’ she said at last, gasping slightly. ‘I should be the one apologising. I’m in a rotten temper, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.’
‘You don’t like being dependent on people?’ he guessed.
‘Begging,’ she said in disgust.
‘Not begging,’ he corrected her gently. ‘Letting your friends help you.’
‘I’ll pay every penny back,’ she vowed.
‘Hush! Now you’re getting boring.’
Fearing that he might be right, she swigged some more water. It felt good.
‘You seem to be having a very disorganised holiday,’ he observed. ‘Have you been planning it for long?’
‘I didn’t plan it at all, just hurled a few things into a bag and flounced off.’
‘That sounds promising. You said you’re a photographer…’ He waited hopefully.
‘I specialise in the theatre, and film stills. He’s an actor, starring in a West End play. Or, at least, he was in a West End play until—’
‘You can’t stop there!’ he protested. ‘Just when it’s getting interesting.’
‘I was taking the pics. We had a thing going—and, well, I didn’t expect eternal fidelity—but I did expect his full attention while we were together.’
‘A reasonable desire,’ her companion said solemnly.
‘So I thought, but an actress in the play started flashing her eyes at him. I think she saw him chiefly as a career step-up—Oh, I don’t know, though. To be fair, he’s very handsome.’
‘Well known?’ Dante asked.
‘Sandor Jayley.’
Dante’s eyes widened.
‘I saw one of his films on television the other day,’ he said. ‘He’s supposed to be headed for even greater things.’ He assumed a declamatory voice. ‘The man whose embrace all women dream of—whose merest look—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ she said through laughter. ‘I can’t keep a straight face at that twaddle, which used to really annoy him.’
‘He took it seriously?’
‘Yes. Mind you, he has plenty going for him.’
‘Looks, allure…?’
‘Dazzling smile, more charm than was good for him—or for me. Just the usual stuff. Nothing, really.’
‘Yes, it doesn’t amount to much,’ he agreed. ‘You have to wonder why people make such a fuss about it.’
They nodded in solemn accord.
He yawned suddenly, turning so that he was half-sideways and could raise one foot onto the seat beside him; he rested an arm on it and leaned his head back. Ferne studied him a moment, noticing the relaxed grace of his tall, lean body. His shirt was open at the throat, enough to reveal part of his smooth chest; his black hair was slightly on the long side.
She had to admit that he had ‘the usual stuff’, with plenty to spare. His face was not only handsome but intriguing, with well-defined, angular features, dark, wicked eyes and a look of fierce, humorous intelligence.
Quirky, she thought, considering him with a professional gaze. Always about to do or say something unexpected. That was what she’d try to bring out if she were taking his photograph.
Suddenly he looked at her, and the gleaming look was intense.
‘So, tell me about it,’ he said.
‘Where do I start?’ She sighed. ‘The beginning, when I was starry-eyed and stupid, or later, when he was shocked by my “unprincipled vulgarity”?’
Dante was immediately alert.
‘Unprincipled and vulgar, hmm? That sounds interesting. Don’t stop.’
‘I met Tommy when I was hired to take the photographs for the play—’
‘Tommy?’
‘Sandor. His real name is Tommy Wiggs.’
‘I can see why he changed it. But I want to know how you were unprincipled and vulgar.’
‘You’ll have to wait for that bit.’
‘Spoilsport!’
‘Where was I? Ah, yes, taking pictures for the play. Thinking back, I guess he set out to make me fall for him because he reckoned it would give an extra something to the photographs. So he took me to dinner and dazzled me.’
‘And you were taken in by actorly charm?’ Dante asked, frowning a little, as though he found it hard to believe.
‘No, he was cleverer than that. He made a great play of switching off the actor and just being himself, as he put it, saying he wanted to use his real name because Sandor was for the masses. The man inside was Tommy.’ Seeing his face, she said, ‘Yes, it makes me feel a bit queasy too, but that night it was charming.
‘The thing is, Tommy was made to be a film actor, not a stage actor. He’s more impressive in close-up, and the closer you get the better he seems.’
‘And he made sure you got very close?’
‘Not that night,’ she murmured, ‘but eventually.’
She fell silent, remembering moments that had been sweet at the time but in retrospect felt ridiculous. How easily she’d fallen, and how glad she was to be out of it now. Yet there had been other times that she still remembered with pleasure, however mistakenly.
Dante watched her face, reading it without difficulty, and his eyes darkened. He raised a hand to summon the attendant, and when Ferne looked up she found Dante filling a glass of champagne for her.
‘I felt you needed it after all,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe I do.’
