A Brief Encounter

CHAPTER ONE

THE entrance hall of the Villa Bellagio was a high-ceilinged room with thin rugs on gleaming wood floors, exquisite wall frescoes and chandeliers like great bouquets of fragile blossom fashioned from Venetian glass. Silver-framed photographs of distinguished visitors to the hotel stood on a grand piano in the corner, old, fragile porcelain gleamed from glass cases, and sunshine warm and gold as honey poured through glass doors open to a shady garden where a swimming pool glittered like a jewel in its setting of sheltering evergreens.

But the most recent arrival at the hotel had no eyes for the beauty of her surroundings. She stared at the receptionist in disbelief.

‘My sister isn’t here?’

‘I regret not, signora.’ The receptionist smiled a little uneasily, and handed over a letter from one of the pigeonholes on the wall behind her. ‘Sophie left this for you, Miss Maitland. When you have read it the porter will escort you to your room.’

Olivia opened the letter with foreboding, cold dismay hidden behind her large sunglasses as she read Sophie’s familiar scrawl.

Darling Liv, don’t be angry with me for standing you up. It’s only for a day or two until you get to Pordenone. I had the chance of a little holiday with my friend Andrea so I grabbed it. I know it means leaving you on your own for a day or two until you get to the Villa Nerone, but you do things like that all the time in your work anyway, and I’ve given strict instructions to everyone at the Bellagio to look after you, arrange a trip to Venice—anything you want. So till Saturday, ciao, cara, lots of love, Sophie.

Olivia put the note away, managed a smile for the handsome young man waiting with her luggage, then followed him from the hall through the open doors, skirting the garden and the pool as they made for a colonnade with stone arches open to the garden on one side, a two-storey row of bedrooms on the other. Sophie’s absence had come as such a shock that Olivia felt suddenly weary as she climbed a flight of smooth stone steps to the upper floor. The porter ushered her into a large, pretty bedroom with a view of the pool from its trio of windows, told her tea was available at one of the tables on the terrace, then smiled with pleasure in response to her generous tip. Olivia closed the door behind him, stared abstractedly at the delightful vista of pool and gardens for a moment or two, then told herself to snap out of it. Sophie was no longer a child. And from her letter she was obviously well and happy, and would be in Pordenone in less than forty-eight hours. So for the time being the obvious thing was to get on with the job and note down first impressions of the Villa Bellagio.

In her capacity as a senior tour consultant for a specialist travel agency, Olivia was on an expenses-paid research trip to three hotels in Northern Italy. This afternoon she’d arrived at Marco Polo airport in Venice, picked up the car hired in advance from London, and driven from Venice on the Treviso road to make her first stop at the Villa Bellagio, where her sister was working as a receptionist during her summer vacation from university. Sophie was reading French and Italian, and had suggested the Bellagio to Olivia as perfect for the discerning traveller, as well as for a little get together for the two sisters. Too bad one of us preferred to take off with someone else instead, thought Olivia wryly.

Postponing notes and unpacking, Olivia brushed her glossy short hair into shape, decided both her face and her crisp cotton shirt and skirt would do, and left her room to go in search of tea. This was served on the terrace under a striped umbrella at a table with a pink linen cloth and thin china, where she was provided with pots of hot water, slices of lemon and a supply of teabags of flavours varying from English breakfast to the lesser known delights of strawberry and jasmine.

In the warm afternoon sunshine, with the happy shouts of children splashing in the pool under the eyes of their lazing elders, Olivia began to unwind as she sipped her tea, the shock of Sophie’s absence gradually receding. She was alone at the small cluster of tables, at a time when most people would be changing for dinner, or still sunbathing round the pool. Her professional concentration reasserted itself as she took note of the statues and the great stone urns filled with hydrangeas like great globes of coral against the blinding white gravel of the terrace. Sophie was right, she decided. Villa Bellagio was a very beautiful place. And now she was more in command of herself it was time to do her job and begin her report on it.

Olivia refused offers of more tea from the hovering waiters and went for a stroll round the pool, smiling as she watched a trio of tanned, excited children splashing each other under the indulgent gaze of their parents. Although it was early evening by this time, the sun was still hot, and Olivia gave in to temptation and stretched out on one of the steamer chairs, fatigued more by worry about Sophie’s absence than the journey from London. The Alitalia flight had been swift and punctual, with breathtaking glimpses of glittering waterways and gilded domes as they descended towards Venice. Nor had the drive to the Bellagio presented any problems, thanks to Sophie’s clear directions. In fact, Olivia thought, as she got up to make for her room, normally she would be full of energy at this point. But it was useless to worry any more about Sophie. Nothing could be done until their Saturday rendezvous at the Villa Nerone, the next stop on Olivia’s fact-finding mission.

When she returned to her room Olivia took out her notebook and recorded her impressions on the décor, which was simple but charming, with louvred shutters at the windows and plain blue covers on the beds, which, like the rest of the furniture were reproductions of eighteenth-century design. No air-conditioning, she noted, but an electronic anti-mosquito device was provided, and the pretty little bathroom was generously supplied with towels and all the shampoos and gels and shoe-cleaning sachets the modern traveller expected. Despite its general air of antiquity the hotel was scrupulously clean and well-kept, Olivia noted in approval; also the lamps worked and there was a small, well-stocked refrigerator disguised as a cabinet. Olivia wrote a few words of praise in the comments section of the page, and put her book away in favour of a long soak in the bath.

She was just emerging from it, swathed in towels, when the telephone rang. She raced to pick it up, then slumped down on the bed in relief at the sound of her sister’s voice.

‘Liv? It’s me—’

‘Sophie, thank heavens! Where on earth are you?’

‘In Florence! Isn’t it a fantastic place? You always made me so envious about it, and now I’ve seen it for myself—the statue of David’s just as incred-ible—’

‘Never mind David,’ broke in Olivia sternly. ‘Why didn’t you let me know before I left?’

‘Oh, Liv, don’t be cross! You were coming anyway, and this all happened a bit suddenly, so I had the time coming to me, and I’ll be seeing you in a couple of days, so I jumped at the chance. Don’t worry. I’m fine. And I’m not alone.’

‘Who is this company of yours, Sophie?’

‘You’ll find out on Saturday—Andrea’s very keen to meet you. By the way, I’m staying with Andrea’s family tonight, so no need to fret. I’ve told everyone at the hotel to treat you like a queen, and make sure you have everything you want. No marauding males will accost you, I promise—unless you want one to! Oops, there’s my money gone. Ciao—’

And before Olivia could ask any more questions the line went dead. She put down the phone slowly, not nearly as reassured by Sophie’s call as hoped. Her little sister, she thought, eyes narrowed, was up to something. But until it was possible to find out what, exactly, the only sensible plan was to enjoy some of the Bellagio’s famed cuisine, have an early night and a good sleep, and spend tomorrow in her long anticipated exploration of Venice.

Olivia dried and brushed her leaf-brown hair into the cleverly cut layers which framed her face, then applied a minimum of make-up with practised speed. Used to dining alone in strange hotels, she wore her usual type of clothes, a pine-green silk shirt with a tailored cream linen suit, and tonight, with the excuse that her eyes felt dry and full of sand after her intense concentration on the drive from Venice, she added her dark glasses to counteract an unwelcome feeling of vulnerability.

This was partly dispelled by her welcome to the dining-room. The head waiter, who introduced himself as Carlo, ushered her to a corner table, where he drew out a chair facing the floodlit garden before handing her a large menu. He clicked his fingers and instantly a young waiter arrived with grissini, the crisp bread sticks Olivia adored, plus a basket of rolls, a dish of butter and some San Pellegrino water for her to sip while she made her choice. Carlo withdrew to let her weigh up the delights of scallops in the chef’s special sauce or a plain tomato and mozzarella salad to begin, and when Olivia looked up from her menu she found the tables were filling rapidly, mainly with families and couples, some of whom greeted her pleasantly as they took their places.

She chose the salad as prelude to Carlo’s recommendation of a mixed grill of fish, which was quite superb, with sole, turbot, scampi and scallops as the main attraction. The fish arrived sizzling at the table in its own pan, to be filleted and served by Carlo himself, and Olivia ate with enjoyment, taking mental notes of the simple, exquisitely prepared food, though disappointing the waiter by her refusal of a pudding. She elected to drink her coffee at the table, preferring to remain gazing at the stars and the floodlit garden rather than venture alone into the bar. She sipped slowly, savouring the sound of animated multilingual conversation around her, then after a while, early though it was, decided she had no alternative but to go to bed.

Olivia paused to look at some antique jewellery displayed in a glass case then looked up involuntarily as a man with a hard, sunburned face, and black curling hair in dire need of a barber, strode through the entrance doors to be greeted by the manager himself at the reception desk. The newcomer towered over Signor Ferrante, firing low-toned urgent questions which the man answered by spreading his hands in wry apology as he leaned up to mutter confidentially in the newcomer’s ear. Instantly the man swung round to stare at Olivia.

She turned on her heel, head in the air, and made for the double doors which led to the colonnade, but before she could reach them the manager hurried to intercept her.