Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

48

EVE MURPHY LOOKED AT HER REFLECTION in the mirror. She was in the Ladies’ Powder Room at Vincanto, the chic new restaurant that had opened in Theatreland. She turned: front to the side. She was wearing the dress that Joseph had given her. He was very sweet like that, with all the presents and the surprises. It had been a Valentine’s gift, wrapped in expensive paper, sealed with ribbons and a huge bow. She could hardly believe the dress inside: a black rayon crepe with beaded and studded bodice, a modified sweetheart neckline, sleeves with darted headers and shirred elbows and a self belt. Her friend had actually gasped when Eve held it up for her. She had gone on and on about how much a dress like that must have cost, and how could Joseph afford it, and what about all the coupons you’d need, where had he got those from, and what would people think? Eve had explained it the same way Joseph had explained it to her when he had given her the watch, the necklace, the broach: he said he had been lucky on the dogs.

She knew that wasn’t true. Eve was the daughter of a policeman and she was not a stupid girl. She did not know exactly how Joseph came by these things, but she knew it wasn’t legitimate. She had considered giving the first gift back to him, but they were so nice and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings and she couldn’t see the harm in accepting them. One gift had led to the other and then to the next and by that time she had decided it would have been churlish to hand them back and so she had kept them. And why shouldn’t she have some of the nicer things in life?

She thought of her Uncle Charlie. She had been worried about his proposal for the first few days but he hadn’t asked much of her–so far, at least–and she had allowed herself to relax about it a little. He had arranged to meet her three times and they had chatted about things, usually over a coffee in one of the new coffee bars that were springing up in Mayfair and Kensington. It was just little pieces of information every now and again: who Joseph was going out with, what had she heard about his aunt and uncle, his friends and the other members of his family? None of it seemed dangerous or damaging and she had started to believe that perhaps she could manage her uncle, give him just enough to keep him satisfied but no more. It wasn’t as if Joseph told her very much about his business, after all. How could she be expected to tell him things that she didn’t know? She had told him that and he had appeared to believe it.

She checked her make-up in the glass. She looked lovely. As she collected her handbag she realised that she was a little drunk. She was a very moderate drinker and she had allowed Joseph to pour her a second glass of wine with dinner. It was all going to her head. She would have to put a stop to that.

Vincanto was especially nice. They had been to plenty of other places, fancy establishments, but they usually ended up here. She felt special as she made her way back into the dining room. She knew she was pretty, she was beautifully dressed and waiting for her at the table was her beau, and wasn’t he a cracker?

“You took your time,” he said, grinning at her.

“Had to make sure my make-up looked alright.”

“What are you on about, girl? You look a million dollars.”

The table was lit by a candle and the warm golden light flickered across his face. She felt the familiar flutter in her stomach. The light danced in his dark eyes, his olive skin framed by his jet black hair with that errant strand that curled above his left eye. He was so handsome. Such a dish. He could have had anyone he wanted and she had no idea why he was interested in her.

Their waiter arrived at the table with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

“This is our best bottle, sir,” he said. “Bollinger Extra Quality Brut, 1943.”

Joseph took the bottle and turned it in his hand. “Looks blinding,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll do the honours myself.”

“Yes, of course, sir.” He took the hint and backed away.

“I’m not sure I can manage another glass,” Eve said.

“Nonsense,” he told her. “Just the one. If you don’t want it all, you don’t have to drink it.”

“It looks too expensive to waste.” She screwed up her nose. “Is it?”

“It’s not cheap, but that don’t matter. We need a splash to celebrate.” He shifted awkwardly in his chair. “We’ve been serious for ages now, ain’t we? Five months, and then all the time from before. I haven’t been out with anyone for as long as I’ve been with you. I wasn’t planning it, you know. Out where I was, with no women for so long, I had it in my mind that I’d stay a single lad for a while.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I met you again, didn’t I? It’s got me thinking–I’ve never been with someone like you before. I’m serious, Eve–I can’t hardly stop thinking about you.”

“Joseph–”

“Hold on. I’ve been building myself up to say this all day and I want to get it out straight. It’s like I said, see, I’m serious about us. You and me. I want to prove it.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

Joseph ignored her. He stood and then lowered himself to one knee.

“What are you doing?” she almost squealed.

He took a box from his pocket and opened it. “What do you think about us getting married?”

She looked: inside the box was a diamond ring. It had a large oval stone in the centre, set in platinum, and accented with smaller pear-shaped stones all the way around.

She gaped at him. “Oh, my goodness. I–I–” She took the ring and turned it in her fingers. Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for words.

“So what do you say?

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well say something, girl! You’re not going to leave me here like this, are you?–I feel like a right bloody lemon.”

She slipped the ring onto her finger. “Yes,” she said with sudden impetuousness. “Oh, yes, of course!”

“Terrific.”

Eve hadn’t noticed, but the other diners had stopped their conversations to observe them. With her happy acceptance, several of them started to applaud. It quickly spread around the room until, finally, Joseph stood and declared that everyone should have a glass of champagne on him and, then, once the drink had been poured and he had popped the cork on their bottle, he orchestrated a toast. Eve knew that he was enjoying the spectacle, barely able to keep the grin off his face. He waited until the hubbub died down and the other customers returned their attention to their plates.

“I’ve been thinking about how we ought to go about things. I’m not one for a long engagement. The way I see it, you get engaged to someone, that’s that, there’s no sense in waiting ages to make it official. Best get cracking, right?”

“If that’s what you think is best.”

“I do. There are some things we’ll have to sort out. We’ll need to book the church and a place for the knees up after. And then there’s where to go afterwards. A nice little honeymoon. We’ll have a think about that.”

“Where would we live?”

“My place, I reckon. Doc’s moving out, anyway–he wouldn’t want to share the gaff with a couple of lovebirds, would he? Eventually we’ll get ourselves a place in the country.”

Eve removed the ring from her finger. She twisted and turned it, the light refracting against the diamond. How much must it have cost? She had no idea. Her life had moved so quickly over the last few weeks. She had no idea how she had managed to snare someone like Joseph Costello, but, as she watched him laughing and joking with the waiter, she replaced the ring on her finger and shivered with a warm, excited tingling.

She was still aglow with happiness when the four men came inside. At first, she thought that they must be a party of diners but then Joseph saw them too, and she noticed tension stiffening his body, and then she wondered whether they might be here for something else. Two went to the bar. The manager followed after them, his voice fraught, and then she noticed that they were both holding short metal bars. The man opened the bar and stepped behind it, held his jemmy up behind his shoulder and then swung it, like a cricket bat, straight through the rack of bottles.

The colourful glass smashed. Some of the other diners screamed.

“What’s going on?” she said, her throat closing with panic.

His dark eyes glittered coldly. “Don’t look at them. They’re not here for us.”

“What are they here for?”

“They work for a man I know.”

The men made their way through the restaurant. They each carried a large paper bag and, as they passed from table to table, they ordered the frightened diners to remove their valuables and deposit them into the bags. Wallets, watches, jewellery–it all went inside until the paper bulged.

“Well, look here,” said one of the men as he reached their table. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I don’t know–do you?”

The man was large and dressed neatly in an Edwardian suit with many buttons and velvet facings. “You’re Joseph Costello.”

“That’s right. Don’t recognise you, though.”

“No. But you know who we work for.”

“I can guess.”

“Sure you can, Joseph. Mind if I call you Joseph?”

“Where is he?”

“He ain’t here. But he sends his best regards.”

“Good of him.”

The man’s eye fell to the table and settled on the empty box. “Been buying some tomfoolery, Joseph?” He picked up the box and turned it over. He saw the logo and whistled appreciatively. “Tiffany? My word. Expensive tomfoolery. Let’s have a butcher’s at it then.”

The colour leeched out of Joseph’s face. “I don’t think so.”

Eve self-consciously covered her left hand with her right. Slowly, she moved them both towards the lip of the table and was about to drop them beneath the tablecloth before the man noticed her doing it and tutted, shaking his head. “Not so fast, darling,” he grinned at her. He pulled back his jacket to reveal the butt of a revolver stuffed into the front of his trousers. “Let’s stay best friends when this is all said and done, alright? Best to avoid unpleasantness, I always say. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Joseph? We don’t want a nasty argument.”

“Just show him,” he said to her through gritted teeth.

She reluctantly raised her right hand, uncovering the left. The diamonds glittered on her finger, refracting the candlelight.

“Stone the bleeding crows. Will you look at that? The size of it! How much that set you back, then?

“Enough.”

“You two lovebirds getting engaged?”

Joseph glared up at him. “If you’re going to do it, do it. Get on with it.”

“Easy there, pal. Mind your place. You ain’t the one with the shooter, remember. Let’s have it, then, darling. Take it off. Chop chop. And your watch and wallet, Joseph. Quick as you like.”

Eve fought back the tears. Joseph did as he was told, his eyes half-closed, the line of his jaw set straight and firm as he clenched his teeth. She knew about his temper but she had never seen him as dead in the eyes as this before and it frightened her. He was a prideful man and this–to be emasculated before his fiancée on the night of their engagement–it must have been the purest, most dreadful humiliation for him. The man didn’t seem concerned with that, nor with the murderous look on Joseph’s face; he took the watch and wallet and dropped them into the bag, draping his fingers over the stippled butt as a reminder that he should be civil as he turned his attention to her. She choked a sob as she worked the ring off her finger and gave it to him. “There you go,” he said, the diamonds glittering in his palm. He dropped the ring into the paper bag with everything else. “That wasn’t so hard. I’ll leave you the box.”

“Just go,” Joseph muttered.

“Patience, sport. We will–just as soon as we’ve done everything we came here to do. This place is one of your family’s, isn’t it? Under Costello protection. The fellow over there needs to pay attention to that. Your lot are finished in Soho, china. If he wants to avoid unnecessary accidents in the future he really needs to speak to Jack. Know what I mean? The alternatives just ain’t so reliable no more.”

The man looked up at his colleagues and gave a curt nod. They took their jemmies and swung them into the windows, slammed them down on the stacked piles of crockery, stabbed them into the paintings that had been hung on the wall. It was a concentrated orgy of violence that lasted no more than thirty seconds but when they had finished the place had been completely wrecked. No-one spoke. It was silent save for the gasped sobs of the diners and the crunch of shattered crockery and glass as it was trodden underfoot.

“Alright then. That’ll do. As I say, Jack sends his warmest regards. Goodnight.”

Joseph did not look at them. He stared at Eve instead. His eyes were black orbs, without warmth or life, more frightening than the men and their threats and their violence and anything else that she had ever seen. She reached out across the table and took his hand in hers. He did not flinch. His flesh was cold to the touch.

49

EDWARD DISTRACTED himself with an hour or two of shopping. He visited a haberdashery where he bought a pair of yellow silk pyjamas, as close as possible to the pair that he had borrowed from Joseph when he had visited Halewell Close. He bought a pair of narrow satin-like trousers and, for Chiara, flared hipsters of black wool, waist twenty-six. He added a gold tie-pin and settled the twenty pound bill from his money roll, making a show of taking it out of his pocket and counting off the notes. It made him feel much better, as did emerging from the shop with his purchases in crisp paper bags. After that he descended into Bond Street station for the short trip to Soho. He could have taken a taxi but he preferred the anonymity of the Underground, a chance to lose himself amidst all the other Londoners going about their business. He went to a pavement telephone box and asked the operator to place a call to Jimmy Stern’s number. They spoke briefly and Edward said that he would be around to discuss business in a half an hour. There was a homeless man begging on the pavement next to the telephone box. Edward stopped and gave him a pound note.

He had given Jimmy the money to rent a small flat on Bateman Street, just around the corner from the Shangri-La. He knocked on the door. The sound of barking came at once, close at hand, then Jimmy’s voice, ordering the dog to be quiet. The barking did not stop. The door opened.

Jimmy was exasperated. “This bloody dog–”

“You’re doing a fine job, uncle.”

“How much longer?”

Edward stepped inside and shut the door before Roger could get out. “I don’t know. Not yet. A few more weeks.”

“You must be joking. I’ll have strangled him by then.”

The flat was small: one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a sitting room. It had come with its own furniture, none of which was in particularly good condition. The carpets were threadbare, the underlay visible in patches, and the paint was peeling from the damp that crawled up the walls. The dog’s bowl was pushed into a corner of the kitchen, scraps of food from the restaurant spilling out of it and all over the floor.

Roger reached up, his paws on his chest. Edward sat down on the flea-bitten sofa and scrubbed the dog’s ears. “Just don’t get too attached, alright?” He stretched out his legs. “Well?”

“They were there. Intimate, the lads said. He’d just given her this.”

Jimmy dropped a diamond ring onto Edward’s open palm.

Edward nodded. “Nice.”

“Expensive.”

“He doesn’t do things by halves.”

Edward had had Joseph followed for the better part of two days. Jimmy found the lads through a friend of a friend–Mancunian hard-men who wouldn’t be recognised in the smoke, who could be in and out of town in the space of a week.

“How did he take it?”

“How’d you think he took it? Johnny said he thought he was going to blow his top.”

“And they made it obvious they were with Spot?”

“Told him than once. He got the message.”

Edward held the ring up so that the light from the bare electric bulb sparkled through all the different facets. It was a shame to have to spoil Joseph’s big night but hadn’t he brought it upon himself? What choice had he left Edward? He had none. The Costellos given him no other options at all. They were blundering into a dreadful mistake and they just needed to be able to see it: he was the only one who could help them. There was no way he could just sit by and watch them destroy themselves.

He slipped the ring into his pocket. “How much did it cost us?”

“Fifty notes.”

He took a wedge of notes from his pocket and handed them to Jimmy. “Cheap at half the price. This should cover it. They’ve all left town?”

“Yes.” Jimmy went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle. “Straight back up north. They won’t come back down. You want a cup of tea?”

“Please. Definitely best for them they stay away. I know what Joseph is like. I’m telling you, he’ll top them if he sees them again.”

“You had any improvement with him?”

“Haven’t seen him since Paris.”

“And you’re sure this is going to help?”

The dog nudged his knee with his head and he scratched him behind the ears again. “They need me. They just need to see how much.”

50

EDWARD MOVED OUT the next day. He had waited outside the apartment until he was sure that Joseph was not there and then he had quickly packed a suitcase with his best clothes and hurried away. He took a room at a smart hotel in Covent Garden and took long walks so that he might have the thinking time to decide upon what to do. He spent hours composing a letter in his head, apologising for losing his temper and trying to make a joke out of it, but the right words would not come and he could not satisfy himself that he had found the right tone. Eventually, he sent a note on the hotel’s headed paper suggesting that they go for a drink to mend the damage that had been done. Joseph had not replied. Edward spent a sleepless night, and then a day, of pacing the hotel room while he tried to work out the best way to fix the situation. The stark contrast between his happy confidence of just a few weeks previously and his present fearfulness was awful to him. The rift with Joseph was at the forefront of his mind but he recognised clearly that he was obsessing with it so that he could pretend to ignore the other awful development: the man whom Billy had met who said he was Edward Fabian’s brother. That, he knew, was a more dangerous situation. He expected the man, or a private detective, or, worst still, the police, to come knocking at his door at any hour of the night or day. They would have questions for him and he would not have the time to prepare the right answers. The thought of it terrified him. He could neither sleep nor eat nor sit still. He seemed barely able to function at all. The whole awful situation was pure agony.

On the second day in the hotel he started to plan an escape. His luck had held for too long and now it was beginning to turn. What was to stop him making a run for it? Nothing at all. He had a decent amount of money. He could sell his car and empty his accounts and make off with it all. Where would he go? Europe seemed suddenly too hot for him but what about America? How was that? He would drive to Liverpool, sell the car there and board a transatlantic liner. What better place to make a clean break and start afresh? He had so nearly succeeded with the Costellos. Who was to say he would not be more successful the second time?

Something stopped him. He could not abandon his father again. There was also a sense of unfinished business. He did not want to run. The realisation helped him to settle his thoughts. In the end, his thoughts settled on Chiara. He wrote to invite her to London so that they might have dinner together. She replied by return, her enthusiasm obvious, saying that she would be delighted. In a postscript she admitted to feeling claustrophobic at Halewell Close and that a night out was just the tonic she needed. Edward had counted upon as much.

He checked out of the hotel and took a lease on a furnished apartment. He planned the evening carefully. He booked a table at the Ritz, went to his barber for a shave, a trim and a vibro-massage, and then picked out his best suit, matching it with a crisp new shirt and tie that he had bought for the occasion. He dressed and regarded himself in the mirror that he had hung on his bedroom wall. There was no question about it: he looked absolutely splendid. He looked, he thought, like he had money and knew how to spend it tastefully. The years had been kind to him, he thought, lending him an air of sophistication that had not been there before. He was the kind of man who looked best when he had a little money. He had worked hard to get it. It took talent to notice the right opportunities, and then skill and great patience to exploit them. He had invested time and effort in the family and he would not allow Violet or Joseph or anyone else to prevent him from getting what he deserved.

He met Chiara at the restaurant, the maitre d’ greeting them and showing them to a prime table. He slipped a pound note into the man’s hand as he shook it and went around the table to remove the chair for Chiara to sit down.

“This is a rare treat,” she said. “To be honest, I couldn’t wait to get away.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You haven’t heard about what’s happening at the house?”

“No.”

“It’s that nonsense with Jack Spot. Violet has put two of George’s best men in the gatehouse at the end of the drive. She’s worried he’s going to try and do something. She hasn’t let me out for the last week.”

“What about tonight?”

“She thinks I’m with Joseph.”

“Oh dear,” he said. “Best it stays that way–she’s not very fond of me.”

“She won’t admit it, but this whole situation is getting to her.”

There was a short pause as Edward decided how to start the conversation he knew that they must have. It was the reason that he had invited her to dinner and there was no point in delaying it but yet the thought of what she might tell him in response made it difficult to begin. He had the sense that this moment was important and, as it assumed more and more gravity, it became correspondingly more difficult to address. He started to speak and then, suddenly fearful, he stopped.

Chiara noticed his awkwardness and smiled sweetly at him. “I know about you and Joseph,” she said. “Your silly tiff in Paris.”

Edward gaped. “Have you spoken to him?” he asked anxiously.

“I have. And he feels absolutely awful about it.”

“So do I,” Edward confessed urgently. “What did he say?”

“That it was a foolish argument and that he regrets it very much.”

Edward was surprised by the sudden rush of relief that washed over him. “I wrote to him,” he said. “He didn’t reply.”

“He was still angry when you sent it. And now that he isn’t angry, he doesn’t know what to say to fix it all up and then, on top of everything else, he’s had Eve to think about.”

“Think about what?”

“Oh,” she said, blushing a little. “Of course–you don’t know.” The waiter delivered the menus and Chiara was silent. Edward found that he was avid for the news, his stomach churning as the man described the specials and until he left the table. “This is probably about as foolish as your argument,” she continued, “especially since they’ve only known each other again for half a minute, but he proposed to her the other night and she said yes.”

“My goodness!” he said.

“They’re talking about getting married at the end of the month. The service would be in the local church and then there’ll be a big party at the house.”

“It’s all very sudden.”

“I know. It’s lunacy. But it will give the two of you a chance to make it up. He’s planning a thing”–she fluttered her hand as if it were something amusingly distasteful–“with his friends. Last night of freedom, I suppose, something along those lines. I suspect it will involve all the pubs and clubs in Soho. I can’t think of anything worse but, anyway, he asked me to apologise for what happened and to tell you that you have to go.”

Edward’s mind went blank with relief. He felt the surge of his old confidence. It wasn’t too late, after all. He had made a dreadful error and yet he had not been punished for it. He had been given a second chance.

He became aware of some people waving at them from a table on the other side of the room. Chiara noticed them too. “Who are they?”

“I’ve no idea,” Edward replied, making a vague sign of greeting in return.

“Well, they certainly seem to know you.” She folded her napkin, laid it on the table and stood. “I’ll just be a moment. Would you order me a drink?”

“What will you have?”

“A gin, please. I shan’t be a moment.”

Edward watched her cross the restaurant to the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror that hung from the opposite wall and seeing again how swell he looked helped to restore his mood. He was still gazing at himself when he noticed the man who had waved at him get up and leave his table. His stomach fell. He took up the menu and pretended to be absorbed by it but it was no use. The man approached and stopped by his table.

“Pardon me, are you Jack Stern?”

Edward smothered a frightened gasp. The man was next to him, crouching, his left hand resting on the table and his body turned at an angle to face him. He had him trapped against the table. Edward stared at him, paralysed. He didn’t look like a policeman but perhaps that was the point of it. He had heard of the Ghost Squad, after all, and perhaps it was their tactic to send someone who looked anonymous, to give that man the best chance of apprehending him before he could flee. Or perhaps he was a private detective. There had been others but not for many years. The man was well-dressed, like all the others in the restaurant, sporting a beautiful dinner jacket, his generous belly constrained by a scarlet cummerbund and his hair swept backwards across his head, a little grey at the edges. He smiled at him, a happy beam of greeting, and now Edward’s frantic brain groped for the right thing to say.

“It is you,” the man said, not waiting for his reply. He looked a little tipsy. “I knew it. I saw you when we came in–I said to my wife, ‘That’s Jackie Stern or I’m a Chinaman’ and I was right, wasn’t I? I wasn’t sure but then I realised, you’re not wearing your glasses. How are you, old chap?”

“I’m sorry, I–”

“Goodness, my manners. It’s Bert? Albert Whitchurch? We met in Cannes. I’m not surprised you can’t remember. My God, it must’ve been thirty-eight or thirty-nine–before the war, in any event. I was down there with Clara, my wife–look, she’s over there.”

Edward followed his gesture across the crowded room where a woman in a black dress and pearls was waving broadly at him. He cast his mind back to the time he had spent in France and found that the name was faintly familiar. Albert and Clara Whitchurch. That’s right, he thought, he did remember them. A well-spoken chap, a polished wife, quite a bit of money. Was he an industrialist? It was something like that. They had met next to the pool at the Carlton and shared a couple of meals together. They had aroused his interest.

“Do you remember?” he pressed. “You were going to Venice.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, speaking in a deep voice to master the quaver in it. “I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re not Jackie?”

“I’m afraid not. My name is Fabian.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I could’ve sworn you were someone I met in Cannes. You’re his doppelganger, old boy, his absolute spit.”

The conversation was awkward and uncomfortable. He thought of Chiara and he turned towards the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He could not see her, but he couldn’t wait for her to come back. It was too dangerous.

“Well,” Edward said. “I’m extremely sorry to disappoint you.”

The man nodded, a slightly vacant expression on his face. Edward could see that he did not know what else to say. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Enjoy your evening.”

Edward waited for the man to wander back to his own table and then laid his napkin down and stood. Whitchurch was talking to his wife, and she looked over at him with a confused expression. He hurried to the cloakroom, collected their coats and took them to a spot where he could intercept Chiara before she returned to the restaurant.

“Whatever are you doing?” she said.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said breathlessly. “Let’s take a cab and look at the moon.”

“You’re crazy! It’s freezing out there.”

“I want to show you my new place.”

“What–now? What about dinner?”

“I’ll cook for you at home. Really, I can’t wait to show you. I’ll be terribly distracted all evening unless we go right now. What do you say?”

She grinned at him. “Well, then,” she said happily. “Why not.”

* * *

EDWARD FUMBLED IN HIS POCKET for the key to his apartment. They had diverted to a bar on the way back and had enjoyed a bottle of champagne. Chiara swayed a little as she stood by his side. She was the worse for wear.

“Hold on,” he said to Chiara. “It’s in here somewhere.”

The apartment was in a large Victorian red-brick building on Wimpole Street. It was of decent size and it had been expensive. He wanted his apartment to be elegant, to be at least comparable to Joseph’s, and he intended to spend a generous sum furnishing it. The apartment had one bedroom, a sitting room with a small interconnecting study, a compact bathroom and a kitchen. The expensive furniture suited the neighbourhood, he felt, and contributed to the image that he wanted to present.

“I’d love a smoke,” she said. “Do you have any?”

“Certainly.” Edward took out a packet of filched Lucky Strikes and tapped out two cigarettes. Their fingertips touched, briefly, as he handed her the cigarette. He took the match and used it to light the two large candles on the table. Warm, flickering light was cast around the room.

Chiara took a greedy pull on the cigarette. “I had a lovely evening. I enjoy spending time with you.”

“And me with you.” He smiled at her. She sat down on the edge of the settee. She gestured that he should join her and he did, sitting next to her.

She rested the cigarette in the ashtray, took his hand and leant towards him. She closed off the distance until her lips brushed against his.