The Padova Perals Page 2

  With a little stir of excitement that they had something in common, she remarked, ‘My mother was Italian too.’

  ‘An odd coincidence,’ he observed smoothly. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Maria.’

  She waited for some further comment or question about her mother but, rather to her surprise, he changed the subject to ask, ‘Will you be staying here now you’re on your own?’

  ‘I’m not sure. With three bedrooms, it’s a lot bigger than I need. When Dad was alive it was ideal. He used the third bedroom, the one on the north side, as his studio.’

  ‘That reminds me, do you still have that portrait? The one you said looks like me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I may, I’d rather like to see it. You’ve succeeded in whetting my curiosity.’

  Feeling distinctly awkward, she explained, ‘It hangs in my bedroom.’

  Looking into those beautiful eyes he could now see were a dark green, flecked with gold, he assured her with gentle mockery, ‘I won’t let that bother me, if you don’t let it bother you.’

  The simple fact that it did hang in her bedroom wouldn’t have bothered her. What made her hesitate was that it was so like him, and it would be akin to baring her soul if he picked up how strongly she felt about it.

  Noting her hesitation, he began carefully, ‘If it does bother you—’

  Pulling herself together, she assured him, ‘No, no, of course it doesn’t bother me.’

  Looking unconvinced, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to show me some of your father’s other work?’

  She shook her head. ‘All the rest of Dad’s paintings are over at the exhibition.’

  ‘So why was that particular one left out?’

  ‘Because it was never finished.’ Making up her mind, she added, ‘Come and take a look.’

  Her heart racing uncomfortably fast, she ushered him along a wide corridor to her bedroom and, switching on the light, led the way inside.

  It was simply furnished, with a dusky-pink carpet and off-white walls. The picture, the only one in the room, hung between the two windows.

  Standing in front of it, the stranger stared at it in silence.

  The column of the throat, the broad shoulders and the suggestion of an open-necked shirt, had been merely sketched in. But the well-shaped head, with its thick fair hair and neatly set ears, and the face, with its strong features and dark grey eyes beneath level brows, its beautiful mouth and cleft chin, was complete.

  Glancing from one to the other, Sophie saw that the likeness between the portrait and the stranger was just as striking as she had imagined.

  She felt a queer tug at her heart.

  The only difference she could spot was that her companion’s hair was somewhat shorter than that of the man in the portrait, and his brows and lashes were several shades darker.

  Other than that, he could have been the sitter.

  Only of course he couldn’t.

  It must have been painted either before he was born or when he was still a very young child.

  After a moment or two of absolute stillness, the stranger said slowly, ‘Surely this could have been put in the exhibition?’

  It could. The simple truth was that she hadn’t wanted to share it with anyone else. It would have been like other people being given access to a secret and very personal diary.

  When she said nothing, he went on, ‘Your father was a very fine artist. Those eyes are alive…And you’re right about it being like me. I could be looking in a mirror. When did he paint it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Certainly before I was born. I’ve known it all my life.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the sitter was?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I once asked my father, but he said, “Oh, just someone I met briefly a long time ago.”’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for showing it to me.’

  She was expecting him to say something further, to speculate on the likeness, remark on the coincidence, the strangeness of it all.

  But he turned away and, noticing the box standing on her dressing table, commented, ‘Your jewellery box is a lovely piece of work.’

  ‘Yes, it was Dad’s last gift to me. I found it hidden in his bureau.’

  ‘Filled with priceless jewels, no doubt?’ It was said quizzically, as though he’d recognized her sadness and was hoping to alleviate it.

  She smiled. ‘Empty, unfortunately.’

  As she led him back to the living-room, he asked, ‘When does your father’s exhibition open?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, for a month. Though David—the owner of the gallery—did say he would keep it open for as long as people kept coming in to see it.’

  Then, sensing that he was about to go, and still hoping against hope that he might suggest seeing her again, she queried, ‘How long are you in London for?’

  Her last shred of hope vanished when he answered, ‘I’m flying out tomorrow.’

  Before she could think of anything else to say, he remarked with stunning finality, ‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I guess I’d better go and let you get changed.’

  Desperate to keep him, she began, ‘I really can’t thank you enough for your help…’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said formally. ‘Enjoy your evening. Arrivederci.’

  As she stood stricken, the latch clicked behind him. A second or two later she heard the slam of the front door.

  He was gone.

  And she didn’t even know his name.

  Why, oh, why, had she let him walk out just like that?

  Though what else could she have done?

  She could have invited him to have supper with them. Mrs Caldwell wouldn’t have minded, she felt sure, and there was more than enough food for three.

  That way at least she would have had his company for an hour or two longer.

  But she’d missed her chance. He was gone, and it was too late for regrets.

  If only she had been free to have dinner with him. Though what could it have led to? If he did live in New York, there would have been little chance of seeing him again.

  Still the nagging ache of disappointment, the futile longing for what might have been, the empty feeling of loss, persisted as she tried to make sense of the brief encounter.

  Why had fate brought him into her life only to let him walk out again?

  She felt as though she had been robbed of something infinitely precious, something that should have been rightfully hers…

  Becoming aware that she was standing like a fool staring at the closed door and Mrs Caldwell would be waiting for her, Sophia pulled herself together and went to dry her hair and change.

  Resisting the desire to stand and stare at the portrait, she swapped her business suit for a skirt and top and leaving her hair loose, hurried back to the living-room.

  There, she quickly sorted out the old lady’s change, picked up the carrier bag and glanced around for her keys.

  They were nowhere to be seen.

  But the stranger had actually opened the door, so he might have left them in the lock.

  She took a quick look, but they weren’t there.

  So what had he done with them?

  When another glance around failed to locate them, it occurred to her that he might well have dropped them into the carrier when he’d put the shopping down.

  In that case she’d find them when she unpacked.

  Taking the spare set of keys from the sideboard drawer, she switched off the light and, closing the door behind her, hurried across the hall.

  As she approached the old lady’s partly open door she could hear what sounded like one of the soaps on the television.

  Calling, ‘It’s me,’ she let herself in and went through to the living-room.

  Like Sophia’s own, the old lady’s flat was light and spacious, with a combined living-room and kitchen. A long fire was throwing out a welcome warmth and two schooners of pale sherry were wai
ting on the coffee table.

  Mrs Caldwell, who was standing by the window looking through a chink in the curtains, turned to say, ‘Do make yourself at home, dearie.’

  Sophia put the old lady’s change on the coffee table and, having crossed to the kitchen, began to unpack the shopping, while Sam, the boldest of the two marmalade kittens, rubbed against her leg, purring like a small traction engine.

  Picking up the remote control, Mrs Caldwell switched off the television and, settling herself on the couch, urged, ‘Why don’t you sit down and drink your sherry before you start cooking?’

  Aware that the old lady went to bed fairly early, Sophia suggested, ‘It might make more sense to drink it while I’m getting the paella ready. That way we won’t be too late having supper.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  Sophia unpacked the last of the groceries and, finding no trace of the missing keys, collected her glass of sherry.

  While she sipped it, with swift efficiency she sliced onions, peppers and tomatoes, added a crushed clove of garlic and began to fry them lightly.

  ‘The paella smells nice already,’ Mrs Caldwell commented. ‘I must say I’m starting to feel distinctly hungry.’

  ‘In that case, I’m rather pleased I decided to buy most of the ingredients ready-cooked and make the quick version.’

  ‘That was good thinking,’ the old lady agreed. Then, eagerly, ‘Who was the perfectly gorgeous young man who came in with you?’

  Trying to sound casual, unconcerned, Sophia admitted, ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’

  ‘But surely you know him?’

  ‘No, not at all. He just offered to carry the shopping when one of the handles on the bag broke.’

  Mrs Caldwell was clearly disappointed. ‘Didn’t you find out anything about him? Where he lives? What he does for a living? Whether or not he has a steady girlfriend? I would have done at your age.’

  Forced to smile, Sophia said, ‘All I know is that he’s in London on business…Oh, and that while his father has English roots, and he went to university in England, his mother comes from Italy.’

  ‘Well, that’s something you and he have in common. Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you still got relatives in Italy?’

  ‘If I have they’re distant ones. Like me, my mother was an only child, and her parents have been dead for quite a few years.’

  ‘I wondered, because the man who came to see your father was Italian.’

  Sophia was surprised. ‘Someone visited Dad? How long ago?’

  ‘Quite a while ago now,’ Mrs Caldwell answered vaguely. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.’

  The old lady was obviously taken aback. ‘That’s peculiar…Well, this man arrived one day while you were at the gallery. He came in a taxi.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was a good-looking man, short and thick-set, the same kind of build as my Arthur, with a thatch of white hair. He must have been somewhere in the region of sixty, but he looked younger because his eyebrows were still jet-black.

  ‘He found your front door buzzer wasn’t working properly and rang mine. When I answered, he explained to me in very poor English that he was looking for a Signor Jordan. He had a package for him.’

  ‘What kind of package?’ Sophia asked curiously.

  ‘It was a parcel, about so big…’ The old lady sketched the size in the air. ‘I told him to go across the hall and ring the bell of your flat. Then I waited until I saw your father open the door and let him in.

  ‘He only stayed a couple of minutes, then left in the same taxi that brought him.’

  Sophia frowned. Why hadn’t her father said anything about having a visitor? It was most unlike him. And, with so little happening in his life, he couldn’t have forgotten…

  ‘But, to get back to the young man who carried the shopping—’ Mrs Caldwell broke into her thoughts ‘—I’m surprised he didn’t ask you out.’

  Stifling a sigh, Sophia remarked with determined lightness, ‘I’m afraid we’re just destined to be ships that pass in the night.’

  ‘But you were attracted to him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  Trying to dissemble, Sophia asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Dearie, it was obvious.’

  Feeling her colour rise, Sophia said, ‘For all I know, he’s married.’

  She had judged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, so it was odds-on that he was either married or in some kind of stable relationship.

  Oh, surely not, when he’d invited her to have dinner with him…

  But the fact that he’d asked her out didn’t necessarily mean he was unattached. Perhaps if he travelled a lot he took his pleasure where he could find it…

  ‘I happened to notice his left hand,’ Mrs Caldwell told her. ‘He wasn’t wearing a ring.’ With a sly glance, she added, ‘It’s high time you started to look for a husband.’

  Sophia poured rice into a large cast-iron frying pan and began to stir in the stock. ‘I don’t know where to start looking.’

  ‘You know what they say—love is where you find it. All it takes is mutual attraction to spark it off.’ Then, thoughtfully, ‘There was something about the way that young man looked at you that showed he was attracted. Very attracted.

  ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking…I only got a quick glimpse of you both together. But that’s all it takes. I felt sure he would ask you out. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll—’

  ‘He’s going home tomorrow,’ Sophia said flatly.

  ‘That’s a shame. One date might have been all that was needed to start a transatlantic courtship. An old-fashioned word, but a nice one, don’t you think?’

  Before Sophia could answer, she went on, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t ask him to have supper with us.’

  ‘I only thought about it after he’d gone. Of course he might not have accepted.’

  ‘I rather fancy he would. When I heard the front door close, I looked out. He didn’t just walk away, you know. He stood under that tree for several minutes watching your window. In fact he’d only just disappeared when you came over.’

  Sophia was filled with disappointment. If only she’d looked out and seen him there, she might have plucked up the courage to go and issue an invitation.

  But it seemed it wasn’t to be.

  Chapter 2

  Perhaps Mrs Caldwell picked up that disappointment because she changed the subject by asking, ‘Are you showing your father’s miniatures?’

  ‘Yes. There’s plenty of space for them, and they’re some of Dad’s best work.’

  ‘My favourite is the one of the dark-haired girl in that beautiful blue silk ball gown. She’s wearing such exquisite pearls and holding what looks like a carnival mask…It always reminds me a little of you…’

  Sophia knew the one she meant. It was another of her father’s portraits that particularly appealed to her. Judging by the gown and the hairstyle, it had been copied from a much older painting.

  But when she had asked him where he’d first seen the original, he had replied that it was so long ago he’d quite forgotten.

  ‘When I mentioned to Peter how much I liked it,’ the old lady went on, ‘he told me that it was his favourite too…

  ‘I miss him, you know,’ she added abruptly. ‘I enjoyed the games of cribbage we sometimes used to play in an afternoon.’

  ‘I know he enjoyed them too.’

  Her eyes suspiciously bright, Mrs Caldwell sat up straighter and demanded, ‘So how is the exhibition coming along?’

  ‘We’re all set to open tomorrow morning.’

  While the paella finished cooking they talked companionably about the exhibition in particular and painting in general.

  When the meal was ready, Mrs Caldwell suggested frivolously, ‘Let’s have a bottle of wine. There’s several in the rack. Make it a Rioja and we’ll pretend we’re in Spain.’
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  After they had toasted each other, they tucked into the paella, which the old lady declared to be the best she had ever tasted.

  Warmed by her pleasure, Sophia put aside her low spirits and made a real effort to be cheerful. She succeeded so well that, after she had cleared away and stacked the dishwasher, they talked and laughed and played cribbage until almost eleven o’clock.

  Suddenly catching sight of the time, she cried, ‘Good gracious, I’d better get off home and let you go to bed.’

  With Mrs Caldwell’s thanks still ringing in her ears, she hurried back across the hall and unlocking her door, went inside and switched on the light.

  The first thing she noticed were her keys lying just under the edge of the coffee table. She must have knocked them on to the floor when she’d moved the bag of shopping.

  She had closed the door behind her and stooped to pick them up when a sudden strange, unprecedented feeling of unease made her stiffen and glance around.

  Nothing seemed out of place and her handbag was where she’d left it, but a sixth sense insisted that something was wrong. Not as it had been.

  But what?

  Still puzzling, she dropped one set of keys into her handbag and put the spare ones back into the sideboard drawer, while she continued to look around.

  Yes, that was it! At both the front window and the kitchen window at the side of the house, the curtains, which had been open, were now closed.

  The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin goosefleshed as though a cool breeze had blown over it, while her thoughts flew backwards and forwards.

  Someone must have been in the flat after she had gone across to Mrs Caldwell’s.

  Impossible. There was only the old lady and herself in the house.

  However, the fact remained that curtains didn’t draw themselves. And they must have been drawn for some specific reason.

  It seemed to point to a burglar, or someone with nefarious intentions who hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone passing.

  But the back door was always kept locked and bolted and no one could come in the front way who didn’t ring one of the flats or have a key.

  Yet someone had been in.

  And perhaps still was. Chilled by the thought, she shivered.