‘But you don’t know that,’ she pleaded. ‘You passed out on the top of that ladder and-’
The sudden cold fury in his voice was like a slap in the face, making her flinch back.
‘You weren’t up there; you don’t know what happened,’ he snapped. ‘You saw me close my eyes against the smoke and give myself a moment’s rest before climbing down the rest of the way.
‘I didn’t mean-I’m just worried about you.’
‘Do I look as if I need worrying about?’ he asked in a voice that was now quiet and steely.
Ferne was struggling to come to terms with the terrible transformation in him, and she had to take a deep breath before she could reply bravely, ‘Yes, actually, you do. Everyone needs worrying about. Why should you be any different? Something dreadful has happened to you. It might have made you ill and I simply want to find out. Why should that make you angry?’
‘Why does any man get angry at being fussed over? Just leave it, please.’
His voice was still quiet, but now there was something in it that was almost a threat.
‘But-’
‘I said
She didn’t dare to say any more, and that word ‘dare’ told her what a dreadful thing had happened. The mere thought of being afraid of Dante was incredible, and yet she was. This was more than masculine irritation at being ‘fussed over’, it was bitter, terrifying rage.
But he was recovering himself. Before her eyes, the temper drained out of him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not quite myself. I’ll be all right soon. Just promise me one thing-you won’t say anything about this at home.’
‘Not tell them about the fire? I think that story will get around somehow.’
‘I don’t mean that. I meant the other thing, that I had a bad moment on the ladder. Hope worries easily. Say nothing.’
When she hesitated he said, ‘You
‘All right,’ she said quickly. She had a fearful feeling that his rage was on the verge of rising again.
‘You promise faithfully?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Fine. Then everything’s all right.’
Everything was far from all right, but she couldn’t say so. She could never forget what she’d seen.
But now his mood was lightening, changing him back into the Dante she knew.
‘Look on the bright side,’ he said. ‘Think what exciting pictures I must have given you.’
Pictures. Stunned, she realised that she’d never once thought of them.
She, to whom photography was such a part of her DNA that even her own lover’s treachery had been recorded for posterity, had forgotten everything the moment Dante had started to climb.
‘I didn’t take any pictures,’ she whispered.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked in mock outrage. ‘You take pictures of everything. How come I’m not considered worth the trouble?’
‘You know the answer perfectly well,’ she snapped. ‘I was too worried about you to think of photography.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘My great moment and you missed it. Shall I go back up and give you a second chance?’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said crisply. ‘The second take is never as effective as the first.’
They both knew what they were really talking about. The woman who let nothing get in the way of a good picture had missed this because she’d forgotten everything but his being in danger.
Now he would know, and how he would love that! But when she met his eyes she saw in them not triumph, but only bleak weariness, as though a light had gone out. He was struggling to present his normal, jokey self, but it was an effort.
‘Come on,’ he said tiredly. ‘Let’s go home.’
They found the car and drove back in silence. At the villa he immediately went for a shower. While he was away, Ferne outlined the events to the family but, remembering her promise, said nothing about what had happened at the end.
‘Trust Dante to go back for the dog,’ Hope said.
‘He loved it,’ Ferne said. ‘It was as though risking his life gave him some sort of kick.’
‘His father was the same,’ Toni sighed. ‘Always finding excuses to do crazy things.’
‘Yes, but-’ Hope began to speak, then stopped.
Puzzled, Ferne waited for her to continue. Then Hope met her husband’s eyes and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
‘If a man is like that, he’s like that,’ she finished lamely. ‘I’ll just go up and see if he’s all right.’
She returned a moment later saying, ‘I looked in. He’s asleep. I expect he needs it.’
Then she deftly turned the conversation, leaving Ferne again with the impression that where Dante was concerned there were strange undercurrents.
Next morning he’d already left for town when she rose. She tried not to believe that he was avoiding her, but it was hard.
Her new credit cards arrived in the post, and news came from the consulate that her passport was ready. She drove down and collected it, then went to a cafe by the water and sat, considering.
Surely it was time to move on? Her flirtation with Dante had been pleasant but it would lead nowhere. Forgetting to take pictures was an ominous sign, because it had never happened before. But the mere thought of a serious affair with him was madness, if only because of his habit of withdrawing behind a mask.
On the surface he was a handsome clown who could tease his way into any woman’s heart. But, when she’d given him her heart, what then? Would she be confronted by the other man who concealed himself inside, and whose qualities were beginning to seem ominous? Would he frighten her? Or would Dante keep her at bay, allowing her only to see what suited him? Either prospect was dismaying.
She thought of their first meeting on the train when they had sat together, thundering through the night, talking about the circles of heaven and hell. It had seemed a trivial conversation, but now she had the conviction that Dante was mysteriously acquainted with hell. Yesterday he had looked into its fiery depths not once but twice. Unafraid. Even willing.
Why? What did he know that was hidden from the rest of the world? What was his hell, and how did he confront it?
She was sunk so deep in her reverie that it took a while to realise that her mobile phone was shrieking.
‘Ferne-at last!’
It was Mick Gregson, her agent, a cheerful, booming man.
‘You’ve got to get back here,’ Mick said. ‘There’s a great job coming up, big time, and I’ve put your name forward.’
He outlined the job which was, indeed, ‘big time’. Following Sandor’s example, a major Hollywood actor had just signed up for a West End play, seeking the prestige of live theatre. Next to him Sandor Jayley was peanuts.
‘The management wants only the best for the pics, and when I mentioned you they were very interested.’
‘I’m surprised anyone wants me after last time,’ she observed wryly.
‘I’ve heard that they value your “self-sacrificing honesty”. Don’t laugh; it’s doing you a world of good. Seize this chance, sweetie. Gotta go.’
He hung up.
So there it was, she thought, staring at the silent phone: the decision was made for her. She would say farewell to Dante and return to England, glad to have escaped.
Escaped what?
She would have to learn to stop wondering about that.
The phone rang again. It was him.
‘Where are you?’ he asked in a voice that sounded agitated. When she told him, he said, ‘Don’t move. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
