‘That’s very kind,’ Eve says, taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely I’m sure. It would be my pleasure.’
‘Well, then . . . Yes. Gosh. How exciting. I’ve never been to a party in a palace before.’
‘Perhaps you could wear your bracelet?’
‘I could, couldn’t I.’
‘In that case, è deciso. Palazzo Forlani’s on the Dorsoduro. Cross the Accademia Bridge and it’s a hundred metres or so on the left. Say you’re with Giovanna Bianchi from Van Diest. I’ll be there from nine o’clock.’
‘Um . . . sure. Why not. Thank you, Giovanna. That would be lovely’
She extends her hand. ‘Allora a dopo, Signora Polastri.’
‘It’s Eve.’
‘A dopo, Eve.’
Back at the hotel she sits on her bed with her laptop, encrypting her report on Yevtukh Rinat and the probable involvement in his disappearance of V and her Russian friend, lover, whatever. When she’s dispatched it to Billy at Goodge Street, she calls Lance’s room. There’s no answer, but a couple of minutes later he knocks at her door, and when she opens it he’s carrying beer bottles and an enormous pizza.
‘The restaurants round here are all tourist rip-off joints,’ he tells her. ‘So I went for the takeaway option.’
‘Perfect. I’m starving.’
For the next half-hour they sit in front of the small balcony drinking cold Nastro Azzurro and eating pizza topped with sliced potatoes, rosemary and Taleggio cheese.
‘That was seriously good,’ says Eve, when she can manage no more.
‘You have to put up with a lot as a spy,’ Lance says. ‘But I draw the line at crap food.’
‘I never knew you cared.’
‘Funny old world, isn’t it? Mind if I have a smoke on the balcony?’
‘Go ahead. I should call my husband.’
When she eventually finds her phone in her bag, she realises it’s been turned off all day. To her horror, she sees that Niko has tried to ring six times, and left three messages.
‘Fuck. Fuck . . .’
It turns out he’s had an accident. He’s spent most of the day in Accident and Emergency at the Royal Free Hospital, and is now back at home, on crutches.
‘Niko, I’m really, really sorry,’ Eve says, when she finally gets through to him. ‘I’ve just discovered my phone’s been off all day. What happened?’
‘School parent dropping her son off. Son steps out in front of a moving car, I run forward and pull him out of the way. Bang.’
‘Oh, my love. I’m so sorry. Is it bad?’
‘Broken ankle, basically. Fractured tibia and torn ligaments.’
‘Painful?’
‘Put it this way, you’re going to be doing more of the cooking.’
‘Oh God, you poor thing. For the accident, I mean, not for my cooking. Although that’s not good news, either . . . Sorry, it’s been a long day.’
‘Indeed it has. How’s Venice?’
‘Lovely, actually, despite the fact that’s it’s been raining all day.’
‘And Lance? In good health?’
‘Niko, please. Lance is fine, work is fine, and I’ll be back tomorrow night. Are you going to be OK till then?’
‘My ancestors fought the Ottomans at Varna. I’ll survive.’
‘Is there enough hay for Thelma and Louise?’
‘You might pick some up at Duty Free.’
‘Niko, stop it. I’m sorry, OK? For leaving my phone off, for being here in Venice, for your accident. I’m sorry for all of it. Did the hospital give you painkillers?’
‘Yes. Codeine.’
‘Take them. With water, not whisky. And go to bed. I hope that boy’s parents are grateful.’
‘Parent. Singular. And she was.’
‘Well, I’m proud of you, my love. Truly.’
‘So what are you doing tonight?’
‘I’ve got to go out later and speak to someone about some CCTV footage.’ The lie slips out easily, effortlessly. ‘Then to bed with a book.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘A novel by Elena Ferrante.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The complicated relationship between two women.’
‘Is there an uncomplicated kind?’
‘Not in my experience.’
She’s still staring at the phone when Lance comes back into the room, trailed by a whirl of cigarette smoke.
‘So what’s the plan?’ she asks him.
‘Phoned someone earlier. Bloke I used to work with in Rome who’s moved up here. Thought I might have a word with him about our disappeared Ukrainian.’
‘When are you meeting him?’
‘Half an hour. Bar near that police station we were at earlier. What about you?’
‘Going to some sort of reception thing with Giovanna from the jewellery shop. The security footage has been wiped, but I’m sure there’s more she can tell us.’
‘I’m sure there is.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re smirking, Lance.’
‘That’s not a smirk, it’s a facial tic. I’m very sensitive about it.’
‘Look, you were good this morning. Really good. And that pizza was seriously delicious. But if you’re going to smirk whenever I mention another woman’s name this isn’t going to work.’
‘No, I see that.’
‘Fuck off, Lance.’
‘Absolutely. Right away.’
Ten minutes later, Eve has changed into the Laura Fracci dress, pinned her hair into a passable French twist, and is stepping out into the dusk with the rose gold bracelet on her wrist. The day’s rain has sharpened the air, which smells of dampness and drains. Crossing the piazza she threads her way westwards, past lingering groups of tourists, to the Accademia Bridge. Halfway across the bridge she stops, entranced by the view. The darkening canal, the illuminated waterside buildings, and, at the distant mouth of the lagoon, the dome of Santa Maria della Salute. Almost too much beauty to bear, and all of it dying. As are we all, a voice in her head whispers. There’s no tomorrow, there’s only today.
Looking out over the glimmering canal, poised between the upstream and the downstream of her life, Eve considers her adversary. All she’s seen of her is her eyes, but the eyes are enough. I am death, that gaze seemed to say, and if you’re not intimate with death, can you ever feel truly alive?
From such a challenge, Eve now knows, there’s no retreating, no walking away. Wherever it leads, she has to follow, and if she has to lie to Niko, then so be it.
