corner her after breakfast. Meanwhile the prospectof a wander to the Piazza San Marco and a nightcap in stylish surroundings was rather appealing. She could wear the filigree silver earrings bought earlier in the day. Felix, at least, might appreciate them.
With time in hand she had taken the opportunity to stroll along the Zattere before striking inwards towards San Marco. The mid-October night was mild, warm even, and the Giudecca straits so smooth that the moored boats scarcely moved, only rarely the rhythmic slap of wood on water breaking the silence. One or two people were still about, dog-walkers and the occasional strolling couple, but in their quiet meanderings these somehow deepened rather than dispelled the tranquillity. Rosy gazed around at the dark waters and the distant gleams from the Giudecca, smelling the hints of late jasmine wafted from an unseen garden. She wished she could stay longer; but to the east the twinkling lights beckoned, and obediently she quickened her pace to reach the Gesuati church and take the left turn which would lead her to the Ponte Accademia and onwards to the Piazza.
She walked past the Campo Sant’Agnese lit only by stars and a gas lamp, and would have continued straight on but was stalled by a cat who seemed intent on making her acquaintance. Doubtless it was full of fleas, but it was rather a cute, fluffy little thing and she couldn’t resist stooping to tickle its ears.
As she bent down whispering coaxing words she heard voices a little further ahead, and looking up saw a couple of men standing by a bench. They were engaged in lively conversation – heated really, as she could hear one of them insisting, ‘
Rivedi il tuo prezzo! Fai pagare di
più l’Americano
, molto
di più
,’ while the other gave what sounded like an oath and threw his cigarette to the ground.
‘
Impossibile
,’ he retorted.
‘
Si, si
,’ the other urged.
They broke off at her approach and muttered a peremptory ‘
Buonasera
.’ Rosy responded politely and was about to walk on briskly, when the shorter of the two suddenly cried, ‘Ah, it is the English signora who come to my shop! You wanted book, you want Horatius. You remember me?’ She most certainly did, and he was no more appealing in the dark than he had been in daylight. She gave a cool smile of recognition.
‘Madam has found her book?’ he enquired slyly.
‘Er, no not yet,’ Rosy replied. She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘Excuse me, I am in rather a hurry.’
‘Perhaps the lovely lady has a date?’ the other man had the cheek to ask; and added, ‘Dates more fun than silly poems. Forget it, pretty girl!’ He leered.
Rosy said nothing, sidestepped smartly and walked off. The air behind remained mute but she could feel them staring after her. She marched on – or as much as one could march in high heels. She had worn them to spend an elegant evening in Florian’s, not to hobnob with frightful men in dark corners! Suddenly the prospect of seeing Cedric and Felix became oddly reassuring.
‘Presumably she
will
come,’ Cedric said, ‘one never quite knows with Rosy Gilchrist: one of those contrary types whose intentions are difficult to assess.’
‘You mean like me?’ his companion asked coyly.
‘Dear boy, your intentions are invariably transparent and just occasionally charming.’
Felix smirked, lit a cigarette and settled into his chair. Perhaps Rosy Gilchrist’s presence might be a trifle otiose after all …
‘Ah,’ Cedric announced, ‘here she is.’ He waved towards one of the glass doors where Rosy stood diffidently, surveying the maze of velvet alcoves. It was a few months since Cedric had seen her and he felt that on the whole she passed muster. Rather smart in fact. He stood up, ushered her to their table and signalled the waiter.
Felix executed a neat bow and said, ‘We rather like sidecars after dinner but have anything you choose – lemonade if you must.’
Rosy laughed, relaxed by
With time in hand she had taken the opportunity to stroll along the Zattere before striking inwards towards San Marco. The mid-October night was mild, warm even, and the Giudecca straits so smooth that the moored boats scarcely moved, only rarely the rhythmic slap of wood on water breaking the silence. One or two people were still about, dog-walkers and the occasional strolling couple, but in their quiet meanderings these somehow deepened rather than dispelled the tranquillity. Rosy gazed around at the dark waters and the distant gleams from the Giudecca, smelling the hints of late jasmine wafted from an unseen garden. She wished she could stay longer; but to the east the twinkling lights beckoned, and obediently she quickened her pace to reach the Gesuati church and take the left turn which would lead her to the Ponte Accademia and onwards to the Piazza.
She walked past the Campo Sant’Agnese lit only by stars and a gas lamp, and would have continued straight on but was stalled by a cat who seemed intent on making her acquaintance. Doubtless it was full of fleas, but it was rather a cute, fluffy little thing and she couldn’t resist stooping to tickle its ears.
As she bent down whispering coaxing words she heard voices a little further ahead, and looking up saw a couple of men standing by a bench. They were engaged in lively conversation – heated really, as she could hear one of them insisting, ‘
Rivedi il tuo prezzo! Fai pagare di
più l’Americano
, molto
di più
,’ while the other gave what sounded like an oath and threw his cigarette to the ground.
‘
Impossibile
,’ he retorted.
‘
Si, si
,’ the other urged.
They broke off at her approach and muttered a peremptory ‘
Buonasera
.’ Rosy responded politely and was about to walk on briskly, when the shorter of the two suddenly cried, ‘Ah, it is the English signora who come to my shop! You wanted book, you want Horatius. You remember me?’ She most certainly did, and he was no more appealing in the dark than he had been in daylight. She gave a cool smile of recognition.
‘Madam has found her book?’ he enquired slyly.
‘Er, no not yet,’ Rosy replied. She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘Excuse me, I am in rather a hurry.’
‘Perhaps the lovely lady has a date?’ the other man had the cheek to ask; and added, ‘Dates more fun than silly poems. Forget it, pretty girl!’ He leered.
Rosy said nothing, sidestepped smartly and walked off. The air behind remained mute but she could feel them staring after her. She marched on – or as much as one could march in high heels. She had worn them to spend an elegant evening in Florian’s, not to hobnob with frightful men in dark corners! Suddenly the prospect of seeing Cedric and Felix became oddly reassuring.
‘Presumably she
will
come,’ Cedric said, ‘one never quite knows with Rosy Gilchrist: one of those contrary types whose intentions are difficult to assess.’
‘You mean like me?’ his companion asked coyly.
‘Dear boy, your intentions are invariably transparent and just occasionally charming.’
Felix smirked, lit a cigarette and settled into his chair. Perhaps Rosy Gilchrist’s presence might be a trifle otiose after all …
‘Ah,’ Cedric announced, ‘here she is.’ He waved towards one of the glass doors where Rosy stood diffidently, surveying the maze of velvet alcoves. It was a few months since Cedric had seen her and he felt that on the whole she passed muster. Rather smart in fact. He stood up, ushered her to their table and signalled the waiter.
Felix executed a neat bow and said, ‘We rather like sidecars after dinner but have anything you choose – lemonade if you must.’
Rosy laughed, relaxed by
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