Charity Page 29

  ‘How did the interview go?’ Rita asked as she poured liberal quantities of gin into three tumblers.

  Charity dolefully recounted it.

  ‘I don’t think Anne Rushton was very impressed with me,’ she said finally.

  ‘The girls call her Ratty Rushton,’ Rita said with a smile. ‘I’ll put in a good word for you. Don’t worry.’

  ‘She’s stupid if she doesn’t take us,’ Dorothy said with that supreme confidence Charity had always been so impressed by. ‘Where else is she going to find a job lot with such fabulous faces, stunning figures and such charisma?’

  Charity giggled, at once forgetting her anxiety. Rita topped up their glasses with lemonade and passed them round.

  ‘To our future,’ she said, raising hers for a toast. ‘May every party we throw be the wildest. May all our men be stinking rich!’

  It was so good to be together again. They talked non stop, giggling about everything and anything.

  Charity told them a little of her date with John, but held back about his invitation to Florence. She would make up her own mind about that and she knew if she told them they would insist she went.

  Not a duster or broom was lifted, despite that being the intention of the evening. They moved Dorothy’s belongings into her room, unpacked a box of tinned food her mother had sent with her and discussed the need for paint and new curtains, but nothing more.

  ‘We’ll do it at the weekend.’ Rita’s words were slurred now with the gin. ‘Besides, we’ve all got next week free. Here’s to doing what we want, when we want to do it!’

  John Marshall waited at the reception desk for his key. He had spent the day seeing publishers, but his mind had been on Charity and her decision.

  ‘There’s a letter for you.’ The tall brunette smiled. ‘A young lady dropped it in this afternoon while you were out.’

  He opened the envelope, convinced she had found some polite excuse. To his amazement a couple of small photographs fell out.

  ‘You little darling,’ he said to himself as he bent to pick them up.

  She had filled out the entire form herself, even enclosed the money for the passport and there was a letter …

  Dear John,

  I would like to come if you still want me to. We aren’t on the phone at the new flat yet, but I’ve put the address at the bottom. Thank you for the lovely meal last night. I’m going to buy a book on Florence so I know all about it.

  Love, Charity.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘My ears have gone all funny,’ Charity whispered to John. There was a stern-looking businessman sitting on the other side of him and she didn’t want to show John up.

  ‘Hold your nose and gulp,’ John suggested. ‘It always happens in takeoff.’

  Charity did as he said and smiled as she found it worked. She had been in a state of nervous anticipation for the last three days, unable to eat or sleep. So many new experiences ahead of her – flying, going abroad, staying in a hotel as a guest instead of as a chambermaid, to say nothing of being with a man she’d only been out with twice.

  ‘Excited?’ John asked, leaning closer to her to share the view from the window. It was a surprisingly clear day for February and the panoramic view of London wreathed in snow beneath them was as compelling for him as it was for her. ‘The first time I flew was in the RAF and I was scared stiff.’

  ‘Very excited,’ Charity said. She wished she could be honest and tell him how awkward she felt. At times in the airport lounge she was sure from his long silences that he was already regretting asking her. ‘What time will we get there?’

  ‘Around three, their time.’ John altered his watch. ‘Then we catch a train from Milan to Florence. With luck we’ll be at the hotel in good time for dinner.’

  Charity watched as John bought a bottle of Bacardi from the duty-free trolley. He had asked what spirits she liked to drink and she hadn’t known what to say. But Dorothy drank Bacardi, so it must be all right.

  She wished she could get over this ridiculous shyness. Both times she’d gone out with him before it had been so easy to talk, but now he seemed strained too. If it was this difficult in a plane full of businessmen, what would it be like when they were alone in a hotel?

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. Especially as she hadn’t managed to arrange a job for when she got back. Anne Rushton had sounded marginally warmer when she called back to Central Promotions, but hadn’t offered anything definite. Rita and Dot kept urging her not to worry and she’d spent the week painting and arranging the flat, but maybe she should’ve been a bit more conscientious about finding a job?

  ‘Quest’ è la camera, signorina,’ the porter said as he opened the door. Charity followed as he put her case on a low bench.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Charity gasped, looking round at John.

  The Hotel Berchielli was an old merchant’s house built in the fourteenth century right on the River Arno, placed between the Ponte Vecchio and Ponte St Trinità. All Charity had seen of it so far was the impressive entrance with huge studded oak doors and a reception area which John said was typically Florentine. It looked to her much like some of the pictures of palaces in her guidebook, with heavy carved furniture, red leather and a painted ceiling that could have been done by one of Michelangelo’s apprentices.

  Charity’s room was decorated in a more feminine 1930s style, with light shiny walnut furniture, all pastel greens and pinks.

  The porter showed them the adjoining bathroom, with a huge cast-iron bath on clawed feet, mirrored walls and a washbasin set in marble, then went on to open another door through to John’s room.

  Charity stood awkwardly as John spoke to the porter in rapid Italian. Did the elderly porter think they were father and daughter? Or lovers?

  John’s room was distinctly masculine. The same red and gold decoration as downstairs, with a vast, dark wood carved bed with matching wardrobe and dressing-table.

  ‘Well what do you think?’ John asked once the porter had left. Charity was still standing in the bathroom doorway and he could see that she was tense and apprehensive.

  ‘It’s absolutely marvellous,’ she said, determined to show John she wasn’t intimidated by such a grand place. She moved over to the window and pushed the heavy curtains aside. ‘Look at this!’

  It was dark now. The river was black, twinkling with reflected lights like diamonds on a jeweller’s tray. A hodgepodge of houses seemed to grow right out of the river on the far bank and to her left she could see the Ponte Vecchio with all its medieval shops lit up brightly.

  She hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of Florence during the taxi ride from the station. They seemed to be hurtling through the narrowest of dark alleys at sixty miles an hour, narrowly missing many scooters and mopeds.

  John put one hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re dying to see more of it. Why don’t you have a bath and change? Then we’ll go out and have a few drinks before dinner.’

  Charity’s nervousness grew while she was in the bathroom, very aware of John just the other side of the door. She gulped down the glass of Bacardi and Coke he’d poured for her, hoping she could quickly acquire the taste as it might make her feel calmer.

  Dot and Rita would be green with envy, she said to herself as she got dressed again. They had both been quite shocked when she’d finally told them about this holiday. Although they’d agreed that they’d jump at the opportunity, Charity got the impression they thought she’d been a bit hasty. Now she wished she’d asked for some advice about how to handle it. Did John want her? He hadn’t so much as held her hand so far. What would happen when they got back tonight after dinner?

  Charity’s nervousness was replaced by enchantment as they strolled through the streets an hour later. One moment they were in dark, narrow alleyways, the next plunged into brightly lit shopping streets packed with people and noise. Listening to Italians speaking was like hearing music. Tiny delicatess
ens festooned with strange-looking sausages on big hooks and different kinds of pasta displayed in huge trays vied with chic shoe shops and tiny boutiques for her attention. So many restaurants and bars, all so much more colourful than anything she’d seen in England. She had to keep stopping John to let her look.

  They shared a bottle of wine in the Piazza del Duomo, sitting outside a café so she could watch the people passing through the busy square beside the magnificent green and white cathedral.

  ‘It’s so warm,’ Charity remarked, unable to believe anyone would sit outside at night in February, even if they were wearing coats. ‘And so exciting. I can’t wait to see everything.’

  John looked at her rapt face, felt her excitement and knew he’d been right to bring her here.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, taking a few lire notes and leaving them on the table. ‘I know just the thing for you.’

  He didn’t let go of her hand, but led her round the cathedral towards a row of horse-drawn carriages.

  ‘Are we going in one of those?’ she gasped. Many of the horses wore bells on their reins and the carriages had red leather upholstery.

  John just grinned and broke into a volley of Italian to the driver.

  ‘I’ve never been in one before either,’ he admitted as the driver flicked his reins and the horse lurched the carriage forward. ‘It’s one of those romantic things you only do with a special lady.’

  Charity felt as if she was in heaven. It wasn’t just the jogging along the narrow streets, like a queen, but John’s words and his hand still holding hers.

  He pointed out many important places as they passed and seemed to know every art treasure in every building. She had lost all sense of direction soon after they left the hotel, and this ride confused her still further, but she was only too happy to sit back in comfort and enjoy the experience.

  The carriage stopped at the Ponte Vecchio. John got out first, holding out his hand to help her down. He paid the driver, then slipped one arm round her, drawing her on to the bridge.

  Charity was spellbound. The bridge was packed with tiny glittering jewellers’ shops on both sides. The combination of the night sky above, the brilliance of the shop lights and the dazzling jewels on display was like stepping into Aladdin’s cave, or a Christmas grotto.

  She pressed her nose up against the windows, excitedly pointing out first one thing, then another, then moved on to the next shop.

  ‘Do you like that?’ John pointed out a small gold bow brooch studded with tiny diamonds.

  ‘Umm, it’s lovely,’ Charity agreed, too enthralled to notice that the question had some significance.

  She was so engrossed in the window displays she wasn’t aware that he’d disappeared, but as she turned to show something to him, she found he was gone.

  The bridge was crowded with people, but it didn’t feel frightening in any way. She stood still, waiting, then she saw him come out of a shop.

  ‘I thought you’d abandoned me,’ she joked, rushing up to him. ‘Did you buy something?’

  ‘Yes, for you,’ he said. Reaching into his coat pocket he brought out a small black velvet box.

  It was the bow brooch.

  ‘Oh John,’ she gasped. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  He took it from the box and bent to pin it to the lapel of her coat. ‘I want to shower you with presents,’ he said softly. ‘You make me feel so young and happy.’

  A tingle ran down Charity’s spine and she raised one hand to stroke his cheek, overwhelmed not only by the unexpected and expensive gift but by the feelings he aroused in her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, letting her hand linger on him. ‘I’ll treasure it for ever.’

  The intimacy increased as the evening wore on. They ate at a crowded trattoria close to their hotel, a gay, noisy place which was nevertheless romantically candlelit.

  Charity was aware of people looking at them with interest, perhaps wondering about their relationship because of the huge age gap, but she didn’t care. Each time John’s hand brushed hers, or his knee met hers under the table, she found herself anticipating his first kiss which she was sure would come later.

  It was after twelve when they left. A stillness had fallen on the city, just faint music from here and there and the odd passing car. The earlier crowds thronging the pavements had gone.

  Charity’s heels sounded like castanets on the cobbled street and the wind had got up, ruffling her hair. She stopped to look down at the river, leaning forward on the wall.

  The moon cut a silver swath across the dark water and the only lights on the Ponte Vecchio were dim street lamps. John stood very close to her, just touching and Charity hoped he would kiss her now.

  She glanced round at him. He was looking into the distance as if deep in thought, his back straight, both hands on the wall in front of him.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.

  He smiled faintly.

  ‘Nothing much. Just about tomorrow and what to show you first. I hope you’ve got some sensible shoes with you. You can walk miles round all the galleries and museums.’

  Her excitement fizzled out like a damp firework. She had expected him to say he was thinking of her, maybe even ask how she felt about him.

  Charity stood at the window looking out at the river. Even though they’d been in Florence for two days, she felt she could never grow tired of the view. By day the water was dark green, busy with rowers scudding along at great speed, but at this time of night she liked it best, when it looked like black tar studded with diamonds.

  The Hotel Berchielli was a very chic place to stay and John was very much at home amongst the stylish guests, conversing easily in Italian, French and German. Even so, he hadn’t left Charity out of anything, taking great pains to act as an interpreter for her and introducing her with pride, despite her youth and cheap clothes.

  But though Charity admired his suave sophistication and appreciated his gentlemanly qualities, she was finding him increasingly baffling.

  Why didn’t he attempt to kiss her? Didn’t he find her attractive?

  All day long he took pictures of her. Sometimes as he tilted her face or smoothed back her hair, the urge to hold him was so intense she could barely control it.

  On both previous nights he’d come into her room for a nightcap, and left ten minutes later after only a peck on the cheek, leaving her feeling let down and wanting him desperately.

  But today there’d been moments when she was sure he felt as she did. They had gone to see the Palazzo Pitti, where the Medici family once lived. Several times when he wanted to show her something especially beautiful like one of the wonderful ceilings, he took her hand, often caressing her fingers.

  This closeness had increased as the day wore on. Charity found herself forgetting how much older he was than her, leaning against him companionably, reaching out to touch his face, ruffling his hair, laughing with him about anything and everything.

  But again tonight, even after another romantic and memorable meal at Roberto’s trattoria, he had disappeared to make a phone call. He would almost certainly come back into her room in a minute with another drink, but right now she felt she might cry if he didn’t take her in his arms tonight.

  ‘A penny for them?’ John’s deep voice surprised her. She hadn’t heard him come in.

  ‘I wonder if I’ll ever travel as much as you have,’ she said, still staring out the window. She could see John reflected in the glass, and was again moved by how distinguished he looked.

  ‘I hadn’t been anywhere much at your age,’ John said as he moved closer to her back. Her hair stopped short of the nape of her neck and the inch or two of vulnerable white flesh gave him an irresistible urge to kiss it.

  She was wearing a pale blue cardigan back to front. He’d observed from other girls in London that this was the fashion. Either side of the row of small pearl buttons her shoulderblades stuck out like tiny wings. A broad black belt made her waist a mere hand span and the tig
ht skirt accentuated the slender curve of her young buttocks.

  His hand crept out to her shoulder, his thumb lightly touching skin. She didn’t flinch as he expected; in fact she leaned back towards him and he could feel goosepimples on her neck.

  Still holding her shoulder he bent towards her and as his mouth touched her neck she sighed, leaning back into his arms.

  John slid his right hand round her waist and kept his lips on her neck, teasing her with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she whispered, putting her hand on his just below her breast.

  ‘Oh Charity,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You make me feel I’m eighteen again.’

  She turned to face him, running her thumbs down the deep lines in his cheeks.

  His age was immaterial now. His soul was young. Fate had brought them together for some purpose and suddenly Charity knew they were going to become lovers.

  ‘I want you to kiss me,’ she whispered.

  He crushed her into his arms but then drew back to lightly touch her lips with his. She was surprised to find that he was shaking.

  Her lips parted under his, sweet and pliant, as her firm young body pressed into his.

  ‘Don’t you want me?’ She looked at him with those big sad eyes, fear of rejection written in them.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said, forcing himself to smile when already he could feel stabs of tenderness he couldn’t control. ‘I’m just not sure you know what you’re doing.’

  Her answer was to kiss him again. She closed her eyes and offered her lips and this time John couldn’t hold back. His arms went round her, drawing her tightly against him and as her tongue flickered into his mouth, passion flared up, blotting out all thought but to possess.

  He could feel her breasts pushing into his chest, her belly moving unconsciously against his hardness. He wanted to rip off her clothes, to enter her immediately, but everything he knew about lovemaking said he must hold back and make certain this really was what she wanted.

  ‘It’s not too late to stop.’