proportion of his earnings he kept to reinvest in his own business, but she knew it was so vast that it made the sum he entrusted to her mere pocket money in his eyes: not worth bothering about at all. As far as she knew, he had never even glanced at one of their personal bank statements.
But, even so, Kate found Mark’s financial vote of confidence in Martha’s Wish very welcome – a sort of permission. So she got the website and logo professionally designed and employed a manager to come in and set the ball rolling in an office that Mark had persuaded one of his key investors to provide by way of a tax break.
This benevolence was just one of the ways he cared for her. It was his thing: Mark looked after Kate. He was her protector. She was certain that her tiny, youthful waifishness and consciously constructed helplessness was what drew him to her in the first place, and she had held on to all of that except the youthful part.
‘I didn’t much care for being on the television, though,’ Kate said, squeezing his hand. She didn’t like the idea of her day outshining his.
‘I couldn’t tell.’
She nudged his arm. ‘You just want a high-profile charity wife like your New York chums, don’t you?’
He smiled.
‘Making your stint at the helm of capitalism more palatable for the public.’ She put her arms together to force a cleavage and assumed an overly concerned stare. ‘“Whaddaya know, a banker with a heart.”’ It was a passable imitation of Sally Marshall.
He looked round at her and smiled, trying, a little unconvincingly, to be a sport.
He seemed so weary tonight. She leaned over and kissed his cheek which, underneath the day’s-end stubble, was still firm at fifty-four. In the past couple of years he had graduated smoothly from handsome devil to silver fox. He’d told her that recently a matron in Miami airport had insisted he was George Clooney; she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
But even in all this goodness, in the past year or so she had begun to sense that he was holding something back, as if, all the time he was with her, he was silently counting in his head.
She put these doubts down to her constant conviction that she did not deserve a single piece of the good fortune her marriage to him had brought her.
It was almost as if she was expecting it all to come to an end.
She laid her head on his chest, wishing that she could read the Morse code of his heartbeat. Hooking the index finger of her free hand, she surreptitiously rubbed the knuckle against the tip of her nose, knowing she was reddening it further.
There was always make-up, though. Concealer.
His arm moved around her shoulders, and he brought his hand to rest on her breast.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said, his voice hoarse with whisky and something else.
EMMA
27 July 1980, early hours. Milan. Pensione Lulli.
OK, at about three in the morning – I’m not sure exactly, because I forgot to wind up my watch – I’m woken by people hammering on my door, shouting for someone called Maria. About three different voices, all male, all Italian, laughing and cooing at first, trying to coax this Maria out of what they suppose is her room.
Which is, in fact, my room.
I don’t dare say anything in my young, lone, female voice. I just lie there, heart thudding, praying for them to go away.
Perhaps learning to sound like a man would be a useful project.
My silence gets to them. Thinking Maria’s playing hard to get, they raise their voices and rattle the door so much the key falls out onto the tiled floor. Scared they might be able to somehow reach it through the gap at the bottom of the door, I tiptoe across the room to pick it up. But because I’ve drunk all the wine, because the room’s dark, and because I forgot that when I get up and move, my bruises and aching muscles really, really hurt, I stumble into a wooden chair. Hearing the screech as it shunts across the floor, the men outside shout more, banging on
But, even so, Kate found Mark’s financial vote of confidence in Martha’s Wish very welcome – a sort of permission. So she got the website and logo professionally designed and employed a manager to come in and set the ball rolling in an office that Mark had persuaded one of his key investors to provide by way of a tax break.
This benevolence was just one of the ways he cared for her. It was his thing: Mark looked after Kate. He was her protector. She was certain that her tiny, youthful waifishness and consciously constructed helplessness was what drew him to her in the first place, and she had held on to all of that except the youthful part.
‘I didn’t much care for being on the television, though,’ Kate said, squeezing his hand. She didn’t like the idea of her day outshining his.
‘I couldn’t tell.’
She nudged his arm. ‘You just want a high-profile charity wife like your New York chums, don’t you?’
He smiled.
‘Making your stint at the helm of capitalism more palatable for the public.’ She put her arms together to force a cleavage and assumed an overly concerned stare. ‘“Whaddaya know, a banker with a heart.”’ It was a passable imitation of Sally Marshall.
He looked round at her and smiled, trying, a little unconvincingly, to be a sport.
He seemed so weary tonight. She leaned over and kissed his cheek which, underneath the day’s-end stubble, was still firm at fifty-four. In the past couple of years he had graduated smoothly from handsome devil to silver fox. He’d told her that recently a matron in Miami airport had insisted he was George Clooney; she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
But even in all this goodness, in the past year or so she had begun to sense that he was holding something back, as if, all the time he was with her, he was silently counting in his head.
She put these doubts down to her constant conviction that she did not deserve a single piece of the good fortune her marriage to him had brought her.
It was almost as if she was expecting it all to come to an end.
She laid her head on his chest, wishing that she could read the Morse code of his heartbeat. Hooking the index finger of her free hand, she surreptitiously rubbed the knuckle against the tip of her nose, knowing she was reddening it further.
There was always make-up, though. Concealer.
His arm moved around her shoulders, and he brought his hand to rest on her breast.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said, his voice hoarse with whisky and something else.
EMMA
27 July 1980, early hours. Milan. Pensione Lulli.
OK, at about three in the morning – I’m not sure exactly, because I forgot to wind up my watch – I’m woken by people hammering on my door, shouting for someone called Maria. About three different voices, all male, all Italian, laughing and cooing at first, trying to coax this Maria out of what they suppose is her room.
Which is, in fact, my room.
I don’t dare say anything in my young, lone, female voice. I just lie there, heart thudding, praying for them to go away.
Perhaps learning to sound like a man would be a useful project.
My silence gets to them. Thinking Maria’s playing hard to get, they raise their voices and rattle the door so much the key falls out onto the tiled floor. Scared they might be able to somehow reach it through the gap at the bottom of the door, I tiptoe across the room to pick it up. But because I’ve drunk all the wine, because the room’s dark, and because I forgot that when I get up and move, my bruises and aching muscles really, really hurt, I stumble into a wooden chair. Hearing the screech as it shunts across the floor, the men outside shout more, banging on
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