A Murder in Tuscany by Christobel Kent

matter?’
    And now his opportunity presented itself so baldly, Sandro wasn’t ready.
    His mobile rang in the hiatus, and he took it out, stared at the screen; Luca Gallo, it said. Damn the man; he let it ring a few times, then pressed reject.
    ‘The Bellagamba case,’ he blurted, not having the faintest idea what he was going to say next. ‘It’s a worry. The girl’s in bad company.’
    Luisa stared him down, not buying it. ‘And you’re the man to sort her out?’

    ‘What do you mean by that?’ said Sandro. On an empty stomach, the wine was not helping matters one bit.
    ‘I mean,’ said Luisa, hands still resting on top of her bag, ‘that you’re behaving like an idiot. If there’s something the matter, then tell me, don’t just sit there getting drunk and making snide remarks.’
    ‘All right,’ said Sandro, setting the glass down harder than he’d intended to and slopping wine on the tablecloth. ‘Are you really going to New York with Frollini? Are you – ’ he hesitated, then took the plunge. Too late. ‘Is there something going on between you?’
    There was a long, cold silence.
    Slowly Luisa stood up, setting her bag on the table between them, brushing at her front for invisible crumbs. ‘Something going on?’ and the mocking note in her voice cooled his blood instantly.
    ‘I – I – ’ Sandro felt the wine fumble with his tongue. Felt his own stupidity like a fog in which he was blundering. Because he didn’t know, he didn’t even know what he was asking. He looked at her helplessly, but she didn’t take pity on him, not this time.
    ‘Do you think I am going to deny anything?’ Luisa said, holding herself quite still. ‘To provide you with witnesses or proof, to show you my appointment book in New York or bring Frollini in here to explain precisely the nature of our relationship?’ Pale and terrifying and handsome, she held his gaze, and the worst of it was, he was still thinking, she could be bluffing, this could be a cover.
    ‘That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
    He said nothing; she didn’t want him to speak; he stared at the congealing pasta, the stained tablecloth. Her handbag sat there, inviting him to up-end it, searching for clues. He averted his eyes.
    Luisa leaned down to make him look at her, and when he raised his head she spoke. ‘Do you know what they say?’ she said. ‘That counselling they insisted I have? They said it can have unexpected side-effects, this kind of illness. The thought of your own – mortality, or something. Women up sticks and travel the world, some of them. Run off with younger men; take up painting or write novels. Of course, some of them just sit at home and wait to die. But I’m not going to die, Sandro.’

    ‘No,’ he said helplessly. ‘I know you’re not.’ But he didn’t know, not yet. Was he more afraid that she would leave him for Frollini, than that she would die?
    Luisa stared at him, then swept the bag off the table and into her arms. He wished she had not done that.
    ‘No, Sandro,’ she said. ‘Do you know what I think?’ He bowed his head. ‘I think a little time apart wouldn’t do us any harm.’ And she was gone, closing the bedroom door behind her.
     
     
    Within ten minutes of Sandro leaving, Giuli had managed to make herself less visible. Her first worry had been that if she stayed in the corner on her own the Indian doorman or one of the waiters would have her down as a hooker and have her out on her ear, but either they didn’t notice, or they didn’t care. She’d ordered a Coke from a waiter and he’d just taken her money and brought her the drink on his grubby tray. And in her jeans and biker boots, it could be that these days Giuli actually looked like a normal girl, in the right light.
    All the same, when a pair of English girls sat down at the other end of the banquette, giggling stupidly on hash, she edged into their orbit, for camouflage. One of them looked at her with fleeting distaste, as if