The Girl Behind the Mask by Stella Knightley Page A

contrite and we made love as passionately as ever. More passionately, in fact. When he kissed me it was as though he would rather have bitten me. Showing a dominant streak I had not noticed in him before, he dragged me around the bed, pulling my legs apart and roughly lifting them over his shoulders so that he could penetrate me more deeply. He penetrated me so deeply it almost crossed the line between pleasure and tear-jerking pain. On one level I definitely enjoyed it. I loved giving myself up to him. I loved the feeling of abandonment that came with submitting to whatever he wanted right then. But the coldness in his expression as he came that day was strange to me. It wasn’t an expression I recognised, though I would come to see it far more frequently than I wanted to.
    After that night when I didn’t know where he’d gone to, I was more careful when it came to disagreeing with Steven in public. Officially, he had apologised for escalating an intellectual argument into a personal row and a night spent apart, but something had changed for ever. Indeed, while our sex life became more interesting as a result of the new tensions, our dealings with each other outside the bedroom were increasingly cautious.
    When I mentioned to Steven that I was interested in making a study of Luciana Giordano, he told me I was wasting my time. No one would be interested in funding such a work. When I proved him wrong, getting funding from not one but two different foundations, he refused to be impressed and was grudging with his congratulations. A little later he went so far as to tell me that academic bodies were ‘throwing money’ at women’s studies in order to comply with government quotas. I never would have believed he would belittle me like that.
    And yet I continued to love him. I continued to try to make him feel that he was the centre of the universe. He was certainly the centre of mine. I talked up his research at every possible opportunity. Meanwhile, the angrily rekindled flame of our sex life guttered and dwindled. On more than one occasion, Steven came home late and slept on the sofa, telling me he hadn’t wanted to wake me up by getting into our shared bed. I began to think back with nostalgia on the days when he would have woken me up whatever time he came home and insisted on trying to make love to me to boot. Proper love. Tender and caring. Now I tried to reignite our passion in every way I could dream of. I failed.
    Of course what I should have realised is that eventually another Sarah would come along: younger, wide-eyed and ready to be impressed by anything. Steven chose easy adoration over the hard work of love.
    Seven weeks after the end of our relationship, I still felt tears spring to my eyes on a daily basis. I was determined, however, not to be beaten by our break-up. This sabbatical in Venice was a chance for me to shine. It was important that I didn’t waste my opportunity. The pain of heartbreak might eventually make me a kinder lover. In the meantime, the best way I could think of to show Steven that he hadn’t beaten me was to produce a thesis worthy of long-lost Luciana.

Chapter 17
    Before I knew it I had been in Venice for a fortnight and I was starting to feel quite at home. I could make my way from the apartment to the university without getting lost. I flirted with the guy who owned the vegetable boat. I was even on sniffing terms with the fussy dog in the bar on the Campo Santa Margherita, the one who would only eat beef. My colleagues Nick and Bea were fast becoming good friends. Nick, especially, made sure I need never feel lonely. He invited me to join him for dinner almost every evening. He was wonderful company, full of anecdotes and tall tales.
    Meanwhile, my correspondence with Marco Donato was becoming more and more informal. Alongside our continued discussion of Luciana’s antics, Marco, as I now addressed him, and I exchanged more information about our own lives. I told him more about