‘Yes, I did but I had only read part of it when my case appeared on the luggage carousel. It was almost the first one off; that never happens.’ Cate laughed. ‘But Mandy, how is she doing? I should have asked straight away…’
‘Do not apologise. It is overwhelming arriving in a new place, especially under these circumstances: passports, luggage, customs, remembering where you are going…’ Lucia smiled. ‘Mandy is doing well, but of course this is a serious operation; the poor woman’s plans for the next months have been, as you say, turned inside out. Luckily, Flo-Go Productions has acted swiftly. Within a few hours, they arrange everything. They sent out this replacement lady, very nice, Natalie Spencer.’
‘Natalie Spencer?’ Cate’s stomach lurched as though the Venetian lagoon had been replaced by the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. In a storm.
This had to be a bizarre coincidence. It couldn’t bethatNatalie Spencer from school. Cate had seen Nat once and only once on television, many years before. She’d turned on a new afternoon children’s show and when the camera closed in on Nat’s face, she’d jabbed poor baby Oli in the face with a spoonful of banana puree. For a second or two, Cate had sat mesmerised by her old classmate’s hideous dungarees, the smiling face made up with lots of pink blusher for a child-friendly look. Then she’d snatched up the remote control and changed channels. She’d concentrated on mopping squelchy pudding off Oli’s puce-red face, hushing his cries before addingPanda’s Placeto the list of unsuitable TV shows she left with the au pair. And, despite Nat’s fancy media studies degree, Cate had never seen her on television again. So how could she possibly be presenting a super successful, prime-time show, stepping into the towering heels of national treasure, Mandy Miller?
‘Sì, Natalie Spencer.’ Lucia beamed. ‘You have heard of her? I think she is not so well known.’
‘No, I…’
The producer gave a hand signal.
‘We are about to start. It is best not to speak,’ Lucia said. ‘The camera will pan the whole area, lingering on you just for a few seconds at a time. A smile is all we need, although a look of awestruck wonder would be perfect.’
Cate nodded. ‘Awestruck, got it.’
The driver turned into the Grand Canal, the scene instantly recognisable from a thousand photographs. And from her school trip. But she couldn’t think back to those days if she had any hope of composing her features into a natural-looking smile.
A gondola glided past, the gondolier sporting the iconic striped top of his official association. His two passengers were cosied up on the red leather seat, the girl clutching a fan, obviously bought as a souvenir, gazing at her lover as though all the wonders of Venice could not compare. Cate felt a pang of envy. She needed Phil here, someone to walk through the city with, to talk to over breakfast, to hold her at night. What if he missed more than one day? What if he didn’t turn up? She gave herself a ticking off. She must stop being so negative. Phil would be here tomorrow; they’d go riding in a gondola of their own. And he would love this city. She could hear him now, rhapsodising over the architectural beauties that surrounded them.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Lucia subtly motion towards the shimmering mosaics on the front of a grand, white palazzo. The sun was getting lower, the light changing, bathing the waterfront properties in an ethereal, golden glow. Cate flicked back her white-blonde hair and turned her elegant neck, conscious again of the camera on her. She thought of her two boys, Oli and Max; they always made her smile. Her life was perfect, like nothing she could have dreamt of back at St Margaret’s. She would not allow anyone or anything to wreck her happiness. Certainly not Natalie Spencer, the girl whose careless words had torn Cate’s world apart.
9
The make-up woman had been and gone. Natalie paced the entrance hall, catching sight of her newly sculpted face in the extravagantly framed, Venetian mirrors. According to Lucia, Cate was aboard the taxi-boat; all had gone smoothly. Natalie could only hope the same was true of what was going on in the Red Room where a second camera crew, sound technician and assorted burly men carting cables, reflective panels and other paraphernalia about had made it clear her presence was undesirable. She had to trust them to know their jobs but it was hard to concentrate on memorising her opening lines when raised voices, thumping, banging and something that sounded worryingly like a box full of broken crockery being scraped across the palazzo’s polished floor emanated from the other side of the wall.
She stepped outinto the corridor. The door closed with a click behind her. She took the steps that led to the upper floor. Taking a closer look at the ancestors whose portraits she had seen this morning might help while away the time until the taxi-boat pulled alongside the landing stage. She strolled the corridor, admiring the oils: a previous Count Vicenzi, splendid in a red dressing gown, a spaniel at his feet; a long-deceased great, great aunt, hair coiled and powdered, reflected in a looking glass.
It was no use; Natalie was still feeling jumpy. It was all very well Floella telling her she could pull off her audacious attempt to step into Mandy’s shoes but when it came to the countdown to Cate’s arrival, Natalie felt as helpless as the weak-looking kitten in the corner of the portrait in front of her. Somehow, she had to channel her inner Mandy Miller and make this work. So much was at stake. And she didn’t want to disappoint her mum and dad either. They were so excited about the prospect of watching her ‘on the box’ in their little retirement flat down in Devon.
She wished she knew what Cate looked like. Natalie’s email to Bettany reminding her to send over the missing file of photos had received only a bounce back telling her Flo’s PA was out at an industry event, and there had been no point bothering the girl again at this late stage, when she’d be seeing Cate in real life soon enough.
It didn’t feel right snooping about in the Gold Room where the couple would be staying. Instead, Natalie opened the door to the eau-de-nil bedroom and strode towards the full-length windows. A taxi-boat was approaching the peach and gold poles outside the palazzo, the driver turning the prow towards the landing stage. They were several minutes early; at any moment, Cate would enter the building. It was too late for Natalie to descend the stairs without colliding with the film crew. She’d have to wait up here, chancing that she chose the right moment to make her entrance.
Of course! How could she have forgotten? She crouched down at the edge of the patterned runner and rolled it back. She removed the diamond-shaped stone. Peering through the grill in the bedroom floor, she could see right down onto the Red Room’s dazzling terrazzo floor. Now she would be able to check everything was in place before she descended.
Lucia’s disembodied voice floated upwards, giving the camera crew last-minute instructions. Someone outside Natalie’s field of vision was entering the room below.
‘Welcome to Venezia!’ The housekeeper, Nunzia, stepped forwards, holding out a flute of Prosecco on a silver tray, exactly as they had rehearsed.
An elegant arm encased in a toffee-coloured jacket reached forward, taking the glass in a manicured hand. Natalie could see the top of her contestant’s white-blonde hair.
‘Thank you,grazie. I am so happy to be here.’
A cold hand crept up Natalie’s spine. That voice. It sounded just like her ex-school friend, Cathy. A posher version, but even so. But it couldn’t be. Scruffy little Cathy couldn’t have bagged a millionaire husband whose high-class, handmade furniture was rumoured to grace the private bedrooms at Buckingham Palace.
Natalie crouched lower; she was almost lying down now, getting as close to the metal grill as she could without imprinting a geometric design on her forehead. She narrowed her eyes. Her old classmate’s features came into view. Cate Beresford and Cathy Laidlaw were one and the same. There was no mistaking it.
‘What beautiful frescoes!’ Cate’s head tipped back; her brown eyes stared straight up at the ceiling.
Natalie froze but the hidden spy grill was well concealed in the dense foliage surrounding the fresco’s dancing nymphs. Her heart was racing; beads of sweat prickled on her cleavage. She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. How could she cope with meeting the woman whose betrayal had started the chain of events that had wrecked her life? But she had no choice. Lucia would be consulting the time, glancing at the double doors, wondering where Natalie had got to. If Mandy Miller could smile her way through the agonies of endometriosis, Natalie could play the professional. She would walk tall and greet Cathy – oops, Cate – without batting an eyelid.
Natalie stood up and smoothed down her dress, thankful she hadn’t worn linen. She tiptoed across the room, opened the door to the upstairs corridor and crept down the stairs, shoes in hand. Slipping into the library adjoining the Red Room, she steadied one arm on the back of a low sofa to put on her heels.
She squared her shoulders, flung open the double doors and advanced on her old school friend, head held high, arms stretched out. Their eyes locked. Cate took a step backwards. Natalie stepped forward. She swept Cate into a warm, Mandy Miller-style hug.
10
