Free Flood Tide by Stella Whitelaw

foreign women.
    He took her to a cellar restaurant which was lively and crowded. Giovanni was greeted on all sides, admiring glances being thrown in Reah’s direction. The signora came out of the kitchen, with rapid words of welcome and smiles of delight that Reah was to eat with them. She gave them a discreet table in a corner; a candle flickered in a Chianti bottle on the red check tablecloth. Two carnations leaned over in a small vase.
    “This is nice,” enthused Giovanni. “The tortellini is a dream. You will like? You have no need to think of your figure.”
    His eyes travelled over her slimness.
    “The treasure of Florence is not all from the ground,” he went on, waving his hands expressively. “Youmust see the bird’s eye. I will take you to the hillside of Bellosguardo where the view is magnifico . We will climb the steps of the Campanile to see the rooftops of Florence.”
    Reah smiled at the way Giovanni had taken over the organisation of her sight-seeing. The new bottle of wine was rougher than the pink, but Reah did not care. She was enjoying herself.
    Giovanni leaned across the table and stroked her bare forearm. It was a soft caressing movement. He had long fingers with well-kept nails. She removed his hand, and he leaned back, grinning, his eyes lazily half closed.
    “The so reserved English lady,” he teased. “She sits like the Madonna of the Stairs, so serious. I long to arouse the passion of your heart.”
    Reah was surprised that he compared her to Michelangelo’s marble relief, but then if he lived here he would know all the famous treasures.
    “Such beauty should not be wasted,” he went on ardently, his eyes openly admiring her figure. “Such perfection is made to be loved by a man who is a passionate lover of women.”
    Reah knew he was about to recommend himself as such a lover; she had allowed him to go too far. It had been easier to let the talking go on, and not to worry too much about what he was saying.
    “Not me,” said Reah briskly. “I’m not waiting for a passionate lover of women. I don’t care to be part of a collection. I’m waiting for a very special man.”
    Giovanni misunderstood Reah, partly because the wine had taken any coolness from her voice, and it was warm and throaty.
    “ Carissima, carissima ,” he said tenderly. “You have found that special man.”
    “But my husband would not approve,” she laughed, saying the first thing that came into her head. “He is very jealous.”
    He looked somewhat taken aback.
    “Your husband is a fool to leave such a beautiful woman alone,” he said with a careless shrug. “If I had such a jewel, she would always be in my sight.”
    He seemed not in the least perturbed by the news that she might be married. Reah began to think of routes of escape. She took her hand away.
    “Tell me about yourself,” she said quickly, steering the conversation into safer channels. “Tell me about your family and your work. Have you any hobbies?”
    “Hobbies?” He looked bemused.
    “In your spare time, when you are not working.”
    His eyes lit up. “Of course,” he said with unashamed pride. “Beautiful women and love are my hobby; I am much accomplished in these arts!”
    Reah wondered if there was any subject he could not turn to love, but she was used to coping with a room of girls bent on not doing any work. She thought of her pupils with affection. They had been stunned when her father drowned. For weeks there were small anonymous offerings of flowers on her desk…a few primroses, a bunch of violets, wild cowslips picked from the Downs…they arrived unseen and she put them in jars around the art room as silent tokens of sympathy.
    “Are you as charming to all your sisters?” asked Reah, making a guess as to the size of his family.
    “ Mamma mia ! My sisters!” he exclaimed. “They talk of nothing but love and babies and men. I cannot understand it.”
    Giovanni was diverted and began to talk of other things,