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It fleetingly crossed Sophie’s mind that no one knew exactly where she was—or who Marco was—and she could enter this house and never be seen again. But if it was a kidnap plot, it was far too elaborate a set-up for a waitress living on the outer edges of Chelsea. She took another step up the last step and entered through the ornately carved wooden door and came to an abrupt standstill.
Had she fallen down a rabbit hole? Sophie had cleaned and waitressed in some seriously swanky homes over the last year or so, but she had never seen anything quite on this scale or of this antiquity. The door led into an immense tiled hallway with a wooden-beamed ceiling and aged-looking frescos on the wall and ceiling, the only furnishings a few very old and very delicate-looking chairs. The hall ran the entire length of the building; she could see double doors at the other end, windows on either side, the sun streaming through the stained glass at the top. A gallery with intricate wrought-iron railings ran all the way around the hallway, accessed by two wide staircases, one at either end of the hall. Sophie could see several closed doors running the length of the room, discreetly hidden in the faded frescos.
What she couldn’t see was any sign of life. She stepped further in, swivelling slowly as she took in every detail, jumping at the sight of the elderly woman, clad in sombre black from throat to calf, standing statuelike almost behind the open door. ‘Oh, hello. I mean buongiorno.’ All her hastily learned Italian phrases seemed to have disappeared from her head. ‘Je m’appelle... No, sorry, that’s not right. Erm...mi chiamo Sophie. Marco is expecting me, isn’t he? The driver, boatman, he seemed to think he was at the right place.’
That’s right, Sophie, just keep babbling.
She was struck by a sudden thought: maybe this was a hotel and the Santoro was just a coincidence—it could be a totally common name like Smith or Brown. ‘Should I check in?’ she enquired hopefully. A check-in desk she could cope with. House rules, room-service menu, hopefully a fluffy white robe.
The woman didn’t respond. Instead she bent slowly, so slowly Sophie could almost hear the creak of her waist, before picking up Sophie’s suitcase as if it weighed less than an empty pillowcase. Sophie, who had stepped forward to stop her, froze in place as the woman stepped forward, the suitcase almost swinging from her hand. It had taken all Sophie’s efforts just to heave that suitcase onto the Tube. She eyed the woman with respect and stood back out of her way as the woman strode past her with a grunted ‘This way’ as she did so. Sophie followed meekly behind, along the hallway, up three flights of the sweeping staircase and onto a long landing peopled with portraits of men in tights and women with fans. Sophie was panting by this point, but the woman seemed completely at ease and Sophie yet again promised herself a regular routine of Pilates, Zumba and body pump.
They came to an abrupt halt outside a wood-panelled door. The woman pushed it open and gestured for Sophie to step inside. With a wondering glance she did so, her aching legs and heaving chest instantly forgotten as she turned around in wonder.
The room was huge, easily twice the size of Sophie’s entire apartment with three huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the canal, shutters swung open to reveal the Juliet balconies outside each one, Venice framed like a living breathing picture within. Although the walls were painted a simple pale blue the ceiling was alive with a fresco of cherubs and angels, partying riotously across the room, edged in gilt matching the elaborate gilt headboard on the huge bed and the elegant chaise positioned before one of the windows. A huge mirror hung opposite the windows reflecting the watery light. The woman—a maid? Marco’s grandmother? A complete stranger? Sophie had absolutely no idea—opened one of two matching doors on either side of the bed to reveal a dressing room, complete with dressing table and two wardrobes. The other door led into a bathroom so luxurious Sophie thought she might never be able to leave it.
‘The family will gather in the reception room at six,’ the lady intoned and left, shutting the door firmly behind her, leaving Sophie standing in the middle of the room torn between giddiness at the gorgeousness of her surroundings and fear at trying to find her way through this huge house to meet a set of people she didn’t even have names for.
‘Breathe,’ she told herself. ‘Live a lot, remember?’ But as she sank onto the bed she was painfully conscious that all she wanted to do was hide away in this room.
Okay, here was what she knew: this was not an apartment; Marco’s family appeared to own the entire, immense and very old building. Therefore the family party was unlikely to be just a few close friends, a glass of sherry and some pineapple and cheese sticks in the kitchen. The only person she knew was Marco and he wasn’t even here and didn’t expect to be until the party. She lay down and stared up at the cherubs, hoping they might be able to help her.
