The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [51]
Vittoria's eyes narrowed and she reached out to grasp the trinket. Her fingers were cold, and smelled of nicotine. `Bello,' she said, with exactly the same inflection as before.
She released the heart as Leonora went on, `and I was intrigued. I wanted to come and see if I could carry on the family trade.'
Family trade. That was good. Chiara and Semi will be pleased with me. Now please let's get away from England, I don't want to talk about Stephen.
Just like that? Wasn't it hard to leave family and friends? Boyfriend? Husband?'
Damn.
'I ... was married. He ... we divorced.'
A drag of cigarette. A nod of the head. 'Ali I see!
Leonora felt that somehow Vittoria had divined her whole sorry history.
This woman has never been left by anyone. She has always been the leaver, and pities women who have been abandoned. Women like me. Even Alessandro didn't come back for more.
`And once here, you went to Signor della Vigna for work?'
`Adelino. Yes. I was very lucky.'
A raise of the eyebrow. `Indeed. When you got the job, how much d'you think was down to your talent, and how much was down to your famous ancestor, Corrado Manin?'
Leonora would not rise. `If I'm honest, I don't think I would have gotten the chance that I got if it weren't for Corradino. But then again, Adelino would never have employed me if I couldn't actually blow glass. He'd be a fool to, and he's no fool.'
She was reminded of all those interviews with budding young actors from theatrical dynasties, who always protested that being a Redgrave, or a Fox, was actually a hindrance to their careers. She and Stephen always used to scoff at the TV. She was no more convinced by her own answers than she was by theirs.
Vittoria nodded, in retreat, but the next attack was close. `And your colleagues? The maestri that have been blowing glass for years? What do they think of you?'
Leonora shifted, thinking of Roberto. `They were very welcoming, on my very first day.'
That at least, was true. It wasn't till we all went to the bar that it went sour.
`I think they had ... reservations ... when the whole Manin line and the ad campaign was first mooted. But, after all, if it does well, things will improve for them ... for all of us.'
`But what do they think of you personally?' persisted Vittoria. `Are they your friends?'
`You'd have to ask them'
Vittoria's lips curled into a sleepy smile. `Perhaps I will.'
A mistake.
The journalist began to tap her biro against her perfect teeth. It was a technique she employed to good effect in her interviews with male officials. She did it to draw attention to her mouth - white even teeth parted slightly over her pink tongue between a slick of red lipstick. Her subjects usually forgot what they were about to say, and were led to commit some indiscretion. Leonora wondered what was coming.
`And how about the personal angle? Have you found any romance here in the city of love?'
Leonora could hear the heavy cynicism which underlay Vittoria's question. She was not about to admit her feelings to this woman - this woman who clearly did not believe in love - at least, not the romantic kind.
`No, there's no-one'
Vittoria lowered her eyes and made as if to pack up her paraphernalia. It was another favourite trick of hers - they always started to relax. She shot Leonora a look of pity. `It sounds very lonely. No friends, no boyfriend, just a long dead ancestor.'
Leonora was stung. Vittoria had already made her feel inadequate - she could not handle pity too. She rose to the bait. `Actually there is someone. But it's all very new, so I'd rather not say anything more till I see how things pan out.'
This time both dark brows shot up. `Could you give us anything? A tiny hint?'
Leonora smiled to herself in a private joke. `He looks like he has stepped from a painting'
Vittoria shrugged and snapped off the recorder with finality. `Who doesn't?'
But as Vittoria passed the fridge on the way out she caught sight of him, staring out of the Titian postcard. The Cardinal's Nephew. Alessandro Bardolino. She'd seen the painting