The Girl with Emerald Eyes

by Debbie Rix

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

A richly drawn and absorbing novel of passion and power, love and redemption that will captivate fans of Victoria Hislop, Tracy Chevalier and Kate Furnivall. Two women, centuries apart, bound together by the secrets of one of the most iconic buildings ever created. Pisa, 1999: Sam Campbell sits by her husband’s hospital bed. Far from home and her children, she must care for Michael who is recovering from a stroke. A man she loves deeply. A man who has been unfaithful to her. Alone and in need of distraction, Sam decides to pick up Michael’s research into the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Immersing herself in the ancient city, she begins to piece together the mystery behind the creation of the tower, and discovers the woman that history forgot… Pisa, 1171: Berta di Bernardo, the wife of a rich merchant, sits in her chamber, dressing for a dinner party. A gathering that will change the course of her life and that of a young master mason, Gerardo, forever. A strong, intelligent woman, Berta’s passion for architecture draws her to Gerardo. As she embarks on a love affair, her maid Aurelia also becomes spellbound by the same man. Yet for Berta, her heart’s desire is to see the Tower built, and her determination knows no bounds… Note: Previously published as Secrets of the Tower What people are saying about The Girl with Emerald Eyes 'Fascinating.' Hello! ‘ A wonderfully written novel…definitely a book to add to your library. Not only was it highly informative, but immensely entertaining.’ Historical Novel Review ‘ An enchanting, engaging tale that I recommend to anyone interested in Italian history and architecture, or just a good novel.’ History and Other Thoughts ‘The book is beautifully written and the Italian setting is perfectly drawn in both modern and historical settings, with sufficient detail to bring Pisa vividly to life, clearly by someone who loves it and knows it well…this is a wonderful story.’ Being Anne Reading ‘Debbie had me completely transported back to 12th Century Pisa, and I loved every second of it. The drama, secrets, and scandal, the lust, the love, the heartbreak, I was mesmerized… This book is so soundly structured and beautifully written.’ 5/5 stars Paris Baker’s Book Nook 'The author has an incredible knack of bringing the characters to life. I could picture the landscape and the lives being led in 12th century Pisa – it felt like I was right there, experiencing everything. A beautiful story from an exceptional new author – it was hard to believe this is her debut as it is assuredly written and unfolds brilliantly towards a satisfying climax.' Renita D'Silva ' Perfect historical fiction mixed with present day. I can't say enough how much I enjoyed this book. I gobbled it up over the afternoon and night. Definitely want to read this author again.' Nik Book Lover ‘Very absorbing with realistic characters… the book is outstanding.' That Thing She Reads ‘ A fabulous read. I loved this book so much…so beautifully written.’ AJ Book Review Club ‘Debbie Rix is a hugely talented writer and it's hard to believe this is her first novel as she writes with such confidence and assurance of her time and place. The characters and setting just leap off the pages.… If you are looking for a historic read that's just that little bit different you can't go wrong with this wonderful début from Debbie Rix.’ Shaz's Book Blog ‘It was fascinating to read Debbie's descriptions of Pisa long ago. She manages to evoke the sights, sounds and smells as though you are standing right there. A truly lovely novel.’ Reading Room with a View

Release date: March 20, 2015

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 382

Sample

Kent

It had been a wonderful spring. The sun shone brightly each day, and the rain fell gently overnight, leaving the lawns vivid green, sparkling in the early morning sun, and the flower beds, freshly washed, bursting with new growth. Each morning, sunlight glinted on the pools of water collecting in the newly unfurled leaves of the alchemilla that lined the path to the front door.

Sam woke early; which was odd, because usually she clung to sleep until the last minute. Most days she was woken by the sensation of a little body climbing into the bed with her. It was a ritual.

‘Come on Mummy – I want my brepuss.’ The boy could not yet pronounce hard sounds like ‘k’s’ and ‘t’s’’

‘In a minute,’ she would say, hardly opening her mouth, her eyes still closed, hoping every morning, that he might take pity on her adult longing for sleep and go off to play somewhere quietly by himself. A vain wish. Freddie was not that kind of child.

‘Open your eyes, Mummy.’

His hands, clammy, would prod her eyelids. Not painfully, but persistently.

‘Now.’

At other times the twins, her darling girls, would arrive with a stereophonic burst of energy, coiling themselves around her like tiny blonde angels, filling the air with chatter and the sweet smell of those newly emerged from babyhood.

But this morning she woke alone.

Early morning light filtered through the closed curtains. She peered at the clock on the bedside table. 6.40 am. She hauled herself out of bed, anxious suddenly for a sight of her children. She padded along the corridor and quietly opened the girls’ door. They lay in uncanny symmetry; each one facing the other in almost identical positions, with one arm draped languidly across the bed, the other tucked into their bodies, thumb firmly ensconced in their rose-bud mouths. Blonde curls trailed over matching pillows decorated with pink and purple angels and stars. Their sleigh beds stood on either side of the window that looked out over the garden. Newly, and proudly, acquired as their first ‘proper beds.’

Automatically, she bent and scooped up the cast-off clothes that lay on the floor and, closing the girls’ door quietly behind her, pushed the grubby tights and T-shirts into the laundry basket that stood on the landing between the children’s two rooms.

Quietly, she opened Freddie’s door. Toys and clothes were strewn around the floor and the bed. He had been difficult to get off to sleep the night before and she had fallen into her own bed exhausted, without her usual evening sort out. Guiltily, she surveyed the mess. Surrounded by a halo of toy trains and cars with coloured dinosaurs wedged improbably into the driver’s seat, the child’s angelic face lay upturned, the dark lashes fluttering, mid-dream. His perfect scarlet lips slightly apart. Out of habit, she leant over him, listening for the little wheezing breaths, something she had felt compelled to do since the day she brought him home from hospital. She felt guilty sometimes that she never listened so intently for the girls’ breathing. There was something about her first-born child that seemed so vulnerable.

She pulled back from kissing him, grateful for his breathing and intent suddenly on a silent retreat to bed for an unaccustomed listen to the radio.

Desperate now for a cup of tea, she decided to risk the noise of a visit to the kitchen and crept, as silently as possible, downstairs. The kitchen was warm from the Aga and, once the kettle was on, she leant against its comforting girth. The room, painted a pale shade of green that she and Michael had first seen in the restaurant of the Musée D’Orsay in Paris, had a large table in the centre, strewn with the paraphernalia of the previous day’s biscuit making – one of the children’s favourite activities. Bowls stood unwashed, smeared with butter and raisins. Cookie cutters in all manner of shapes and sizes lay abandoned, squished into the endlessly reshaped dough, that she had finally persuaded the twins was no longer edible. Freddy’s dinosaur cutter was making a particularly alarming nose-dive into the leftovers of chocolate mixture. The finished biscuits stood, half-eaten, on a rack to one side. A pang of guilt overwhelmed her as she recalled their unhealthy supper. Biscuits and juice were not really a well-balanced meal, even if they were home-made. She tipped the leftover biscuits into a tin, scooped the remains of the dough into the bin, piled the cutters and spoons into the bowls and put them into the large stone sink, sloshing hot water onto them. The pipes rattled noisily, as the elderly plumbing grumbled its way back to life. Anxious not to wake the children, she hurriedly turned the water off, just as the kettle on the Aga began its early morning salutation – a thin, wheezy whistle that penetrated the silence. Shoving the kettle off the heat, she took a mug off the dresser. Turning the lights off, she retreated once more upstairs, tea in hand, the house still uncharacteristically silent.

Settled once more in her bed, she turned on the radio to hear the familiar tones of James Naughtie. His voice took her back, as it always did, to a time when she was young, before the children, before Michael. She had been a reporter on the Today programme, newly promoted from researcher. She had been in awe of Naughtie and his ilk – the grand old men of radio, as she thought of them then. Bashing stories out on their keyboards at four in the morning, shouting across the newsroom at producers and editors. Demanding, clever. She’d rather liked him.

As she sipped her tea, she listened to a piece on the radio about pollution and environmental damage. It was the kind of story she would have been sent to cover in the old days. Standing in a freezing field at dawn, waiting for a cue in her earpiece from the London producer. The interviewee was a man with a wonderful Norfolk burr who was warning of the absence of bird-song that spring. Naughtie spun the interview out brilliantly: interested, gently chiding, filling the space until he could throw, gratefully, to the weathergirl.

As she described the perfect late spring weather they could all look forward to that day, Sam crawled to the end of her bed and opened the curtains. The sky was a beautiful opalescent shade of palest blue and pink. She could see the sun winking at her through the woods that ran the length of their garden. She looked down onto the newly created flower bed. The early morning light cast sharp shadows and the plants made crisp, clean shapes, their zingy green growth emerging from the freshly dug soil. She and Michael had planned the bed together – he had even helped dig some of the plants in, which had surprised her. His customary attitude to any gardening had always been that it was a nice hobby for her, but not something he needed to bother with. She thought back to that weekend, just a fortnight before. ‘Come on,’ he’d said suddenly, on Saturday morning, when the children were fractious and squabbling. ‘Let’s all go outside and put some of those plants Mummy’s been collecting at the back door… before they die.’ He’d headed off, leaving Sam to find the children’s wellies, toy spades and garden implements; to tussle with gloves and little sticky fingers. It had taken her a good half-hour to get them all assembled, by which time Michael had already planted half a dozen new plants, mostly in the wrong place. But she had kept her counsel for once and had surreptitiously moved them to the correct positions when he went in for a coffee.

The sound of little feet padding along the corridor brought an end to her quiet adult thoughts.

‘Mummy,’ the voice was indignant.

‘I was ’sleep and dreaming… ’bout a dragon.’

‘Were you darling, how nice.’ She was preoccupied.

‘Wasn’t nice, was nasty.’

‘Oh that's lovely, darling.’

‘Mummy!’ The child shouted, jolting her into alertness.

There was a ringing sound. The phone. Odd, so early in the day.

The child wailed.

She picked up.

‘Hello?’ her voice uncertain, questioning.

‘Mrs Campbell?’

There was an accent. Rather pretty. French, Spanish, Italian.

Michael was in Italy.

‘Yes…? Yes, I am Mrs Campbell. What is it?’

The child, her child, began to cry. His ruby lips giving voice to his indignation. His eyes, intelligent, dark, the colour of chestnuts, observed his mother’s sharp green eyes. He saw the frown. He knew. It was not going to be a good day.

The phone call was peremptory, brief, curt even.

‘It’s Michael.’

‘Yes?’

At the mention of his name, she felt herself stiffen, tense.

‘I’m afraid something’s happened.’

‘What?’

‘He’s been taken ill – we’re not quite sure what’s wrong, but you ought to come out straight away. I’m so sorry…’

Eight hours later, she sat in the business-class lounge at Gatwick. She felt numb, tears etching their way silently down her pale cheeks. She flicked through an album of photos she had grabbed from the kitchen dresser before she left. There were pictures of the children playing in the garden the previous summer: on the slide, pushing each other on the swing, playing in the paddling pool. There was a picture of her, the sun in her hair, as she raised a glass of wine to the anonymous photographer. She was smiling in that picture, wearing her favourite linen dress. Happy. And there were two pictures of Michael. In one he was attempting to slither down the slide, face first, his large frame threatening to overwhelm the flimsy metal chute, as the children lay on the ground helpless with laughter. The final image in the album showed the two of them: Michael’s arm around her shoulders, his head resting on top of hers, his lips grazing her hair.

Only the evening before, she had toyed with taking those pictures out of the album; of consigning them to the bin. With the children finally in bed, she had abandoned the messy kitchen and instead retreated to the sitting room where she opened a bottle of wine and brooded on his betrayal. She thought back to their final conversation, before he left for Italy.

‘Who is she, Michael?’ she had asked, holding up the little photo of the young dark-haired girl that she had found in his jacket pocket earlier that day. ‘Who is this girl?’

‘Just a friend,’ he answered irritably, ‘no one important. Stop making such a fuss. Where are my sunglasses?’

‘Fuss! I know she’s more than a friend, Michael. When did you start carrying pictures of friends around with you? Don’t insult my intelligence.’

He had refused to acknowledge the problem – then. He had carried on searching for glasses and notebooks, filling his suitcase ahead of his trip.

Finally, the wall of recalcitrant silence broke, as she knew it would if she pushed hard enough.

‘OK… you want to know who she is? Her name is Carrie. She’s an assistant producer. I like her. She has an… interesting line in conversation.’

‘Conversation!’ she spat back. ‘Is that what they call it now?’

The conversation comment had stung. The idea of him enjoying another woman’s company, her mind, upset her more than the thought of him sleeping with her.

‘Am I so dull now, Michael? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, no of course not. Oh God, I don’t know. You’re just different that’s all.’

‘Different?’

‘From when we first got together.’

‘Of course I’m different… I’ve got three children. I’m here all day making cakes and worrying about taking your bloody jackets to the dry-cleaners and clearing up after people. It’s quite hard to maintain an interest in the latest developments in reality television when the only television you actually watch is Postman Pat.’

He smiled a little, impressed by her sarcasm. She was always good under fire. She saw the flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth and she hated him for it. It was as if he was laughing at her. Patronising. She threw the picture of Carrie at him. It floated down onto the bedcover between them. He picked it up and laid it on his bedside table. There was a hooting of a horn; his taxi. He held her to him briefly before he left, murmuring into her hair, ‘I’m sorry. We’ll talk when I get back. I’ve got to go.’ And he had left, without a backwards look.

Later, she took some small heart from the fact that he had left the picture of Carrie where he’d placed it. She tore it into tiny pieces.

And now, here she was, in the departure lounge, waiting for a plane to take her to him. Her mind a blur of confused emotions and thoughts. Her fingers traced the picture of her and Michael smiling for the camera, as if by doing so she could absorb, and sense again, the happiness she had experienced that sunny day, eight months before. That woman in the linen dress, holding a glass of wine, had thought she was happy. She certainly looked happy. And now…? Had it all been an illusion? Had Carrie been in his life then? Had he been thinking of her small, wiry body as his lips grazed Sam’s brown hair? She closed the album and put it into her bag, as they called her flight.

Shuffling forward in the queue, she noted her fellow passengers, mostly tourists getting away for an early summer break, alongside a few Italian businessmen returning to their families on a Friday night. Judging by the number of Gucci briefcases and in-flight suit bags amongst the men in the queue, this was a regular weekly commute for them. As the queue crawled towards the check-in desk, she tripped over a pair of elegant, tanned feet encased in navy suede loafers.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘I didn’t see you sitting there.’

‘Mi dispiace, it’s my fault,’ said the man, rising to his feet. He was tall, around six feet, with dark blue eyes that almost matched his denim shirt. His skin was lightly tanned, his black hair sprinkled with grey.

He smiled sympathetically at her, noticing the pale tear-stained face.

‘Are you ok?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes of course; I’m sorry.’

She wiped her face self-consciously and attempted a smile, before rejoining the queue.

The flight was without incident. Sam gratefully gulped down a large gin and tonic but she couldn’t eat the meal. It lay, unopened and congealing until she asked for it be removed.

On arrival in Pisa she waited near the carousel for her suitcase. The man with the blue loafers stood a few metres away, chatting animatedly on his mobile phone, apparently unaware of her presence. Within minutes, her battered metal case, a remnant of her reporting days, clattered through the rubber doors and fell almost at her feet. Hauling it up, she swung her bag onto her shoulder, and, pulling her case behind her, strode past the customs officers who stood with their backs to the arrivals hall, their attention diverted by a beautiful Italian girl wearing tight white jeans and tiny crop top, her long, dark curls drifting luxuriously down her back.

Smells of pizza and rosemary assailed Sam as she pushed through the gaggle of expectant locals waiting to greet their loved ones. She experienced an almost visceral shot of pain as she witnessed the loving embrace of one young couple newly reunited.

There had been a time when she and Michael met each other at the airport; when one of them had travelled abroad for work. He as a producer of documentaries, she in her role as a news reporter – first for radio and then television. Both often had to be away for weeks at a time, but she always had a sneaking suspicion that he coped much better with her absences than she did. In the days before email he rarely rang when he was away, only occasionally sending a formal telex informing her when he would be returning to Heathrow. As she drove down the M4 towards the airport from the first flat they shared in west London, her heart began to race. She would park the car and take the lift to the arrivals hall, struggling to contain her excitement. She would then pace the floor waiting anxiously for signs that his flight had landed. If he did not appear within five or ten minutes she began to fret. And then he would be there… in jeans and an old sweater, his jacket thrown casually over his shoulders, as he pushed his trolley, tall, handsome, at ease with himself. It was more than she could do to stop herself ducking under the flimsy barrier, and rush into his arms.

It has been a long time since she’d done that. He took a taxi now… it was simpler for both of them, now that they lived so far away. And the children of course, made it difficult. She thought back to Michael’s cursory brush of the lips as he had left her this last time for Italy.

At the taxi rank, she was joined by the man in the blue shirt.

‘Hello again,’ he said kindly. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘Yes, yes… I, I’ve just had a bit of a shock that’s all.’

‘Oh I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘… I don’t mean to intrude.’

‘No, it’s fine; it’s nice of you. I’ve had some bad news… About my husband.’

‘Oh dear,’ he said gently.

‘He’s been taken ill… here in Italy. He’s in hospital.’

‘Oh, I’m very sorry; what is the matter?’

‘He’s had a stroke,’ she said flatly.

At that moment, two taxis rolled up and he gestured politely that she should take the first one.

‘I do hope your husband gets better soon,’ he said and handed her suitcase to the driver, who put it into the boot. ‘Where are you going?’

‘The Campo Hotel, I think,’ she replied.

He gave the address to the driver, before opening the cab door for her.

‘Thank you; I’m very grateful,’ she mumbled, climbing in.

As he closed the door gently behind her, he pushed his card through the open window. ‘If you need anything, anything at all, please do call me. My number is there.’

Their cabs travelled almost in tandem as they left the airport, ploughing through the outskirts of Pisa, past the low apartment buildings and immigrant grocers that encircled the town. They kept pace with one another through several sets of traffic lights, but as they approached the river that snaked its way through the centre of the city, his cab turned right as hers turned left. Looking out of the back window of the taxi, she watched his car as it sped along the busy road, until it was swallowed up in the line of traffic bordering the Arno.

Pisa

At her pensione, Sam had been met by a slight, blonde girl, named Mima, who turned out to be Michael’s Italian researcher. She was young and spoke reasonable English and, as Sam quickly worked out, was willing to help but anxious to retreat to her happy carefree life. She explained that the hospital was just a short walk across the Piazza and she would meet Sam there once she had unpacked.

The hotel that she had arranged for Sam was a slightly down-at-heel little pensione, right next to the Tower. In contrast to its splendid surroundings, the little hotel had definitely seen better days. The lobby was dark, in spite, or perhaps because of the grimy conservatory that jutted out onto the pavement at the front of the building. Conservatory was a generous term to describe this faded, plastic structure. Elderly cane chairs and sofas were pushed against the walls in an anti-social row, their flowery cushions beaten into submission by the myriads of tourists who had collapsed on them over the years. The lobby itself contained just two small leatherette chairs, between which stood a small, dusty coffee table – its chipped veneer disguised by magazines. Even to the most casual observer, these indicated a clientele drawn from all corners of Europe: Stern for the German tourists, Paris Match for the French, and an elderly copy of Hello in Spanish. The walls were lined, predictably, with images of famous Pisan landmarks – the Tower of course, the Baptistery, the Piazza dei Cavalieri. Early evening sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, reflecting off the haze of dust that hovered in the atmosphere. Sam signed the visitor’s book and handed over her passport to the middle-aged man behind the desk. His dark hair conspired to be both oily and wavy, Sam observed; not an attractive look. But he smiled kindly at her, and once he had spirited her passport into the safe, he picked up her suitcase and led her upstairs.

Her room was at the front of the hotel. The long windows looked out onto a tiny street that led to the Campo dei Miracoli. Once she had managed to undo the window catch, which was stiff with lack of use, she was able to lean out and take in the full magnificence of the Piazza. Perfectly positioned in the centre of the frame was the spectacular Duomo, its cupola silhouetted against the setting sun. This remarkable structure had been visible almost continuously on the short drive from the airport; it hovered above the red roofs of the city, a vast, shimmering semi-globe dominating the landscape much as it had done for a thousand years. To find herself living within three hundred metres of it seemed extraordinary. Behind it, she knew, stood the Baptistery, hidden from view by the large cathedral. Looking to the left, the little street on which the pensione stood was unremarkable; tall houses, four or five storeys high, divided into flats, she thought; the odd shop; the awnings of a number of restaurants – their tables and chairs laid out invitingly in the late evening sunshine. Directly below the pensione were three market stalls selling a classic array of Italian market goods: handbags, tourist memorabilia and umbrellas. Noting the darkening turquoise sky spreading with the coral glow of sunset, it seemed impossible to imagine the residents of Pisa would ever need an umbrella.

Sam opened her suitcase and hurriedly hung up the few items she had thrown in before she left England – two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts and some underwear. She wore a third pair of trousers with a leather jacket and ankle boots – her only shoes. Her feet were already rather hot. She would, she realised, have to buy something a little cooler.

She had no computer with her but she noted the internet cable. She would bring Michael’s hefty laptop back with her from his hospital room, and plug it in; then at least she could email her mother about the children.

She put her washbag into the tiny bathroom, taking in her reflection in the mirror above the basin. At thirty-six, her face was just developing fine lines across the brow and around her sharp green eyes. ‘Don’t frown,’ Michael used to tell her, ‘you’ll get lines.’ She tried to remember whether Carrie had had any lines. She was certainly younger than Sam. But all she could remember of her rival’s appearance was the shiny dark hair. Sam pushed her own pale brown hair behind her ears and splashed her face with water and brushed her teeth.

Moving back to the bedroom, she plugged in her phone charger and attached it to her now dead phone. The battery sparked into life and the message function flashed. Two answerphone messages and four texts awaited her; one from Miracle productions hoping she had arrived safely, and three from her mother. She read them, filled with anxiety that something had happened to the children in her brief absence. But there was no bad news. Just little snippets of information. ‘Freddie fine now.’ ‘The girls are perfect.’ ‘Can they have cake for pudding?’ She texted back hurriedly. ‘So glad all well. Yes, cake is fine. Anything. Thank you.’

She emptied her bag of the heavier items she had thrown in at the last minute, including the small photo album. She lay that on the desk. At the bottom of her bag she found a business card. Dario Visalberghi, the man at the airport. She slipped it into the frame of a mirror that hung above the desk.

The hospital of Santa Chiara, where Michael lay, was a short walk away across the Piazza.

He smiled when she burst into his room. A tragic, lopsided sort of smile, but a smile nevertheless. His bed was surrounded by medical staff. Il Professore and several of his underlings were discussing her husband’s case, gabbling loudly between themselves, apparently paying her husband no heed. It had the feel of an Italian market: busy, bustling, cheerful, argumentative. Mima announced Sam’s arrival over the hubbub and led her to the Professor. He took her hand in his and held it for a few moments; his touch was cool, kind. He looked deeply into her eyes and began to explain, in Italian, what was wrong with her husband.

Mima looked on, alarmed, and assumed the role of interpreter.

‘He has had a stroke… They are unsure how serious it is… He will need further tests. We will leave you with him now. If you have any questions just ask.’

The group smiled sympathetically and left, taking their noise with them. The researcher retreated too, embarrassed. Sam and Michael were alone.

She sat down, perching awkwardly on the edge of his bed. Automatically, she took hold of his hand and squeezed it. But there was no reciprocal sensation.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’

She tried to hold his gaze. Michael’s eyes swam; dark brown eyes, made milky with emotion. ‘I imagine it’s hard to talk.’ He blinked in acknowledgement, and a tear trickled down one of his cheeks. It was odd. She had felt such a whirlpool of emotions when she had left home that morning – a bewildering combination of anger, fear, panic and pity, both for herself and for him. But now, what did she feel? Exhaustion certainly. Perhaps it was the shock. The silence was palpable.

He looked old. Before he left for Italy he had grown a beard. Everyone loathed it, Sam, the children, friends. But he was wedded to it. She found herself wondering now, did he grow it for her… the dark-haired girl… Carrie? She fought back tears and leant over to kiss him, grazing his prickly cheek with her lips. Not his mouth. She couldn’t kiss the lopsided mouth.

‘How did it happen?’ Her voice sounded calm, impassive. She had gone into crisis mode, keeping her emotions in check, as she had done when she was a reporter. It was a skill she had developed in order to remain objective in difficult situations. But now, she was using it to protect herself, as if a vast wall of emotion was lying in wait to overwhelm her. If she allowed any chink, any break in that wall, it would lay waste to her. And Michael’s eyes were fearful. He needed her to be strong too.

He tried to speak, but no words came.

‘Sorry,’ she stroked his unresponsive hand, automatically, as if she were visiting some distant relative. ‘I forget you can’t really talk yet, can you?’

A second tear ran down his cheek and she reached over and wiped it with her thumb, her palm lingering on his neatly clipped beard.

Her eyes filled with tears. She could feel the wall pushing against her throat. She coughed, and wiped her own tears away roughly, almost embarrassed.

‘We’ll get you well, don’t worry,’ she said, trying to sound positive. Aware that she sounded more and more like her own cheery mother.

But she could see Michael didn’t really believe her. She wasn’t really sure she believed herself.

Later that evening, back at the little pensione, she sobbed into her pillow. The wall of emotion had finally collapsed, and she lay exhausted with an amalgamation of grief and a gut-wrenching rage at Michael. Rage at his deception. But pity too, for him, for herself, and for the children. She missed the children terribly, with a real physical pain that was deep inside her, welling up into her throat whenever she thought of them. Her mother had rung her to tell her that all three children were fine, but had let slip that Freddie had stood clinging to the garden gate when she had left, inconsolable, watching the road for two hours after she had gone, waiting for her to come back in the nasty black car. But he was asleep now, her mother cooed, he’d eaten well, watched Postman Pat with the twins. It was OK. Maybe, thought Sam.

The next morning she set out across the Piazza. It was a bright sunny day at the end of May, and she stood for a few minutes looking up at the Tower; it gleamed in the early morning sunshine. Not pure white, as it appears in the millions of replicas that sell on market stalls at 10 euros a time, but a myriad of pale shades: cream, beige, grey, palest pink. A mother-of-pearl vision fashioned from marble, gouged out of the ground at Monte Pisano hundreds of years before. It struck Sam that its pretty, intricate carving was somehow at odds with its sturdiness; like a stubby limb, an arm, or leg, covered provocatively by a gauzy undergarment. It was in every sense, feminine, not at all like the intrusive phallic symbols of twentieth-century high-rise architecture. Not a skyscraper in any real sense of the word, and yet, in its day, as much a testament to man’s power and strength as the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building or those symbols of twin destruction, the Towers.

Michael had been making a television documentary about the Tower. It was to cover the history of this, the most famous building in the world, from the early twelfth century to the present day. It had stood witness to nearly a thousand years of European history. It had played host to an extraordinary range of visitors, from Galileo to the poets Shelley and Byron. Interestingly, and unusually for that time, the building remained ‘anonymous’. It was the norm for arch