Читать книгу Secrets from the Past - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 15

I had been wrong to refuse Harry, who had actually spoken the truth when he had said I was the only person who could help Zac, because I was accustomed to wars, knew what it did to those who lived in the middle of them on a regular basis.

Zac’s family couldn’t help; no one could except another veteran of wars … another photojournalist.

And that was me.

And so I went.

I put aside my qualms and fears, packed my carry-on bag and took a night flight to Italy on Wednesday afternoon. Alitalia at 5.30 p.m. out of JFK, with a stopover in Rome the following morning. I would be arriving in Venice at 11.25 a.m. European time.

I glanced at my watch, which I had changed to local time before dozing off during the night. It was exactly five minutes to eleven. Another thirty minutes of flying and I would be there.

My plane would touch down at Marco Polo Airport, where Geoff Barnes would be waiting for me. He would tell me as much as he could, as much as he knew, and then I would be on my own.

Harry had reassured me that Geoff would stay on for a few days if needs be, and if I thought it was absolutely necessary. Once I knew I could manage alone, Geoff would hightail it back to Pakistan.

I was relieved he did not have to go to the badlands of Helmand Province in Afghanistan in Zac’s stead. No one should have to be there any more; it was an intolerable place. The Taliban was everywhere, intent on slaughter.

I had told Harry that if Geoff did stay in Venice for longer than a couple of days, he would have to move out of the bolthole and into the Bauer Hotel. The bolthole was too small, especially since I would be dealing with Zac … a Zac in great distress. Harry had agreed with me that this was the only way to go.

The bolthole. I knew it well, had stayed there a number of times with my father and Harry, and with my parents. And also with Zac on numerous occasions. It was a medium-sized apartment that Tommy and Harry had found in 1982.

They had rented it for several years from Louisa Pignatelli, the woman who owned the small building located just behind the Piazza San Marco, and who lived on the floor below.

Global had bought the apartment from her in 1987, because it was such a useful ‘stop-off’ place for photographers constantly on the move.

Venice was the perfect city, the key city, because it was so strategically placed, right in the middle of a cluster of European countries and a stone’s throw away from the Balkans just across the Adriatic Sea. It was in a direct flight path to Istanbul, countries of the Middle East, and Africa. Venice was considered to be the best link between East and West by those who circulated in and around this area of the world.

The bolthole served as a welcome resting place for all of the Global guys, who often wanted to touch down after gruelling months in a war. They needed to recuperate, did not always have time to get to home base before taking off on another assignment.

Although it was not large, the apartment was comfortable. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a galley kitchen and a large living room. After they had bought the apartment, my father and Harry had been smart, had furnished it simply, but with comfortable sofas and chairs, a table and chairs for meals, and, of course, television sets, which were always on for continuing world news.

When there was no one from Global staying at the apartment, Claudia, Louisa’s daughter, had it thoroughly cleaned and made sure all the bed linen went to the laundry. She diligently watched over the place with an eagle eye, and took care of it in general.

I had spoken to Geoff the day before my flight, and he had assured me he would be outside customs waiting for me. I knew Geoff well and he was reliable. I’d had to depend on him in the past and he’d never let me down yet. I trusted him to tell me the truth, and I knew he would level with me about Zac.

The night before, as I had settled down in my plane seat after dinner, I’d tried to fall asleep without success. My mind had kept zeroing in on Zac.

I had first met him when he had come to work for my father and Harry at Global. I was nineteen and he was twenty-six, and I didn’t like him at all.

He was bumptious, conceited and full of himself, or so I thought. Certainly that day he had been strutting around the New York office, showing off because he’d just won some award. This was in the spring of 2000. We didn’t meet again until later that summer, when he came to stay at the house in Nice, much to my dismay.

However, I had been pleasantly surprised. He’d been a different person altogether: warm, disarming, very friendly, and extremely funny. He had a great sense of humour, and poked fun at himself in a most self-deprecating way that kept me laughing.

He stayed with us for several days and in that time I fell head over heels in love with him and he with me. It was a mutual meeting of the minds; we were on the same wavelength, although we did not link up with each other for some time.

It became serious in 2004. I was twenty-three, Zac was thirty, seven years older than me and much more experienced in every way.

It was a passionate affair, and romantic. It was also a bumpy ride at times. But we made it together for almost six years. Our break-up had been at the edge of violence – verbal violence, at least. Zac had a temper. A nasty temper. It had alarmed me, frightened me. I knew he was the love of my life and yet I was certain it would never work. I hadn’t spoken to him for almost a year.

Now I was on my way to help make him well again, if I could. I sensed I had quite a task ahead of me. And I wasn’t sure I would succeed.