Читать книгу The Account - Roderick Mann - Страница 11

Julia Lang stood by the bedroom window of her flat, sipping a glass of white wine, looking out over the darkened town. It was a cold, wet night, the sky a seemingly endless panoply of grey. The lights of the pub on the corner were hazy in the light mist. Across the street she could see directly into another flat. In one brightly lit room a man and a woman were sitting in armchairs, reading. They looked comfortable, settled, at ease. She felt a momentary pang of envy. She was, she knew, ambivalent about marriage. Did she really want it? Would she trade her independence for a shared life with a man? When she had first come to London from Birmingham her one aim had been to have a career of her own. To abandon that plan now, to marry and have children – was she ready for that?

She knew she really liked Michael Chadwick, the man with whom she had been involved for a year. He was a design artist of great flair, who had already won most of the prestigious prizes available for his work. He was bright and cheerful and witty. She liked him a lot. She just didn’t know if she wanted to marry him. He had already asked her twice.

She had many friends and was much in demand socially, but she did need a man in her life. Someone to wake up with, to touch during the dark hours, to watch shaving in the morning, to share breakfast with. Someone to talk to. Particularly at a time like this.

The re-emergence of Guido Moscato into her life had shocked her. She had known for only a month that he was coming. The Sultan of Malacca, who owned the hotel, had kept the news quiet until negotiations were complete. During those four weeks she had been plagued by indecision. Should she stay or should she go? And, if she walked out on her contract, should she give the Sultan, whom she liked, her reasons?

Sixteen years earlier, when she had staggered up from the Italian lakeside, bruised and battered, almost unable to see, she had vowed that one day she would settle the score with Moscato. Picked up by two English tourists, she had been taken to the small hospital at Bellagio where a doctor operated to save her right eye. Ten days later she had flown to London. Over the years the hatred she had developed for the man who had raped her had gradually abated. The idea that she might one day see him again had never occurred to her.

Now here he was, the new Managing Director of the Burlington. All her loathing for the man had come back. And, to her surprise, her resolve to somehow get even.

At the hotel only Emma Carswell knew what Moscato had done to her. Emma had become a friend and confidante as well as an efficient colleague. When Julia had arrived at the Burlington six years earlier she had been utterly dismayed at the sight of the secretary she had inherited from the previous Publicity Director. A large, raw-boned woman in her mid-fifties with grey hair and a rock-like jaw, Emma Carswell looked formidable indeed. But within a month she had proved invaluable. She did everything – kept Julia’s appointment book, dealt with the mail, told white lies on the telephone when necessary, remembered birthdays, made endless cups of tea and quietly handled all the innumerable office tasks that bored Julia to distraction. Over the years they had developed a deep affection for each other and it was to Emma that Julia had confided her fears when she learned of Moscato’s appointment.

Emma had been outraged. ‘You poor dear,’ she said, hugging Julia. ‘What a contemptible bastard. Why didn’t you report it?’

‘It was different then,’ Julia said. ‘Attitudes have changed a lot, thank God. Anyway, I doubt the Italian police would have taken the word of an English visitor against that of a respected hotelier. I just wanted to get out of there; to forget about it.’

‘You think he knows you’re here?’

Julia was sure. From the day he signed the contract Moscato would have had a complete list of Burlington Hotel employees before him. Discovering that Julia Lang was there apparently had not worried him. Perhaps he had reasoned he could get rid of her easily enough. A publicity director, however good, did not rate highly in the scheme of things. He would not know that she had a contract guaranteed by the Sultan himself with whom she had a warm and friendly relationship.

She loved the hotel and had made it her life. But her work would bring her into contact with Moscato on an almost daily basis. Could she stomach that? Should she?

Finishing her wine she got into bed. The sheets were cold through the satin of her nightdress. Rosie, her cleaning lady, had changed them that day. Shivering a little she curled up, trying to keep warm. Just before she fell asleep she thought about Robert Brand.