Day Two

One

Sandy sat up in bed and groped for the phone, but missed, knocking it onto the floor instead. He cursed and got out of bed to find it. It had stopped vibrating, but it started again as he picked it up off the floor. Sandy sat on the bed and, without thinking, pressed accept, and nearly fainted when Overstrand’s face appeared on a FaceTime call. 

“Good morning, Sandy. How are you? I hope I didn’t wake you.” There was a loud whooshing noise in the background, and Sandy had to strain to hear. “I’m calling from the helicopter,” Overstand had to shout over the engine noise. “I hope you can hear me. I wanted to ask whether you’ve settled in at Wychwood. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there yesterday to welcome you, but I’m tied up with a deal. I hope to get to Wychwood in the next couple of days to see how you’re doing. Are Mhairi and the team up there looking after you?”

“Yes, Robert. They’ve made me feel at home." Sandy noticed a little of the red pyjama top creeping into view on the screen. He quickly moved the phone to hide it and hoped Overstrand hadn’t noticed. “I’ve made a good start on the diary. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Great, Sandy. Good to know. Remember, if you need anything, ask Mhairi. She’ll fix it for you. I mean anything. Are you sure I didn’t wake you? It looks like you’re still in your pyjamas. Sorry, I’ve got to go. We’re landing. See you soon, Sandy.”

The call ended, and Sandy held his head in his hands. Overstrand must have seen the pyjama top. Sandy groaned. He would be dismissed and have to leave after just one day. It would be the fastest hire-and-fire in history, Sandy thought. He fell back on the bed, his face burning with shame, until he remembered something Samantha had said. Lady Eleanor hadn’t worn these pyjamas, and they were brand new. Overstrand might not know about them. He might not even have seen them. Could he bluff it out? Pretend they were his. Samantha said she wouldn’t tell. So it might just work, though he would have to keep wearing them. Oh well, that was no hardship, or so he thought.

Sandy checked the time on his phone. 8:30 already. He really should get moving. Mhairi had said breakfast would be ready for him in the library each morning, and he was hungry. He walked to the bathroom, which was as impressive as the bedroom and dressing room. Twin washbasins, a large claw-foot bath, a bidet, a Japanese-style heated toilet, and a walk-in shower. The Turkish cotton towels were so thick and soft they would put a five-star hotel to shame. Carrara blue-veined marble covered the walls, and underfloor heating kept the floor tiles warm. He grinned to himself, thinking he could easily get used to this. 

He stripped off his pyjamas and folded them neatly, meaning to put them back in the drawer later. He searched his washbag for his shower gel but couldn’t find it. Something else he must have forgotten to bring, he thought. He opened the bathroom cabinet and found bottles of shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, and shower gel. He opened the shower gel, and the scent of jasmine filled his nose. It reminded him of summer holidays in Italy, where jasmine grows wild in hedgerows, its fragrance filling the air. That’s curious, he thought; it was the same scent he had smelled the night before when he heard the laughter. He found a shower cap in a drawer and put it on before stepping under the rainforest shower. He poured the gel into his hand and sniffed it. It was feminine, but he liked it, so who would care?

He finished his shower, and as he replaced the gel in the cabinet, he caught sight of the moisturiser. Why not, he thought, and he spread a little on his arms. Oh, wow, he thought. This felt wonderful. Why had he never tried this before? His skin felt smooth and almost glowed. Encouraged, he spread it on his legs, and when he rubbed it onto his chest, his nipples tingled.

Two

He dressed, placed the pyjamas in a drawer so he could wear them again tonight, and went downstairs to the library, where bread rolls, croissants, fruit, cereals, boiled eggs, jams, honey, and a flask of coffee were laid out. Sandy took what he wanted, then rang the bell. Samantha poked her head around the door.

“Good morning, sir. May I take the breakfast away?”

“Morning, Sam. Yes, please, but can you leave the coffee?”

“Of course, sir. Did you sleep well?”

Sandy hesitated before saying. “Sam, I know this might sound odd, but were you in the corridor outside my room last night?”

Samantha looked at him with surprise. “No, sir. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess. I just thought I heard someone last night.”

“It wouldn’t have been me or Mhairi or Allegra. We live in the cottages behind the main house, and there’s nobody else here. What did you hear?”

“I know it sounds a little crazy, but I heard a woman laughing. I got up to look, but there was nobody there.”

“It couldn’t be any of us, sir.” She frowned, then said, “I’ve never seen or heard anything myself, but the locals talk about a ghost here. I don’t mean one of those headless horseman types. They trained secret agents here during the war, and the story goes that an army officer murdered one of the women agents. It was horrible. He raped her and stabbed her to death before hiding her body in the cellar. They caught him and hanged him later, but they say she came back to haunt the house.” She shivered, then brightened and said, “Mind you, the wind can sometimes get very loud, sir. It can sound a bit eerie.”

Sandy nodded. “Okay, Sam. No bother. Thank you.” He was sure there had been no wind the previous night, and he didn't believe in ghosts. Anyway, the murdered woman didn’t sound like the kind of ghost who would laugh. If it had been Samantha, she wasn't going to admit it. If it wasn’t her, what had he heard?

“You smell lovely, sir,” she said. “It was Lady Eleanor’s favourite. It’s perfect for you, too.”

“Oh. I hope nobody minds. It was in the bathroom, and I forgot my shower gel.”

“That’s perfectly okay, sir. Sir Robert said you can use anything and everything in the apartment,” Samantha said, giving him a sideways look. “Anything at all that takes your fancy, that is.”

He thought it was an odd thing to say, but Samantha smiled sweetly at him and said, “If that’s all, sir, I’ll come back with some coffee later.”

Three

Sandy was growing more familiar with Franco’s handwriting and making slow but steady progress. Although he already knew her by reputation, he had researched her thoroughly before coming to Wychwood. She had been a notable figure in Venice at a time when it would have been difficult for a woman to stand out on her own. She wrote poetry, moved among the artists and writers in Venice, and became an influential literary figure in her own right. He had found something she had written that sounded as if it could have been written today.

"When we too are armed and trained, we can convince men that we have hands, feet, and a heart like yours; and although we may be delicate and soft, some men who are delicate are also strong; and others, coarse and harsh, are cowards. Women have not yet realised this, for if they should decide to do so, they would be able to fight you until death; and to prove that I speak the truth, amongst so many women, I will be the first to act, setting an example for them to follow."

He had bought a postcard of her portrait by Tintoretto and propped it up on the table beside his laptop. She looks to her left, gazing at something, or someone, as if trying to suppress a smile. Her auburn hair, cut close to her head, gives her a distinctly tomboyish look, but her lips are pink and full, and her cheeks are rouged. A string of pearls hangs around her neck, and her elegant gown is cut so low that a nipple peeks above the neckline. This was no shy Renaissance maiden, he thought. She looks strong, confident, and sure of herself and her sexuality. The wealthy classes paid her well for her services as a courtesan, and she recorded the details of her clients and affairs in her diary. She may have lived nearly five hundred years ago, yet Sandy felt Veronica would be perfectly at home here and now. He would have liked to have met her.

He had become so engrossed that Mhairi startled him when she brought his lunch. It was a warm, sunny day, and he had opened the garden doors to let in some fresh air. 

“Do you want to take lunch outside, Mister Rossi?”

“That's a wonderful idea, Mhairi. Thank you.”

He sat at a table outside, beneath the shade of a parasol, enjoying the sunshine and the clear blue sky. It reminded him of sitting outside Cafe Melograno in Castello on a spring day, before the stifling heat of summer, watching the azure sky paint the perfect backdrop for the shining marble beauty of San Giorgio Maggiore.

High above, he spotted a kestrel hovering lazily, searching for mice or voles in the gardens and the paddock beyond. Disturbed by the unwelcome intruder, the rooks roosting in the trees at the back of the house rose to drive the predator away. Sandy assumed it was the same colony his taxi driver had sworn about. He watched as the birds mobbed the hawk, forcing it to twist and turn to escape until it turned tail and fled. The victorious rooks cartwheeled around, cawing noisily in celebration before returning to their trees. 

A question he should have asked earlier began to niggle at him. Why had Overstrand chosen him? Sandy thought he could handle it, but he knew there were others more experienced and better known. Was it simply because he had been in the right place at the right time? He would ask Overstrand later. It wasn’t worth worrying about. He would lie back and enjoy it all.

Four

He had decided to work until five o’clock, and it was only a few minutes before then when his phone pinged with a new message. It wasn't from one of his contacts, so he ignored it. A few seconds later, it happened again. Irritated, he read the message and frowned.

Unknown Number: “Make sure you understand why you are here. It’s not for the diary.”

What the hell did that mean? For a moment, Sandy thought the message was from Overstrand. But that didn’t make sense. Why would he send a message like that? It wasn’t from Overstrand’s number, and as far as he knew, nobody else knew about the diary. Overstrand had repeatedly stressed to him that Sandy was not to mention it to anyone except him.

Another message arrived. 

Unknown Number: “Be sure of what you want.”

This is weird, he thought. It must be someone playing a joke. But who? And why?

He typed, “Who is this?” but his finger hovered over the send button. What if this were a scam? Or was someone trying to get information? His curiosity won, so he hit send and waited.

Unknown Number: “Who I am does not matter.” 

That was even more mysterious.

Arossi: “What do you want?”

Unknown Number: “To make sure you do the right thing.”

Arossi: “I don’t understand. What is the right thing?”

Unknown Number: “You must decide.”

This is fucking crazy, he thought. It had to be a joke. 

Arossi: “Who is this?”

There was no response this time, leaving him to wonder who it could have been. He looked at his phone to check the number, but the messages had disappeared. 

He sat for a while, wondering what to do next. The messages had unsettled him, but he had no way to find out who had sent them. Without the messages on his phone, he couldn't even raise the matter with Overstrand. He shrugged. He was finished for the day anyway and had lost his focus, so he put away the diary and headed to his room for a rest before dinner. He would worry about it later.

Five

Samantha came to turn down the bed despite his pleas for her not to. He was sitting on the sofa reading when she looked at him and said, “Your hair is lovely, sir, but it’s got so many tangles. Would you mind if I brushed it? I used to love doing it for Lady Eleanor.”

Startled, he said, “I don’t know, Sam. That isn’t part of your job, I’m sure.”

She pouted at him. “Pretty please, sir. I would enjoy doing it.”

He didn't know whether his hair needed it, but if she wanted to, why not? It couldn’t do any harm. "Uh, okay then, Sam. Thank you.” 

“Follow me and sit at the dressing table. It will be easier there.” He followed her into the bedroom, wondering whether he should be doing this. He sat in the chair in front of the dressing table, and Samantha moved behind him. She ran her fingers gently through his hair.

“Mmm, you have lovely hair,” she said. “It’s so thick, and it’s such a pretty colour. I’m jealous.”

Sandy loved the feeling of her fingers running through his hair. Distracted, he could only croak, “That’s crazy, Sam; your hair is beautiful.”

“Thank you, sir.” She paused, catching his eye in the mirror. “Forgive me for saying so, but your hair needs conditioning to look its best. We haven’t got time right now, but tomorrow morning, why don’t you wash your hair, use the conditioner in the bathroom, and I’ll blow-dry it for you?” 

He opened his eyes wide and stared at her in the mirror. “Sam, I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why not? You will look so pretty once I’ve finished.” She caught his eye in the mirror again, and a tingle, like a mild electric shock, ran through him as she held his gaze. “Would you like that, sir? To look pretty?”

What did she just say? She must be joking, surely? He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, and he gulped air like a goldfish, unable to get a word out. Sandy squirmed in his seat, and his face turned bright red in the mirror. “Whaaat? I don’t know. I mean…”

But to his astonishment, he watched his reflection nod in agreement. She stepped from behind him and knelt beside him, her face level with his in the mirror. His heart pounded, but try as he might, he couldn’t break eye contact with her. He had the feeling she was reading his innermost thoughts. Samantha picked up a brush and ran it through his hair. He closed his eyes, letting it take him back to the times his mother had done the same, and he had always loved those moments. Samantha’s voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“How does that feel, sir?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Mmm, that feels so good. Thank you, Sam, ”

“I enjoyed doing it, sir. I’ll see you in the kitchen for dinner.” 

After she left, he wondered why on earth she would say we could make you pretty. He sensed that something had shifted in the last few minutes, but he wasn’t sure what.

Six

Sandy opened the door to the kitchen to find Allegra on her own.

“Bounasera, Allegra. Where are the others?”

“Buonasera, Mister Sandy. Sir Robert call to say he arriving tomorrow. Samantha and Miss Mhairi go to get ready at his apartment. They not long, I think.”

The news that Overstrand would arrive the next day thrilled him. He smiled and said, “Allegra, can I help?”

“Si, grazie, Mister Sandy. I do chicken cacciatore. Can you stir sauce while I do vegetables?”

“Of course, Allegra.” Allegra handed him a spoon, but when he began stirring the sauce, Allegra stopped him.

“Oh, no, Mister Sandy. You get sauce on your clothes.” She handed him an apron. “Put this on.” He didn’t look at it before slipping the straps over his head and tying the strings at the back. Only when he looked down did he notice the frills at the bottom and along the top of the bib. At that moment, Samantha and Mhairi walked into the kitchen. Samantha grinned when she saw him, and Mhairi took one look and said, “No, this won’t do at all.”

Thinking her concern was about him helping Allegra, he said, “No, it’s okay. I offered to help. I don’t mind.” Ignoring him, Mhairi turned him around and, in a rather stern voice, said, “An apron needs to be tied properly, not like this rat’s nest. It must be tied in a proper bow. Samantha, please tie it properly for him.” 

Samantha undid the knot and retied the apron strings. He was sure her hands didn’t need to touch his bottom so often. She finished tying the strings and gave his bottom a quick slap out of Mhairi’s sight. He glared at her, but she smiled sweetly back. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, Samantha. Thank you.”

Samantha set the table, and he returned to stirring the sauce. Mhairi came to stand beside him. “Do you cook at home, Sandy?” she said.

“Yes. My Nonna taught me. Living on my own, I get plenty of practice.”

“Do you enjoy living by yourself?” She moved closer, and he could smell her perfume—Coco Chanel Mademoiselle. He remembered it from the summer he had spent working in the beauty hall of a department store.

“I have no choice, Mhairi, living on my own.”

“Such a pity. I would have thought some man would have snapped you up.”

He looked at her in shock. “What?”

Mhairi laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us.” He stared at her, and she took the spoon from his hand, saying, “I think you should take the apron off now. Allegra is ready to serve.”

Sandy didn't hide his sexuality, but he didn't broadcast it either. He had no idea how Mhairi knew. With a sinking feeling, he guessed that if Mhairi knew, Overstrand must too. But he had hired him anyway, suggesting he wasn't that worried about it. Sandy couldn’t do anything about it, so he decided not to let it spoil his stay at Wychwood. He would be leaving soon anyway, once he finished the translation.

At dinner, they all talked about Overstrand’s arrival the next day, and Mhairi said he was a generous and fair employer, but that Lady Eleanor’s death had hit him hard. They thought he was regaining some of his zest recently. Sandy was careful not to ask too many questions, but he wanted to find out much more about Overstrand.

Seven

Back in his room, he opened the drawer where he had placed the red pyjamas this morning, only to find them gone. He looked around and saw that Samantha had laid out a fresh set of nightwear on the bed. Unlike the red pyjama set, which might just have passed for a man’s, this set was exquisitely feminine. The silk camisole top was a beautiful coral-pink, with delicate lace edging, spaghetti straps, and a pair of tiny matching shorts. Samantha must be joking, he thought. He could never wear these. But as he stared down at the flimsy scraps of silk, he thought they looked so sweet, and his resolve melted like snow in the sun. Touching them couldn’t do any harm, he thought. Just to see how they would feel, of course.

Taking a deep breath, he bent to touch them. As his fingers brushed the silk, he shivered and closed his eyes in delight. The silk was cool and smooth under his touch, and any lingering reluctance vanished. He quickly removed his clothes and stepped into the shorts, easing them up his legs and sighing as the silk brushed his skin. They fit snugly around his waist, holding and caressing him in a sensual embrace.

He picked up the top and pulled it over his head and shoulders. He fiddled with the straps to straighten them before turning to look in the mirror, and he almost swooned at his reflection. Someone else was looking back at him. A girl with a shy, confused smile and auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders onto bright pink silk pyjamas stared back at him from the mirror.

Eight

Stepping from the gondola that had brought him to one of the many palazzos lining the Canal Grande, Sandy climbed the steps to the front door, flares illuminating the path. A liveried servant bowed, taking the cloak that had kept him warm on this chilly evening, and he nervously touched the double string of pearls at his neck. The servant signalled for him to enter a magnificent ballroom lit by hundreds of candles. The elites of Venice would be present tonight, and even the Doge himself might attend. Laughter and chatter filled the room from the revellers, and because tonight was Carnevale, their faces were hidden behind elaborate masks, some beautiful, some grotesque. Women in elegant ball gowns and men in frock coats, wigs, and hose danced gracefully to music played by a string quartet on a balcony. Through the windows, he caught a glimpse of the Basilica Santa Maria della Salute in the distance as gondoliers crossed the canal to deliver their masked passengers.

A man in a frock coat, a golden mask, and a tricorn hat appeared and bowed before him. He bent one knee behind the other and curtsied to the man, who took his hand and led him into the midst of the dancers. They danced around the room, and he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, dressed in a dazzling ball gown, his hair piled high on his head, and his face covered by a cat mask. Another man cut in to dance with him, then another, and many more until he was dizzy. Each wore a different mask, and he could only wonder who lay behind them.

The music changed, and a faster, heavier beat filled the air. Men and women embraced all around him, and he heard giggling as hands burrowed beneath clothing, followed by moans when fingers found their targets. The dancing had ceased, and couples were mounting each other on the floor, on the tops of tables, against walls, or bent over the backs of chairs, their elegant clothing dishevelled or discarded, as wild cries of passion filled the room. Men were on top of women, women on men, women on women, and men on men, their bodies twisting and writhing together.

Hands pressed down on his bare shoulders from behind, and he dropped to his knees, looking up to see a man wearing a Scaramouche mask standing over him. He could see only the man’s blue eyes through the mask, but he was sure he had seen them before. The music had stopped, and all he could hear were shrieks, groans, and cries of lust and desire. Sandy licked his lips in anticipation as the man unfastened his britches and unseen hands guided his head towards the man’s groin. 

Sandy jerked awake to find he had kicked off the sheets and was lying spread-eagled on the bed, the silk cool against his hot skin. He lay still for a moment, breathless, reliving what had happened. It must be because of the diary, he thought. It had all been so vivid, so real, as if he had truly become Veronica Franco. He lay awake, replaying the dream, until, just before dawn, he fell back asleep. 

To be continued