A Venetian Affair. Lucy Gordon

sigh of relief. ‘How’s Abby?’

      Isabel gave her daughter a triumphant little smile as they left the station. ‘Working right now, but only to the end of the week, then she’s off to France with Rachel Kent and her family. And after that she’ll be able to play like all the other girls until she goes up to Cambridge.’

      ‘How come?’ Laura eyed her mother in astonishment. ‘Have you won the lottery or something?’

      ‘You’re not far off. My Premium Bonds turned up trumps at long last. I won fifty thousand pounds!’

      ‘Really? How absolutely wonderful!’

      ‘When I got the cheque Abby and I did a war dance round the room!’

      ‘I’m not surprised. Congratulations, you lucky old thing,’ said Laura, laughing.

      ‘Not so much of the old! What’s in the parcel?’

      ‘Candlesticks from Murano for Fen. I hope she likes them.’

      ‘You can find out tonight. She’ll be down later with your dress, and, I quote, demands to know every last thing you did in Venice.’

      Laura flushed, glad her mother was concentrating too much on the road to notice. ‘Trust Fen! Though she’s entitled to a few details. Her brother-in-law sent someone to meet me from the airport. His name is Domenico and he took me out and about a bit while I was there.’

      Isabel shot an amused glance at her daughter. ‘Holiday romance?’

      ‘He was just looking after me because Lorenzo Forli told him to.’

      ‘Then you certainly got value for money. Was the hotel all right?’

      ‘It was more boarding house than hotel, but spotlessly clean. My bedroom was tiny, but it had its own little bathroom and a fabulous view.’ Laura chuckled. ‘Now you’re a lady of means you should try it yourself.’

      ‘I may well do that some time.’

      ‘You should. I helped myself to a brochure from the Locanda Verona as I left. Take Abby with you and overdose on culture together before she flies the nest.’

      There was no more conversation for a while as they crossed the Severn Bridge. The speed limit was down to the minimum in the strengthening wind, which meant dogged concentration for Isabel as gusts buffeted the small car. She smiled at Laura in relief as she turned off for Chepstow.

      ‘Thank heavens for that. Now, talk. Tell me more.’

      Laura managed to keep Domenico out of it as much as possible as she gave her mother a swift account of her stay in Venice, and then changed the subject. ‘How are things coming along for the wedding of the year?’

      Isabel smiled affectionately. ‘Fenny’s very calm about the whole thing. As long as she marries Joe Tregenna on the day she’s not worried about anything else. But from a personal point of view I hope the weather relents by then. The label on my hat says, ‘‘do not wear in rain’’!’

      When they turned off the main road up into Springfield Lane there was a pause in the proceedings. A herd of cows crossed from one field to another on the Morgan farm before Isabel could drive on through the narrow lane to Briar Cottage, which stood by itself half a mile from its nearest neighbour. When Isabel had first moved her daughters into it twelve years before the splendid view over the river had been no compensation to Laura for small rooms and a garden overgrown with brambles. It had been a painful contrast to the big Edwardian rectory she’d lived in all her short life until then. But because Isabel had crammed as many of their possessions as possible into it the three of them had soon come to look on Briar Cottage as home, and now, even with the rain lashing down like winter instead of summer, the rosy tint of the bricks glowed in welcome as they dashed up the path to the front door.

      ‘Thank goodness,’ gasped Laura as she came to a halt in the kitchen with her suitcase. ‘I’ll take this into the scullery and unpack my stuff straight into the washing machine, if that’s OK. I need some of it to go back on Sunday night.’

      ‘I’ll make tea,’ said Isabel, divesting herself of her cagoule. ‘I bet you didn’t have a decent cup all the time you were in Venice.’

      Wrong, thought Laura, smiling at the memory of English Breakfast. ‘After I’ve had a shower I’ll drive into town to fetch Abby when she finishes, if you like.’

      ‘No need. She’s going straight from work to Rachel Kent’s party tonight and she’s staying the night there afterwards. I said you wouldn’t mind if she didn’t dash home in between to see you.’

      ‘Of course not. She deserves some fun. Fen will be down later, anyway.’

      During the evening the conversation centred on Isabel’s windfall and her plans for it, but when asked for more news of the holiday Laura changed the subject to the souvenirs she’d brought back. She wasn’t ready, yet, to tell her mother more about Domenico. She needed to hear his voice first.

      Isabel was delighted with her gifts, and put the crimson slippers on right away. ‘They’re much too good to wear round the house, but I’m going to, just the same. Thank you, darling. Tomorrow we’ll find exactly the right place to hang this gorgeous mask. By the way,’ she added, ‘take Fenny up to your room when she comes. I shall be glued to my favourite murder serial.’

      ‘Can’t have you missing that,’ agreed Laura, smiling.

      A familiar screeching of tyres outside later heralded the arrival of Fenella Dysart. She shot up the path into the house, laid a sleeping bag on the kitchen table and hugged them both.

      ‘Don’t worry, Mrs G, I haven’t come for a sleepover. The sleeping bag is keeping Laura’s dress dry. Do you mind if I drag her upstairs to try it on?’

      Isabel smiled affectionately. ‘I was hoping you would, Fenny—my programme’s about to start.’

      ‘If it’s the murder serial, Mother’s glued to it as well!’

      ‘Come on, then, Fen,’ said Laura. ‘Do you want coffee or a drink first?’

      ‘Later, please. Let’s take your ravishing creation up to your room and pray I haven’t got any rain on it.’

      Upstairs Laura hung the dress on her wardrobe door and eyed it closely. ‘Looks good to me.’

      ‘Get your kit off, then.’

      Laura stripped off jeans and sweater, and held her arms up so Fen could lower the dress into place. Laura slid her feet into the satin shoes dyed to match and looked in the cheval mirror tucked into a corner. ‘Nice!’

      ‘Nice? It’s perfect—and about as near the colour of your eyes as mere fabric can possibly be. Am I a genius, or what?’

      The amber crêpe sheath fitted closely down to the knees, where three finely pleated, satin-bound tiers hung to just above the ankles. ‘I had doubts,’ admitted Laura, ‘but it actually looks rather good. I could wear it with boots later on, maybe.’

      ‘It’s perfect,’ said Fen with satisfaction. ‘Let’s go down and show your mother, then come back up here so you can tell me what Laura did in Venice.’

      Once the dress was safely hung away, they both curled up with mugs of coffee at either end of the bedroom window-seat, which had been a favourite perch for both of them from the first day Laura had moved to Briar Cottage. All the way home on the plane Laura had been dying to tell her friend about the man who’d met her at the airport, but the moment she mentioned him Fen held up a hand.

      ‘Didn’t Giando meet you off the plane, then?’ she said, frowning. ‘I suppose he pushed the job onto someone else! I know Lorenzo told him to meet you, because Jess reported back to me.’

      ‘A man called Domenico Chiesa came to meet me,’ said Laura slowly.

      ‘That’s the one. I forgot he goes by Domenico these days. He’s still