The Account

‘Of course.’

As she walked along Jermyn Street to look for a taxi Julia’s thoughts were jumbled. Clearly the conversation in the gallery had been designed to impress her. He was showing off. Though she had to admit that listening to a man contemplating buying a work of art for two million pounds was a lot more fascinating than seeing someone dithering over a twenty-pound sweater at Marks and Spencer.

But what was the point? Was he hoping to recruit her for one of his New York hotels? If so it was an odd way to go about it. If he was interested in her personally – and when a man wanted to know if you were involved he was usually asking: How about me? – then he was out of luck. She had no intention of getting involved with a married man, even an attractive one like Robert Brand. She had to admit he was charismatic. He positively exuded sex appeal. Dammit, she thought, why are those sort of men always married?

She looked at her watch again. It was a quarter past three. She was very late. She stood in the centre of St James’s Street on a traffic island, praying for a taxi.

It was 3.45 by the time Julia got back to the hotel. As she walked into her office a woman rose to greet her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Lang. I’m Chantal Ricci.’

‘Yes?’ Julia was annoyed. Visitors were never allowed into her office without an appointment, but Emma was not at her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

Dark-haired and quite astonishingly pretty, Chantal Ricci was wearing a fitted double-breasted blue jacket and straight navy skirt. She looked chic and elegant.

‘I just wanted to introduce myself.’ She had a very slight accent. ‘I’m starting work on the new magazine for the Burlington.’

‘What magazine?’

‘Mr Moscato didn’t tell you?’

‘I know nothing about it.’

‘I believe the final decision was only made this week. The Sultan is excited at the idea.’

‘Is he now?’ Julia tried to cover her irritation by glancing through the pile of messages on her desk.

‘I’m surprised we haven’t met before,’ Chantal said. ‘I was deputy editor of Trends for three years.’

‘What will you be doing on the magazine?’

‘Editing it.’ Chantal got to her feet. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I have an office here in the executive corridor.’

‘I didn’t know one was free.’

‘I believe it belonged to the Director of Sales and Marketing.’

Julia frowned. ‘Bryan Penrose?’

‘He’s moved down the corridor. It’s more convenient, apparently.’

Julia stared at the young woman standing before her. Twenty-five, tops, she decided. Stunning-looking. Obviously very sure of herself. You didn’t need great talent or ability to produce a hotel magazine – many hotels, particularly those in Italy and Asia, had them – but you needed some. She felt vaguely upset. Producing a magazine for the Burlington would not necessarily have come under her aegis but she felt she should have been consulted.

‘How often is this magazine to be produced?’

‘Twice a year.’

‘That won’t keep you very busy.’

‘Mr Moscato has other things for me to do as well,’ she said. ‘He feels there are several areas where I can be of help.’

‘You’re Italian?’

‘Milanese.’

‘Chantal is not an Italian name?’

‘My mother was French; my father Italian.’

‘I see.’ You, Julia decided, are someone I must watch out for.

‘Well.’ Chantal flashed Julia a brilliant smile. She had a wide mouth; her teeth were regular and perfect. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

After she’d gone Emma came in with a cup of tea.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She was in your office when I got back. She said it would be all right.’

Julia nodded. ‘Her name’s Chantal Ricci. She’s going to bring out a magazine for us.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Moscato’s, I suppose. I knew nothing about it.’

Emma put down the cup. ‘And how was the art show?’

‘Interesting.’

‘You should get out of the office more,’ Emma said meaningfully. ‘Puts a bit of colour in your cheeks.’

The nightmare recurred …

‘I would like you to consider staying on with us,’ Moscato said. ‘You’re the best receptionist we’ve ever had.’

‘But the other girl? I’m only a temporary replacement.’

‘We’ll find another spot for her.’

Julia had never felt happier. She loved Bellagio, the town on Lake Como where Franz Liszt had once spent a year, which had once played host to Stendhal and Mark Twain. And she loved the Palace Hotel. People there had been so kind she had now decided to make hotels her career. But she had promised her parents to go back to England after six months. And already she was a little homesick. Two weeks after their talk, when Moscato suggested dinner with his wife at Il Cielo on the lakeside, she was flattered and excited. Here was a sophisticated Italian hotel manager taking a personal interest in her. What luck!

That night she put on her prettiest dress and shoes. Flushed and excited she arrived at the restaurant early. Moscato was already there – alone. His wife, he explained, was not feeling well. The dinner was a great success, with Moscato being attentive and encouraging. Afterwards they walked back along the lakeside, admiring the full moon shimmering on the water.

At one point she stumbled and Moscato took her arm. And then it began. Turning, he kissed her so hard he bruised her lips. Startled, she pulled away. ‘Signor Moscato, please don’t.’

Then Moscato pushed her roughly to the ground, ripping off her dress, tearing at her pants. She screamed but the scream stifled in her throat and a great stab of pain consumed her body as he thrust into her. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please. No.’ She clawed at his face as he pounded into her but it was useless. The more she fought the more excited he became.

Then he began hitting her, slamming his right fist into her face, grunting like an animal as each blow went home. She felt blood in her eye and a tear in her cheek, and the taste of blood in her mouth.

Finally it was over and Moscato staggered to his feet. ‘You asked for it,’ he panted. ‘Leading me on like that. You asked for it.’ He stood looking down at her, breathing hard. ‘Go and clean yourself up,’ he said. With a final glance at her he turned and headed back towards the hotel leaving her lying there, bleeding and bruised, whimpering softly, almost senseless …