‘But why?'
Tony sighed. ‘I told you, the Count didn't want us to do the interview. He's been practically blackmailed into it by his publisher. Paolo knows this. These old Venetian families are pretty tough, you know. They're not used to having to do anything.'
‘Oh, Tony, you're exaggerating!'
Tony managed a chuckle. ‘Maybe I am,’ he admitted, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Nevertheless, I was damn glad when we got out of there. How did you fare? Did you get the interview okay?'
‘Oh yes, yes.’ Sancha nodded, flicking open her notebook and showing him the pages of scribbled shorthand.
‘He's some man, isn't he?’ Tony regarded Sancha closely.
‘How do you mean?’ Sancha was deliberately obtuse.
‘Oh, come off it, Sancha!’ Tony stared at her exasperatedly. ‘Don't tell me you didn't notice.'
‘I—I thought he was rather—well—jaded,’ she replied carefully.
Tony lay back against the side of the boat. ‘Yes, I guess you could put it like that,’ he agreed. Then he looked at her and smiled. ‘Not for little girls like you, though, eh?'
‘Don't be silly!’ Sancha coloured and Tony chuckled again and looked away, his good humour returning as the walls of the Palazzo Malatesta disappeared from view.
THE offices of Parita magazine were situated in a narrow calle off the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. An international publication, it had offices in most of the major cities of the world, but was published simultaneously in only three: New York, London and Venice. It was a weekly publication slanted towards the arts, yet it maintained an excellent news service. To be featured in the magazine meant instant recognition, and its staff were not indifferent to the importance of the positions they held.
Sancha had first joined the London staff when she was eighteen as a very junior reporter. Her duties had encompassed a variety of occupations not unlike those of a shorthand-typist in those early days, but gradually she had progressed to being assistant to Helen Barclay, the social columnist.
It was then that her uncle had suggested that she might spend a year in Italy, learning the language and familiarising herself with their methods. He had made her assistant to Eleanor Fabrioli, the feature writer, but although Eleanor was only about six years older than Sancha she was vastly more sophisticated and treated the younger girl with a mixture of tolerance and contempt. Sancha did not much like her, but she did admire her work, and after all that was the most important thing.
Eleanor returned to work the morning after Sancha's interview with the Count, and Sancha could see at once that the older girl was not pleased.
‘I cannot imagine why Eduardo thought it necessary for you to handle the interview!’ she exclaimed, almost before Sancha had had time to take off her coat. Sancha had been a few minutes late for work and that had not helped matters. ‘He must have known I would be back today!’ Eleanor went on moodily, staring at Sancha with her heavily made-up dark eyes. ‘I do not believe any editor would have acted as he did without a reason. But of course, you are his niece!’ The way she said the words was an insult.
Sancha went to her desk and opening a drawer she extracted the typescript she had compiled the previous evening from the scribbled notes on her pad.
‘Here you are, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘I copied these out last night. If you want to write the feature, it's all right by me.'
Eleanor snatched the pages ill-humouredly. Scanning the sheets, she exclaimed: ‘Is this all? There are no personal details whatsover! What were you thinking about? You know our readers enjoy the personal touch.'
Sancha sighed. ‘The Count was not at all enthusiastic about the feature,’ she said. ‘He only wanted publicity for the book; not for himself.'
Eleanor's lips twisted thinly. ‘My dear Sancha, since when did a reporter only report what his interviewee wanted reporting? It is up to you to get your subject so interested in what he is saying that he tells you things almost involuntarily.'
Sancha flushed. To imagine herself capable of interesting the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta for more than a few desultory moments was ludicrous.
Eleanor regarded her closely. ‘What happened? Why are you looking so embarrased? Did the Count nearly eat you up?'
‘Don't be silly.’ Sancha turned away. ‘I did the best I could. I'm sorry if you don't think it's good enough, but I can't help it.'
Eleanor snorted. ‘We'll see about that,’ she said shortly, and rose to her feet, marching down the aisle between the typists’ desks towards Eduardo Tessile's office.
Sancha watched her go, wishing she had the other girl's style and confidence. It was not that Eleanor was tall or willowy, or overpowering in that way. In fact she was small and dark and rather fiery, but she had absolute belief in herself and in her work, and for that Sancha felt envious.
However, when Eleanor returned a few minutes later she looked more than a little put out. She flung the offending sheets of typescript on Sancha's desk and spat out:
‘You do them! It's your article! Your uncle has given the feature to you!'
And with that she stormed away to her own office.
Sancha picked up the typed sheets nervously, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively, but Eleanor had disappeared into her room and the door had been slammed behind her. Sancha stared at the sheets unseeingly. So Uncle Eduardo had not been intimidated; but what of her? How could she write a major article without Eleanor's advice and assistance, knowing as she did that the other girl would tear it to shreds if she dared to consult her? She sighed. She could take it to Uncle Eduardo, of course, he would help her, but did she really want that? Sancha sighed again. While Eleanor had been ill things had been so peaceful in the office, but now all was frustration and turmoil again.
She thought longingly suddenly of London, and Helen Barclay. Helen was quite an elderly woman and she had treated Sancha like her daughter, helping and encouraging her whenever possible. She reminded Sancha of her own mother who had died nearly ten years ago now. Sancha's father had remarried and although Sancha got along with her new stepmother it was not the same. That was why she had jumped at this chance of a year in Italy. It would, too, give her father and his wife some time alone. Even so, life there had been less eventful and perhaps less nerve-racking.
Tony passed her desk, a selection of cameras and meters hung round his neck. ‘Hi there, honey!’ he remarked, grinning. ‘Back to the grind today, eh?'
‘I'm afraid so!’ Sancha cupped her chin on one hand. ‘Are you off on another assignment?'
Tony nodded. ‘There's a new car being road-tested this afternoon. They say it's a sensational piece of engineering. I'm to go and photograph it and so on. Wish you could come along.'
Sancha wrinkled her nose at him. ‘So do I,’ she said fervently.
‘What's wrong? Is Eleanor back on form?'
‘You might say that.’ Sancha fingered the typescript. ‘I'm to write up the feature on Count Malatesta myself.'
‘No kidding! Well, that's great. Good luck, kid! I'm sure you'll make a damn good job of it.'
Sancha grimaced. ‘I wish I had your confidence.'
‘Hey, don't be a fool! Of course you can do it. Anyone can write that kind of stuff. You want to research some of that old history about the palazzo—the more gory the better. You know how sweet old ladies love to read about violence!'
Sancha chuckled. ‘Go on, you're cheering me up enormously.'
Tony