The Italian Girl (32 page)

‘I’m glad for you, Rosanna, really, but do try and take care.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I think that sometimes – and please don’t take this the wrong way, darling – an overpowering depth of feeling can make one a little selfish.’

‘I agree, Abi, and, as I said, I’m sorry,’ replied Rosanna ruefully.

‘Well, I think I know how it feels.’ Abi sighed. ‘I know we agreed that we shouldn’t look back, but if I’m completely honest with myself . . . I know I’m still in love with Luca. It sounds stupid, because it can never come to anything, but I just can’t seem to forget him.’

‘Oh Abi.’ Rosanna looked at her friend with surprise and sympathy. ‘It must be so hard knowing you can never be together. Although I know Luca was always very fond of you.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, there’ve been plenty of other men, but unless something changes drastically, it will always be Luca in my heart.’

‘I feel for you, Abi, really. Do you have a boyfriend at the moment?’

‘Of course I do,’ she replied, glad for the chance to steer their talk in another direction. ‘You must meet him. He’s awfully sweet. He’s called Henry and I met him at a party a couple of weeks ago. He’s very keen and I only wish I could fall in love with him as he’d suit me down to the ground.’

‘You must give it time, Abi. You’ve only known him two weeks.’

‘Rosanna, you of all people must understand about love, the intuition that tells you this is something special. Well, with Henry, it isn’t. I just know it.’

‘Yes. I’ve never felt so miserable as I have for the last two weeks. Roberto and I have rarely spent an hour apart, let alone a month.’

‘Well, in some ways, a month being miserable is a small price to pay for all you have: the man you love, a baby on the way, wealth and a stellar career. I wouldn’t mind being you.’ Abi smiled. ‘Now, where’s that soup?’

After lunch, they sat at the table drinking coffee.

‘So, what are you doing next Saturday night?’ Abi asked Rosanna.

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing.’

‘Well then, you can join Henry and me for dinner. Henry has a friend who went green with envy when I said I was seeing you today. Stephen is one of your biggest fans and he’s absolutely desperate to meet you. Come along and have your ego massaged for an hour or two.’

‘Thank you for the offer, but I don’t feel like going anywhere at the moment.’

‘Oh, come on, show you can be humble and dine with the rest of us mortals.’

Rosanna flushed. ‘You know it’s nothing to do with that, Abi. I’m just not feeling very social.’

‘Well, an evening out might do you good. Besides, you owe me for leaving me in the lurch in Milan,’ pressured Abi.

‘Okay. You win,’ Rosanna conceded.

‘Good. I’ll collect you at eightish on Saturday evening.’ Abi looked at her watch, then stood up. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Don’t get up, I can let myself out.’ She kissed Rosanna warmly on both cheeks. ‘Goodbye, darling. Look after yourself. It really is good to see you again.’

‘And you, Abi.’

‘Anything you need,’ she said as she walked towards the door, ‘you have my number.’

Rosanna realised she was nervous about going out alone on Saturday night. In the past two years, Roberto had always accompanied her. She spent most of the afternoon fretfully trying on clothes that would fit over her bulge, then washed her hair and put on some make-up. By the time Abi rang the doorbell, she was ready.

‘You look lovely,’ Abi said approvingly.

‘Thank you.’

‘Right, let’s go. We’re supposed to be meeting the boys in fifteen minutes.’

‘We are going somewhere discreet, aren’t we? I don’t want to sound like a diva, but I’d hate Roberto to see a photograph in the papers of me with another man,’ Rosanna said, embarrassed to admit it.

‘Of course. In honour of you, we’re going to an Italian restaurant.’ Abi unlocked the door of her Renault 5. ‘It’s not what I’d call the smartest place, but the pasta’s wonderful. Get in.’

Abi negotiated the heavy traffic in Earl’s Court Road then turned left onto the Fulham Road. ‘That’s lucky,’ she said as she deftly manoeuvred the car into a space outside a small restaurant.

Inside, the restaurant was packed with diners sitting at rough wooden tables, tucking into pasta and drinking carafes of wine.

‘It reminds me of Papa’s café,’ said Rosanna wistfully as Abi waved at two men sitting at a table in a corner. One of the men was stout, losing his hair prematurely, and wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Rosanna presumed this was Stephen, her fan. The other man was extremely handsome, with dark hair and merry blue eyes.

‘Henry, darling.’ Abi kissed the balding man on both cheeks then turned to the other. ‘Stephen, didn’t I promise to deliver her?’ She smiled at Rosanna. ‘He didn’t believe you would show tonight. Rosanna, may I present your greatest fan.’

‘Stephen Peatôt. I’m honoured to meet you, Mrs Rossini.’ He smiled shyly as they shook hands.

‘Right, make way for the baby elephant,’ said Abi, pulling the chair next to Stephen as far out from the table as she could.

Rosanna blushed as she struggled to fit into the gap between table and chair.

Stephen thoughtfully poured drinks for the two women: red wine for Abi and mineral water for Rosanna. They then perused the menu and ordered while they listened to Henry, a stockbroker, regale them with details of an enormous and lucrative deal his firm had completed yesterday.

‘Are you also in the City?’ Rosanna asked Stephen, who was sitting next to her.

‘No, nothing as grown-up as that, I’m afraid. I’m an art dealer. I started off at Sotheby’s in the Renaissance department and now I work at a contemporary gallery in Cork Street. I’m trying to learn as much as possible before I set up on my own.’

‘I see. I’m afraid I know nothing about art.’

‘Interestingly, when I’ve seen you singing, I’ve had that gut reaction I only feel when I’m studying a very rare painting. You stir the emotions, you see. Like artists, there are few opera singers who can achieve that.’

Rosanna was used to flattery, but the warmth with which Stephen spoke made his words seem much more genuine. ‘Which is your favourite opera?’ she asked him.

‘That’s a difficult one. I’m a Puccini fan and I love all his works. I think, if I was pushed, I’d have to say
Madama Butterfly
. I saw you sing it in New York last year. I thought you were perfect.’

‘Thank you,’ she answered, ‘though some would say I’m still too young to give the role the proper emotional and vocal depth.’

‘I say that’s rubbish. Butterfly is meant to be fifteen years old. Directors don’t think of the audience,’ Stephen countered. ‘Forgive me for sounding rude about some of your female colleagues, but it’s hard to believe in, say, a consumptively beautiful Violetta from
La Traviata
when she’s over fifty and weighs a hundred kilos!’

‘You mean, looking a bit like I do now?’ Rosanna chuckled. ‘I sang Mimi at Covent Garden when I was six months’ pregnant.’

‘Well, I saw you and I would never have known,’ said Stephen gallantly.

‘It was a clever costume,’ conceded Rosanna.

A waiter momentarily stopped the conversation as he delivered the heavily loaded plates of food to the table.

‘So, when’s the baby due, Rosanna?’ asked Henry when the waiter had left.

‘In about three weeks’ time.’

‘Your husband will be home by then, presumably?’

‘Yes. How do you and Stephen know each other?’ she asked, wishing to change the subject.

‘We were at boarding school together. Stephen, being the kind of clever chap he is, won a scholarship to Cambridge while I had to make do with law at Birmingham,’ Henry explained good-naturedly and raised a glass in Stephen’s direction.

Rosanna began to relax a little. It was good to be out with people whose sole topic of conversation was not opera. But as they were drinking espressos, Rosanna began to shift uncomfortably in her seat. Stephen noticed immediately.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. It’s just a little difficult to sit in one position for too long at the moment.’

‘Of course. Would you like to go home?’

‘I think I should, yes.’

‘Oh spoilsport. I was hoping we might go on somewhere,’ admonished Henry playfully.

‘Well, why don’t you and Abi do that and I’ll drive Rosanna home?’ Stephen suggested. ‘I need my beauty sleep too. I’m flying to Paris tomorrow to authenticate a painting.’

‘Oh no, Stephen, please don’t worry. I can get a taxi,’ said Rosanna.

‘Nonsense. Abi says you live in Kensington. I do too. It couldn’t be less trouble.’

‘All right then. It’s very kind of you.’

‘My pleasure.’

Rosanna took a credit card out of her bag. ‘I must pay for this.’

‘Absolutely not. Henry and I will get the bill,’ said Stephen, signalling for the waiter.

Once the bill was paid, Rosanna stood up and let Stephen help her into her wrap, then they all left the restaurant.

Abi unlocked the car door and Henry climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Bye, darling. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Bye, Abi.’ Rosanna waved as the car drove off.

‘This way. It’s not far.’ Rosanna walked with Stephen up a side street. ‘I’m afraid the mode of transport might not be quite what you’re used to.’ Stephen indicated a rusty Volkswagen Beetle and unlocked the passenger door. ‘She isn’t pretty, but she’s never let me down yet.’

They both climbed in and Stephen started the engine. As he did so, the sound of Rosanna’s voice singing an aria from
Madama Butterfly
filled the car.

‘I’m so sorry, that was tacky. I was playing it on the way here.’ Stephen hurriedly removed the cassette tape as they drove off.

‘Which recording of
Madama Butterfly
was that?’ asked Rosanna.

‘I think it was your first, actually.’

‘But that’s not the best version. Roberto and I made a new one last year and I much prefer it.’

‘I’ll be off to buy it then,’ he grinned.

‘Oh no, I have lots of copies at home. You must have one.’

‘Really? That’s awfully kind of you.’

‘Not at all. Consider it my way of saying thank you for dinner.’ Rosanna pointed as they approached the top of her street. ‘I live just there, on the left by that tree. I’ll give the cassette to Abi next time I see her.’

‘Or maybe I could save you the trouble and just drop by to pick it up sometime? I literally live round the corner.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed as Stephen got out of the car, opened the passenger door and helped her out.

‘Thank you, Rosanna, for a lovely evening.’

‘I enjoyed it too.’

‘Goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight.’

Stephen waited until Rosanna was safely up the steps and had closed the front door behind her. As he got back behind the wheel, he stuck the cassette of
Madama Butterfly
back in the tape recorder and, as he turned on his engine, Rosanna’s voice flooded the car.

28

Roberto woke up and reached automatically for the smooth, silken body that always lay next to him. It wasn’t there. He groaned, and slapped the pillow where his wife’s head should rest.

It was Sunday and he’d been invited to a champagne brunch, the thought of which bored him; but he decided it was better than hanging around Chris’s apartment all day. So he climbed out of bed and went to shower.

The brunch party was being held in a plush penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. John St Regent and his wife, Trish, a buxom blonde dressed from head to toe in Gucci, greeted him at the door.

‘It’s so wonderful you could come to our little gathering, Roberto,’ Trish gushed.

‘Yeah, good to see you,’ John St Regent said as he shook Roberto’s hand vigorously.

‘And how’s that divine little wife of yours?’ Trish enquired. ‘Such a shame she had to cancel New York. You must be lonesome without her.’

‘Yes, I have been,’ Roberto agreed.

‘Never mind, we’ve got some company here to keep you amused for a while.’ Trish squeezed his shoulder in a show of solidarity. ‘Come through and let me introduce you to some of our other guests.’

Roberto was led out of the entrance hall and into a vast sitting room, with floor-to-ceiling windows affording spectacular views over the park and the city beyond.

‘Here we go,’ said Trish, leading Roberto over to a small group of elegantly dressed women. ‘May I present Mr Roberto Rossini. Please take care of him, ladies, he’s very precious,’ she said with a smile before drifting off to greet another guest.

‘Drink, sir?’ One of the uniformed maids offered Roberto a glass of champagne.

‘Thank you. Good afternoon, ladies.’ He smiled at the assembled group.

‘Oh Mr Rossini, we’ve all seen you in
Dante
at the Met. We thought you were truly wonderful, didn’t we, girls?’ one of the women said.

‘Well, thank you, Signora . . . ?’

‘Mattheson. Rita Mattheson. And this is Clara Frobisher, Jill Lipman and Tessa Stewart. We’re all great fans of yours.’

‘I’m honoured,’ murmured Roberto as he nodded to each of the women and prepared for fifteen minutes of polite small talk.

Thankfully, just as he reached the limits of his conversational endurance, the butler announced that brunch was served and the assembled company made their way through to the dining room.

Roberto was seated to the left of Trish St Regent, who sat at the head of the long and extravagantly dressed table.

‘So, is it straight back home to London when you finish at the Met next week?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I . . .’

Roberto was suddenly distracted by the familiar smell of Joy perfume. As he involuntarily turned his head to view the late arrival, he saw her sauntering down the room to a chair at the far end of the table.

‘Roberto, honey, are you okay?’

‘I’m so sorry, Trish. I . . . what were you saying?’

Roberto surreptitiously studied the new arrival throughout the meal, wondering what she was doing here in New York. She was deliberately ignoring him, refusing to make eye contact, even when John St Regent gave the toast in his honour.