The Italian Girl (9 page)

Tonight, he wanted to organise a celebration supper for both of them. Glancing at his watch, he realised he still had a lot to do before he went to collect Rosanna. He finished the remains of his meal, paid the bill and headed off in the direction of their apartment. As he walked, he spotted a small supermarket, its window crowded with hanging strings of dry-cured sausages and wooden crates of fresh vegetables. He went inside and purchased all the ingredients he would need, plus a bottle of Chianti. Emerging into the busy street, and unsure of his bearings, he turned right and found himself in the Via Agnello. Realising he’d taken a wrong turn, he was just about to retrace his footsteps when a church, its spire visible from behind the buildings lining the main street, caught his eye.

Luca decided to take a closer look. He walked in the direction of the spire along a narrow alleyway until he arrived in a small square. He made his way across it towards the church, hesitating in front of the arched wooden door. To the right of it was a small plaque. Luca struggled to read the words – worn away by the ravages of time – that were written on it.

‘La Chiesa Della Beata Vergine Maria – The church of the Madonna’, he read out loud.

Luca checked his watch. He still had two hours before he needed to collect Rosanna. Enough time to satisfy an overwhelming urge to take a look inside, so he stepped into the front lobby. Above the door leading inside the church itself was a worn and faded fresco depicting the Virgin Mary cradling the baby Jesus in her arms. He gazed at it for a few seconds, then entered the church. He saw it was deserted and his eyes adjusted to the dimness after the bright sunlight outside.

Luca looked up at the high, arched ceiling, scarred with cracks in the plaster. To his left, a cherub holding up one of the pillars had a chipped nose and half a wing, and the pews in front of him were so worn that the varnish had disappeared altogether. And yet . . . and yet, even though the church looked forlorn and uncared for, Luca was struck by its beauty, its warmth.

The echo of his footsteps rang around the church as he walked further down the aisle. Although it was empty, he felt as if he were not alone. Suddenly feeling dizzy and a little weak, he took a seat in one of the pews and put the shopping bags by his feet.

Luca stared at the statue of the Madonna standing in the centre of the altar. The blue paint of her dress was peeling and her lips had lost their original redness. Luca closed his eyes, crossed himself and began to pray.

When he opened his eyes, a shaft of sunlight was streaming through the stained-glass windows at the front of the church, its rays falling on the statue. The light became brighter. Then in the centre of the light he saw a blurred shape.

Her arms were outstretched. And she spoke to him.

He blinked and she was gone, leaving only brilliant sunlight behind her.

Luca sat still for a very long time. When he finally moved, his body felt light, as though it had lost its gravity. He stood slowly and walked down the aisle to the front of the church. When he reached the altar, he dropped to one knee, tears of joy pouring down his cheeks. Where there’d been uncertainty, there was now purpose; and where there had been emptiness, there was love.

He didn’t know how long it was before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned to look up into a pair of wise brown eyes. An old priest smiled down at him and Luca knew instinctively that he had witnessed and understood.

‘My name is Don Edoardo. I am
il parroco
of Beata Vergine Maria. If you wish to talk to me, I’m here every morning between half past nine and noon.’

‘
Grazie
, Don Edoardo. I wish . . . I wish to make confession.’

The priest nodded, and Luca rose to his feet, the feeling of weightlessness still with him, and followed Don Edoardo to the confessional.

When Luca left the church fifteen minutes later, he knew his life would never be the same again.

An elated Rosanna flung herself into Luca’s arms.

‘How was it?’

‘Wonderful! Terrifying, but wonderful! There are so many beautiful voices, Luca. How will I ever be able to compete? And some of the girls are so mature, even though they’re the same age as me. And the clothes they wear! I think some of them must be very rich . . . and my singing tutor, Professor Poli, he’s so stern and . . . Luca’ – Rosanna stopped and stared at him – ‘are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’ve never felt better. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, it’s just that you . . . well, you look different somehow. A little pale, perhaps.’

‘I promise,
piccolina
, that I am . . .’ Luca tried to find a word to describe how he felt. ‘Radiant!’ He laughed as he steered her across the busy road and they headed home arm in arm. They reached the apartment, short of breath from the stairs, and Luca unlocked the door, mentally noting that the peeling paintwork could do with some attention.

‘You go and take a shower before the hot water runs out, Rosanna,’ Luca suggested. ‘I’m cooking something special for supper tonight.’

Rosanna stared at the small sitting room in delight. Since she’d left that morning, the last vestiges of unpacking had been tidied away. The threadbare sofa in the corner had been covered by a colourful blanket so that it now looked cosy and inviting. The rickety table by the window was disguised with a fringed pink cloth, on which stood a blue and white striped jug of fresh flowers, along with two candles placed in saucers.

‘You’ve worked so hard. Thank you!’ she exclaimed. Despite the shabby, pock-marked walls and the grimy windows that Luca hadn’t yet had time to clean, the overall impression was cheerful and homely.

‘It’s a special night – for both of us,’ Luca replied from the tiny kitchen, from which the mouth-watering aroma of fresh garlic and herbs was already emanating.

‘Yes, Luca, it is,’ said Rosanna, her eyes dancing. ‘I won’t be long, then I’ll come and help you.’ She retrieved her towel and washbag from her bedroom and, putting the apartment door on the latch, made her way down the dim corridor to the communal bathroom.

Later, after a supper of mushroom risotto and salad that Rosanna pronounced excellent, they sat back nursing their wine glasses and watching dusk fall across the rooftops of Milan.

Rosanna yawned, then smiled at her brother. ‘I feel so tired.’

‘Then you must go to bed. It’s the excitement, I expect.’

‘Yes. Do you know, I didn’t think it was possible to feel this happy ever again after Mamma died,’ she mused.

Luca studied his sister across the table, then shook his head. ‘Neither did I, Rosanna, neither did I.’

The wrought-iron gates slid open noiselessly and Roberto drove his Fiat slowly up the tree-lined drive. Negotiating the oversized fountain that played in an ornamental pond, Roberto brought his car to a halt.

Although he’d often passed through Como and had twice picnicked by the lake, he’d never been able to see anything more than the chimneys of the residences that lay cocooned behind their leafy green barricades.

Now in front of him stood a grand palazzo. Its graceful white frontage rose from the ground, the sun glinting off the tiers of neat windows, each one aproned with a balcony fashioned delicately out of wrought iron. In the centre, above the front door, was a circular stained-glass window, framed by an elegant cupola.

Roberto stepped out of his Fiat and shut the door behind him. He walked towards the palazzo and slowly made his way up a staircase to the enormous front door set between pillars of Angera stone. He couldn’t see a bell and didn’t feel that knocking was the correct way to alert the occupant to his arrival. As Roberto was wondering if there was another entrance, the door opened.

‘
Caro
, I’m so glad you could come.’

Donatella was wearing a flimsy white robe. Her hair was wet and her face devoid of make-up. She looked incredible. ‘I was showering after a swim in the pool. You’re a little early.’

‘I . . . sorry, yes.’ Roberto gulped, doing his best to avert his eyes from her voluptuous breasts, their fullness barely disguised beneath the robe.

‘Follow me.’

Roberto stepped inside and followed his hostess through the large marbled hall and up a sweeping staircase.

Donatella pushed open a door and let Roberto into a huge, high-ceilinged bedroom.

‘Here, make yourself comfortable while I dress.’ Donatella indicated a sofa by a window and disappeared into another room.

Roberto walked over to the window and stared out across the perfectly manicured gardens, the vast frontage of which led eventually to the shore of Lake Como itself. After a few minutes, he sat down on the deep sofa and let a small sigh escape his lips. Donatella Bianchi and her husband were obviously rich on an epic scale.

‘So,
caro
, are you well?’ Donatella appeared, clad in a pair of tight white jeans and a black top that accentuated her two best assets.

‘I . . . yes, thank you.’

Donatella sat down next to him, her long legs curled under her. ‘Good. I’m glad you came today. Champagne?’ Donatella reached for the bottle in an ice bucket on the low table. She poured the frothy liquid into two glasses without waiting for a reply.

‘Thank you,’ Roberto said as she handed him a glass.

‘To you and your future,’ she toasted.

For the first time in his life, Roberto was at a loss for words. He took a sip of champagne and tried to recover his equilibrium. ‘You have a beautiful home,’ he managed, then blushed, feeling stupid.

‘I’m glad you like it. It’s been in my husband’s family for more than a hundred and fifty years. But’ – Donatella sighed – ‘sometimes I feel I live in a museum. We must have a staff of twenty to care for both the palazzo and the grounds.’ One of Donatella’s long legs uncurled itself from under her and a foot inched towards Roberto’s thigh.

‘You have no children?’ he asked, trying to maintain the conversation.

‘No. I’ve never been the maternal type,’ she shrugged, ‘and besides, it seems my husband and I . . . we could not conceive a child.’

‘Your husband, er, where is he?’ Roberto asked nervously as a toe made its way towards his groin.

Donatella sighed and made a mock pout. ‘He’s in America and has left me all alone again.’

‘He travels abroad often?’

‘All the time. He’s an art dealer. Much of his time is spent in New York or London. I’m here by myself for weeks on end.’ She lowered her chin and threw him an unmistakably suggestive glance from under her lashes.

‘Can’t you go with him?’

‘Of course, but I’ve travelled all over the world, seen so many places, and these days I prefer to stay at home. It’s boring to be in a strange city alone while my husband conducts his business. And even
I
can have enough of shopping. So tell me more about you, Roberto Rossini.’

‘There’s little to tell,’ Roberto shrugged.

‘I don’t believe that for a second. You have a girlfriend?’

Donatella fished.

‘No, not at the moment.’

‘I think you’re too modest. You must have a stream of women going crazy for you.’ With one practised movement, Donatella rose from the sofa and straddled his knees with her legs. ‘I mean, with your beautiful, big voice and your other . . . attractions.’ One of her hands inched down his shirt buttons. ‘You’ve had many lovers, yes?’

‘I . . .’ Caught unawares by her boldness, Roberto found it difficult to form the words. ‘A few,’ he gasped, becoming more aroused by the second.

‘Older women?’ Donatella’s mouth slid to his neck and kissed it. Her hand, meanwhile, found its target.

‘No . . . I . . .’

‘Then I will be the first,’ she purred triumphantly.

Losing his last vestige of self-control, Roberto buried his fingers in her thick hair as Donatella covered his lips with hers.

Three hours later, the two of them retraced their footsteps to the front door of the palazzo.

Donatella smiled as she opened the door.

‘This morning has been most . . . enjoyable. Call me tomorrow evening at seven, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Next time we’ll talk about your future.
Ciao
, Roberto.’

As he walked unsteadily to his car, he shook his head at the irony.

Roberto Rossini, experienced lover and man of the world, had just been well and truly seduced.

9

Milan, January 1973

Rosanna opened the door to the apartment. ‘Luca, Luca! I’m home.’

‘In the kitchen,
piccolina
,’ he called.

‘Luca, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought a friend back from school with me for supper.’ Rosanna appeared in the kitchen, her brown eyes sparkling, her cheeks tinged red from the walk through the cold winter air. ‘I said you always cook enough for six,’ she quipped.

‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Luca smiled.

‘Thank you. Abi, this is my brother, Luca Menici.’

‘Hello, Luca.’ The girl smiled back shyly. ‘I’m Abigail Holmes. A pleasure to meet you. Oh, and please call me Abi.’ She spoke good Italian with just a trace of an English accent.

‘I . . . hello, Abi.’ Luca found himself blushing. He stared at Abi and felt his heart rate increase. She was an extremely pretty blonde, with large blue eyes, fine features and the delicate peaches-and-cream complexion of the English.

‘Can we help with supper?’ asked Rosanna.

Luca tore his eyes away from Abi. ‘No. The sauce is cooked and the pasta will only be another two or three minutes. Go and make yourselves comfortable in the sitting room.’

Abi followed Rosanna out of the kitchen. She sat on the sofa and let out a low whistle. ‘Your brother is very handsome, Rosanna. He has the most gorgeous eyes.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Yes. Don’t sound so surprised.’ Abi giggled. ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

‘Oh no. He never has had.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, Abi. He’s just never been interested in women.’

Luca arrived in the sitting room with a large bowl of pasta.

‘Signorine, if you would like to take your seats.’

‘
Grazie
, signor.’ Abi’s eyes twinkled as she sat down at the table next to Rosanna.