Prince's Virgin In Venice

by Trish Morey

  ‘You love your coffee.’

  Not yesterday, Rosa hadn’t. One whiff and she’d turned her head away.

  She threw off her nightgown and pulled her uniform from the hanger on the single clothes rail the girls shared. ‘An aberration,’ she said.

  Chiara watched her clamber into the button-up dress. ‘Only...if you think about it...it’s about six weeks since Carnevale.’

  ‘So?’ Rosa looked around. ‘Where are my shoes? Have you seen my shoes?’ she asked, only to see the heels poking out from under her bed, where she always left them.

  ‘Six weeks since you got lost and said you met someone. A man...’ She let that sink in before she asked, ‘When was your last period, Rosa?’

  Rosa lifted her head, her expression deadpan as she thought back, counting the weeks, finding they didn’t add up. ‘Come on, Chiara. Now you’re frightening me.’

  ‘Aha!’ Chiara said. ‘And why would you be frightened? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, pushing past her to go back into the bathroom.

  She looked at her face in the mirror. She needed to slap on some make-up and do something to fix the weird pallor of her skin...hide the dark shadows under her eyes. She couldn’t be pregnant. She just couldn’t.

  ‘You had sex with him, didn’t you?’ Chiara said. ‘This stranger who took you to a party.’

  ‘You make it sound shabby,’ Rosa protested. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Aha! Then you did sleep with him!’

  ‘Okay, so I did. What of it?’

  Chiara clapped her hands, her eyes alight at the admission. ‘And you never said a word.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so excited,’ Rosa said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Chiara said, looking suitably penitent. ‘I’m just happy for you. Was it good?’

  ‘Chiara!’

  ‘All right. All right. But you could be pregnant, then?’

  ‘I can’t be pregnant.’ She fiddled in her make-up bag, searching. She was absolutely ruling out being pregnant. ‘He used contraception.’

  ‘Condoms aren’t one hundred per cent reliable,’ Chiara said. ‘And you’re not on the pill, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not!’

  Chiara rolled her eyes, but had the good sense not to say anything about that. ‘Do your breasts feel tender?’

  Rosa’s hand stalled on the mascara wand that she’d just started wielding over her lashes. She flicked her eyes to Chiara’s, remembering the pillow she’d been walloped in the chest with. How did she know?

  ‘Maybe it’s just a twenty-four-hour bug? I don’t know. But until I know for sure I’m not going to panic about it.’

  Like hell. Just the thought of being pregnant made her feel sick with fear.

  ‘I’ll get a test from the pharmacy at lunch,’ Chiara offered. ‘You need to do it as soon as you can.’

  Rosa shook her head. ‘Don’t waste your money.’ Please, God, let it be a waste of money. ‘Anyway, if anyone is going to be buying a test it should be me.’

  ‘No. You’ll put it off because you don’t want to know, just in case you are. But you need to know one way or the other, and the sooner the better. Because if you are pregnant you need to start thinking about your options.’ Then her roommate smiled and gave her a quick hug. ‘Now, are you sure you’re feeling well enough to go to work?’

  * * *

  The only good thing about that morning was that an entire tour group had checked out and the hotel was down two cleaners who had the flu. She didn’t have time to panic, she told herself, exhausted after the third room-clean and changeover. She operated on autopilot, not letting herself think about anything beyond linen and towels and scooping away all the used bottles of cheap toiletries and replenishing them with new.

  Because if she didn’t think, she couldn’t panic. And if she didn’t panic, then she wouldn’t work herself up over something that was probably nothing.

  Though why would her period be late...?

  Stress. Overwork. Money worries. That would probably do it. It wasn’t as if she was in denial...she was just considering the other options. Making sense of it.

  By the time her lunch break rolled around Rosa wanted to tell Chiara to forget it. She was feeling much better than she had in the morning. But Chiara had already slipped away to the farmacia and was having none of it.

  She tugged Rosa into their tiny basement flat and then their tiny bathroom, passed her the box, and said, ‘Do it.’

  Rosa looked at the packet, read the instructions. ‘It says to do it first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Rosa,’ her friend growled, pointing at the toilet behind her shoulder. ‘Go.’

  She did as she was ordered this time, but she grumbled all the way from the opening of the box, through the peeing on the stick to the waiting.

  There was no point. She couldn’t be pregnant. It was a waste of money and she’d be delighted to tell Chiara when the test showed up as negative.

  Except it didn’t.

  She swallowed. Looked at the instructions again in case she’d read them wrongly. Looked back at the stick. She had never been more grateful that she was sitting down.

  Chiara banged on the door. ‘Well, what’s happening? What does it say?’

  Rosa washed her hands, splashing a little water on her face for good measure. She lifted her heated face to the mirror. She didn’t look any different. A little paler than usual, maybe, and her eyes a little wide with shell shock.

  She didn’t feel any different. Shouldn’t she feel different? Shouldn’t she know? But pregnant... A baby... She was going to be a mother.

  Rosa swallowed and looked down at the hand she’d curled low over her abdomen. And she realised the price for one night of sin wasn’t just the loss of one of her grandmother’s earrings.

  The price was much, much higher.

  ‘Come on!’ cried Chiara impatiently from outside the door. ‘What’s going on?’

  Rosa took a deep breath and opened the door, holding up the stick. ‘Apparently I’m pregnant.’

  And she let Chiara’s arms enfold her.

  * * *

  ‘But if I’m pregnant,’ Rosa said, sitting on her bed and nursing the cup of sweet tea that Chiara had made for her. ‘Doesn’t Vittorio have a right to know? Don’t I have a responsibility to tell him?’

  ‘There’s no “if” about it. You’re pregnant,’ Chiara said. ‘And why do you think he’d want to know?’

  ‘Because he’s the father?’

  ‘Have you seen this man since?’

  ‘No. Not since that night.’

  ‘Did he give you his phone number? Anything else so you could contact him?’

  ‘No. Only his first name.’ Rosa shook her head. ‘He said it was only for one night.’

  Chiara sat back and slapped her hands on her legs. ‘That says it all, right there. He’s married.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Face it, Rosa. A man picks you up and makes love to you and tells you that it’s one night only—what do you think that means? His wife is probably about to give birth to their fourth bambino and didn’t feel like going out that night. Do you really think he’ll want to know he’s got another one on the way?’

  ‘No. He’s not like that!’

  ‘How do you know? You knew him for all of ten minutes, and that was most likely spent with him working out the fastest way to get inside your pants.’

  ‘Stop it! It wasn’t like that!’

  ‘All right. But seeing as you haven’t told me what it was like, what am I supposed to think?’

  Rosa flicked her eyes up to her friend. ‘Vittorio said his father wants him to get married.’ Hadn’t that been why Sirena was pursuing him? So that she would be the next Mrs... Mrs... She did
n’t know what. He’d never told her what his surname was.

  She swallowed. So that she couldn’t find him?

  ‘Right. And he does what his father tells him, does he? How old was he? Twelve?’

  ‘Chiara!’

  ‘Well, who does what their father demands when they’re all grown up?’

  ‘So he has a demanding father? I don’t know.’

  Chiara gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Clearly.’ Then she sat down next to Rosa on the bed and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘But you know, you might as well forget about him. You’ve got more pressing things to worry about now.’ She gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘Like what you’re going to do about this pregnancy.’

  ‘What do you mean, what I’m going to do about it? I’m pregnant, aren’t I? What can I do?’

  ‘Oh, cara,’ her roommate said softly. ‘You must know it’s not the only way you have to go. There are things you can do. You don’t need a child now—how are you going to provide for it?’

  ‘But it’s a baby, Chiara. I’m having a baby.’

  ‘It’s not technically a baby yet, though, is it?’

  ‘But it will grow.’

  ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it, all I’m saying is having the child is not your only option. You need to think about all your options, Rosa, and what is best for you.’

  ‘And the baby?’ Rosa sniffed, her hand already wrapped protectively over the belly under which it lay. ‘What about what’s best for the baby?’

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ said Chiara, ‘but I can honestly say that there are plenty of children living in dreadful circumstances who would probably have preferred not to have been born at all.’ She smoothed the hair from Rosa’s brow. ‘All I’m saying is think about it, okay? Don’t assume that you’re trapped and that you have no choices. You have choices. They might not be easy, but they’re there.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘WHAT THE HELL’S wrong with you, Vittorio?’ Marcello said. ‘You’re not taking this seriously. How do you expect to find yourself a bride to marry by the date your father decreed if you won’t ask one?’

  Vittorio sighed, hands in pockets, and turned away from the big windows overlooking the Grand Canal. More than halfway through the three months his father had decreed and he was back in Venice—although the intention had been to bring either Katerina or Inga to Venice with him and formally propose.

  It was a business decision first and foremost, sure, but Marcello had suggested that no woman was going to say no in such a romantic setting, even if the wedding itself would have to take place in the cathedral in Andachstein.

  The worst of it was that he didn’t understand it himself. He’d decided to comply with his father’s demands. He’d decided to follow his destiny. He’d decided it was a good thing. Perfect. Failsafe. And yet...

  ‘For God’s sake Vittorio, what are you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Marcello sighed theatrically. ‘Tell me something I don’t know. Now, let’s take this from the top. Katerina Volvosky. What do you think of her?’

  ‘She seems nice,’ he conceded. They’d been twice to the opera, and had flown to Paris in the royal jet for dinner one night.

  ‘Nice,’ said Marcello, deadpan. ‘Right. How about Inga?’

  Vittorio nodded. Together they’d gone ballooning in Turkey, with a side visit to Petra in Jordan. ‘Yes, she’s nice too.’

  ‘And you can’t decide between these two...’ he made apostrophes in the air with his fingers ‘...“nice” women?’

  ‘No,’ Vittorio said on a shrug. And they were nice women. Lovely women, both. ‘There’s nothing wrong with either of them,’ Vittorio said. ‘They’d both be fine.’ They were intelligent, passionate about their interests and attractive. ‘They’d both be an asset to Andachstein.’

  ‘So let’s take it back to basics, shall we? Let’s make it really, really easy for you.’

  Vittorio turned back to look out at the shifting traffic on the canal, his fingers toying with the earring in his trouser pocket. ‘I wish you would.’

  Because he wasn’t finding any of it easy as his eyes sought out the direction of the hotel where Rosa worked. What would she be doing right now? Would she be on her lunch break? Did she even get a lunch break?

  ‘Which woman is better in bed?’

  ‘What?’ Vittorio spun around.

  ‘Which one—Katerina or Inga—do you like better in bed?’

  Vittorio’s eyebrows shot up, answering the question with another. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They’re both as good as each other?’

  Vittorio turned back to the view. ‘I haven’t slept with them.’

  Marcello blinked. Slowly. ‘You haven’t slept with them? You?’ He pressed the knuckle of one finger into the bridge of his nose. ‘Vittorio,’ he said, looking up, ‘don’t mind me asking this, but are you all right? Health-wise, I mean? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Vittorio shook his head. ‘Never better.’

  Marcello looked as if he didn’t believe him. What was his problem? The women were nice enough, certainly, and they’d given him enough cues to let him know that they wouldn’t say no if he did ask. It was just that when it came down to it he hadn’t felt like taking them to bed.

  ‘Okay,’ said a weary-sounding Marcello. ‘Then all I can suggest to sort this out is to flip a coin.’ He held out his hand. ‘Have you got one on you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, turning back to the canal and looking in the direction of the Dorsodura sestiere, where her hotel was situated. But he did have an earring.

  ‘Is there something out there?’ asked Marcello, coming closer to see for himself. ‘Something that I’m missing?’

  ‘No,’ Vittorio said.

  Not something. Someone. He’d always intended to return Rosa’s earring and, given that he was back in Venice, there was no time like the present.

  Serendipity.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, already heading for the stairs.

  ‘But, Vittorio, you need to make a decision—’

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Ciao.’

  * * *

  Vittorio strode purposefully through the narrow streets of Venice. He wasn’t wearing leather today, nor even a swirling cloak, and yet people still moved out of his way when they saw him coming, flattening themselves against the walls of the calles or ducking into shop and café doorways.

  He barely noticed. He was a man on a mission and he was too busy working out how long it had been since he’d seen her to care. Carnevale... Six weeks ago? Seven? Did she still work at the same hotel? Was she still in Venice or had she moved on? Or gone home to her tiny village in Puglia?

  The sooner he got to the hotel, the sooner he’d find out.

  Eventually he found it—a shabby-looking hotel, tucked away in the corner of a square with a tiny canal running down one side. The entire side of the wall looked as if it was leaning into it.

  He marched through the entry doors that announced it as Palazzo d’Velatte into a tiny foyer and saw heads swivel towards him. He marched towards a thin man sporting a backwards horseshoe of hair and standing behind a tiny counter. He wouldn’t swear on a stack of bibles, but he was sure he saw the man swallow.

  ‘Are you checking in?’ he asked, craning his neck so high there was no missing the Adam’s apple in his throat, bobbing up and down.

  ‘No. I’m looking for someone who works here. A woman.’

  ‘Erm...’ The man offered a simpering smile. ‘We don’t offer that kind of service.’

  ‘She’s a cleaner. Her name is Rosa. Does she still work here?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can divulge that—’

  Vittorio leaned over the reception desk. ‘Does. She. Still. Work. Here?’

  The man�
�s eyes bugged. ‘Well, yes, but...’ His eyes darted to his watch. ‘She won’t finish her shift for another two hours.’

  ‘So she’s working today? In this hotel?’

  ‘Well, yes...’

  Vittorio smiled—although it was probably more of a baring of his teeth, because he noticed he didn’t get one in return. ‘Then I’ll find her myself.’

  He looked around the tiny foyer, spied a likely set of stairs and set off.

  ‘Wait!’ the man called. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Watch me,’ he said, taking the steps three at a time.

  There were only three levels. It shouldn’t take long.

  On the first level he found nothing.

  On the second level he found a cleaner backing out of a room and towing a vacuum cleaner behind her.

  ‘Rosa?’ he asked.

  The woman looked up. She was a pretty woman, with bright eyes and dark curly hair tied back in a ponytail behind her head, but definitely not Rosa.

  Her eyes narrowed when she saw him. She straightened, looking him up and down, frankly assessing. ‘You’re looking for Rosa?’

  ‘Do you know where I can find her?’

  ‘Your name wouldn’t be Vittorio, by any chance?’

  ‘What if it is?’ he said.

  Her eyes widened in appreciation before they flicked upwards. ‘In that case, she’s working the floor above.’

  * * *

  It was the worst day of her life. She’d started the morning throwing up and now, after confronting the room of some guests who had clearly thought last night was party night, only to lose the ‘party’ they’d consumed all over the bathroom, she kept right on heaving while she cleaned up the mess and cleared away the soiled towels. They were empty retches, because there was nothing in her stomach to bring up, but that didn’t stop her retching all the same.

  But she could hardly beg off work, because she needed this job and she didn’t need anyone knowing she was pregnant. Not until she’d worked out what to do.

  Dio, she felt so drained.

  She replaced all the towels in the now clean bathroom with fresh ones and then caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she swung around. She was shocked at what she saw. She looked like a ghost of herself. Her dull, lifeless eyes were too big for her head, and her hair stuck together in tendrils around her face after her temperature had spiked during each pointless yet violent round of dry heaving.