Angel

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  His father, Roberto Fortunato, he had never known; his mother, Gina, he could barely remember. After his aunt died, when he was five years old, his Uncle Vito, who was his mother’s brother, had been both father and mother to him until he was fifteen. It was then he had dropped out of school, knowing he would never make it to college anyway.

  And so the streets of New York became his university, just as they had, in a sense, been his kindergarten. At an early age he had learned to take care of himself, was street-smart, forever wary and on guard, conscious of everyone and everything going on around him.

  But Johnny had never been a typical street kid, full of sass, with a cheeky mouth and a belligerent manner; nor had he been a tough and dangerous young punk, constantly making trouble, or in trouble with the law. Uncle Vito had seen to that.

  Also, Johnny was lucky in that he had something special, something which made him different from the other kids, lifted him out of the ordinary, and, in a peculiar way, even protected him. That something special was a voice. It was a sweet and melodious voice, one so pure it was breathtaking, and it caused his uncle’s colleagues and male friends to listen to him rapt, almost in awe, applaud loudly when he had finished and generously shower him with dollar bills.

  Without exception, each one of them told him he sang like an angel. Uncle Vito said his voice was a gift from God, and that he should treat it with respect and be forever thankful for his great gift. He was.

  For a while, the young Gianni toyed with the idea of calling himself Johnny Angel, after the popular song of that title. But in the end he decided to use Johnny Fortune, the anglicization of his own name, hoping that it presaged things to come. And ultimately it did, although it took Johnny many years to make that fortune.

  Now, on this cool November evening, his past was the last thing on his mind. Johnny was thinking about the future—next year to be exact. It seemed to him that 1992 had all but disappeared before it had even begun, what with the foreign concert tours which had been planned, plus the lengthy recording sessions for his new disc, which his manager had already set up with the recording studio in New York. Once Christmas was over he realized his time was no longer going to be his own; the next twelve months were spoken for.

  It struck Johnny that the more successful he became, the less time he had for himself. But he would rather be overworked, overtired and pressured, with no social or private life to speak of, and rich and famous, than the reverse. He had achieved what he had set out to achieve; he had everything he had always wanted.

  Sighing lightly under his breath, a wry smile touching his mouth, Johnny allowed his long, elegant fingers to drift over the keys of the Steinway baby grand, playing his favourite song, one he had long made his own and which had become his signature tune. It was You and Me (We Wanted It All), words and music by Carole Bayer Sager and Peter Allen.

  Abruptly, he stopped playing, slowly swung around on the piano stool, sat perfectly still, staring out into the living room. His eyes roamed around. As usual, he could not help but admire it; even after four years of living in the hillside house he continued to derive immense pleasure from merely looking and appreciating.

  Some of his possessions he continued to regard with awe. Not the least of this awe and admiration was directed at his collection of paintings, which he had been acquiring since he moved into the house.

  The room Johnny was staring at was beautiful, its overall design graciously executed. A mixture of creams and dark wood tones predominated, with the vivid colour coming from the art, the book bindings, and the lush, freshly cut flowers arranged in crystal vases and bowls.

  A pale-cream rug on the dark polished floor centred the room in front of the fireplace, with two cream sofas, deep and luxurious, facing each other across an antique Chinese coffee table of carved mahogany. French bergères from the Louis XV period, upholstered in striped cream silk, flanked the fireplace, and there were antique occasional tables, as well as a long sofa table holding a small sculpture by Brancusi and a black basalt urn overflowing with branches and flowers. The whole was bathed in soft light emanating from the many silk-shaded porcelain lamps.

  But it was the paintings which caught the eye and commanded attention—the Sisley landscape over the fireplace, the Rouault and the Cézanne on the far wall, and the two early Van Goghs hanging on the wall behind the piano.

  Even though Johnny said it himself, the room was in perfect taste. He had not created it, nor, indeed, any part of the house. It was all Nell’s handiwork, with the help of an interior designer. Nell had found the house, picked the designer and created the look, the mood, the very special ambience that permeated throughout.

  Everything Johnny looked at had Nell’s stamp on it, since she had chosen everything with him. The whole house represented Nell’s taste, but he didn’t mind; he loved her taste. In fact, he had made her taste his own.

  It pleased Johnny that he could now recognize what was excellent and what was inferior. He had come to appreciate quality and style, not only in art and furniture but in everything else, and he was proud of his newly-acquired knowledge.

  Even his clothes had undergone an overhaul since Nell had become part of his business entourage. He liked the way he looked these days—more conservative and well tailored than he had ever been. Nell had given him an image.

  Rising, Johnny walked across the room and stood with his back to the fireplace, admitting to himself that the only really good taste he had had before meeting Nell Jeffrey was in his music. And everyone acknowledged that his musical taste was impeccable. He never put a foot wrong with that.

  It was not surprising that he had not known much about art and antiques. After all he had not had much exposure to them. His Aunt Angelina had filled the little apartment on Mulberry Street with gaudy pictures of Jesus and the Saints, crucifixes, and religious plaster statues in improbable colours, and after she had died Uncle Vito had not touched anything, perhaps out of love and respect for his dead wife.

  Once Johnny had escaped the dreary little space he and the old man occupied, his years on the road had been spent in cheap motel rooms or garish hotels in Hollywood, Vegas, Chicago, Atlantic City and Manhattan, and they were hardly the ideal places to get an education about art and precious objects.

  Johnny chuckled to himself as he walked across the floor and out into the large entrance foyer, heading in the direction of the dining room. He was thinking of Uncle Vito, who he knew would flee this elegant house if he ever set eyes on it, running to the nearest motel out of sheer embarrassment.

  He had invited Vito to the coast four years ago, when he had first moved in, but the old man had declined. He had not pressed him to come, nor had he repeated the invitation at a later date. His uncle did not fit in here, very simply because the house would make him feel ill at ease, and the last thing Johnny wanted was to cause him discomfort. Uncle Vito might not have been the greatest parent, but he had done the best he knew how, and Johnny was very well aware that the old man had always loved him as if he were the son he had never had.

  The dining room where Johnny hovered in the doorway was in shades of apricot and cream, with touches of bright raspberry. It was simplicity itself, with an old yew-wood dining table from the south of France, surrounded by chairs with high backs of carved cherry. An elegant armoire and a buffet, also made of cherry, were set against different walls, while paintings by the great Scottish watercolourist Sir William Russell Flint hung above the buffet.

  Tonight the mellow wood table gleamed with antique English silver, the finest of porcelain and crystal. Pale, champagne-coloured roses in full bloom, their perfume heady and sweet, filled the silver rose bowl resting between the four silver candlesticks holding cream candles, and a pair of dessert stands flanked the latter on each side.

  There were three place settings at the table, and as he gazed at it Johnny discovered he was annoyed. He would have preferred it if Nell were coming alone tonight, as they had originally planned. Instead she was dra
gging a friend along with her. There was so much he still wanted to talk to her about, not to mention going over the coming year’s agenda again, and with a stranger present he would certainly have to curtail his conversation—at least to some extent.

  Now the prospect of meeting Nell’s friend put a sudden damper on his buoyant spirits. But at lunch yesterday he had agreed when Nell had asked if she could bring someone, so it was his own fault. Nothing to do but put up a good front.

  Turning away from the doorway, Johnny crossed the vast hall and ran lightly up the staircase to his bedroom, taking the steps two at a time. Like the rooms on the lower floor, the bedroom was large, full of light, with a huge plate-glass window running from the ceiling to the floor, making the wooded landscape outside an integral part of the interior decoration.

  The room was furnished with French provincial antiques made of cherry and other fruit woods, and the colour scheme was similar to those in the rooms downstairs. Shades of cream, coffee and buttery-yellow mingled with pale-celadon and rose, all of them taken from the handsome Aubusson rug on the floor, the inspiration for the colour theme in the bedroom.

  Taking off his blue jeans, T-shirt and brown suede loafers, Johnny went through into the bathroom to take a shower. A few minutes later, he stepped out of the steaming shower stall, grabbed a bath towel, wrapped it around himself, and reached for a smaller towel to dry his hair.

  Johnny Fortune was thirty-eight years old. His body was lean, lithe and in perfect condition. He swam a lot, went to the gym whenever he could, and watched what he ate and drank. In consequence, he was in good physical shape. He had a finely-boned, sensitive face that showed fatigue very quickly, and when he was tired he could look older than his years. At this moment, regarding himself intently in the mirror, he thought that in spite of his tan he looked lousy.

  After thoroughly drying his blond-streaked brown hair with the blow dryer, he brushed it back, leaned closer to the mirror and grimaced. The ravages of the night before really showed. He had faint bluish smudges under his eyes that resembled light bruises, and he certainly looked as if he was in need of sleep. He was. For the first time in years he had stupidly hung one on, drinking far too much red wine over dinner at La Dolce Vita on Little Santa Monica with his friend Harry Paloma.

  What was even more stupid, he had taken one of the groupies who forever trailed him to the local hotel where he kept a permanent suite, and had bedded down with her. He never brought girls here to the house. The house was sacrosanct. That was why he kept the hotel suite on a permanent lease; it was ideal for his sexual encounters, which, as it so happened, were infrequent these days. Well, he had done one intelligent thing last night; he had remembered, at the last minute, to wear some protection. His arranger, Gordy Lanahan, had recently died of AIDS and that deadly disease was a spectre that haunted him.

  Dropping the towel, Johnny walked through into the bedroom and went on into the large dressing room which adjoined it. This was actually the same size as his bedroom; the dressing room was full of racks holding expensive, beautifully-made clothes from the best tailors in London, Paris and Rome; Plexiglas-fronted drawers contained the finest of shirts, plus wool, silk and cashmere sweaters and pullovers for all occasions. Highly-polished shoes made of the best leathers, others of suede, were arranged on other racks which rested underneath the suits and sports jackets; silk ties were suspended from smaller racks attached to one of the walls.

  After a few seconds spent going through some of his more casual clothes, Johnny made his selections, choosing a pair of dark-grey slacks and a black cashmere blazer, a pale-blue Swiss-voile shirt and a blue silk tie. He dressed rapidly in these clothes, then stepped into a pair of black leather loafers and went to select a silk handkerchief for his breast pocket.

  A moment or two later, Johnny Fortune was running back down the staircase, having realized that Nell Jeffrey was due to arrive any minute.

  TEN

  Johnny Fortune did not like Nell’s friend.

  Try though he might to push aside his antipathy for her, he discovered he could not. There was something about her which disturbed him, filled him with irritation, and whenever she spoke he had a terrible compulsion to contradict whatever she said. Not only that, he had to make a supreme effort to be civil to her.

  In all truth, Rosalind Madigan brought out the worst in Johnny. This was mainly because he was a man filled with innumerable insecurities about himself, although he did not comprehend that this was the actual reason for his aversion. He had not, as yet, attempted to analyse his reaction to Rosie. He was far too preoccupied thinking the worst about her—how plain she was, how superior of manner, how snobbish.

  Rosie was none of these things. But the instant Johnny had set eyes on her he had instinctively sensed that she was different from the girls who normally crossed his path, and very simply he did not know how to cope with a woman who was so classy. And so in his mind he put her down, turning her attributes into faults, seeing her as he wanted to see her and not as she truly was. Rosie was not plain, only conservative in her mode of dressing; she was not superior, but good-mannered; and certainly she was not snobbish, merely shy with him.

  Looking at her now, through the corner of his eye, Johnny thought how dreary she was in appearance. He could not stand drab women; they turned him off. Flashy looks, brilliant plumage, lots of pizzazz and glamour were what he went for. He had a weakness for glamorous girls, in fact, which was one of the reasons Nell Jeffrey so appealed to him. Even though their relationship was strictly business, he took immense delight in her striking blonde beauty. Nell was loaded with glamour, in his opinion, and he thought she was a gorgeous specimen of young womanhood. He was proud that she was part of his entourage.

  He was sipping his wine, listening to the two women chatting about their mutual friend, Gavin Ambrose, the mega movie star, when he had an unexpected, and rare, flash of insight into himself. Suddenly he realized what it was that disturbed him about the Madigan woman. It was her intelligence.

  Brainy women frightened Johnny Fortune, made him feel like a dunce, and inferior, because he had not finished school.

  Nell was also intelligent, but she was so well endowed with good looks and feminine attributes that Johnny never really noticed her brains until she was gone from his presence. Then it always hit him how clever she had been, usually on his behalf, and in his best interest. Nell Jeffrey was much more than his public relations representative, more like a business adviser, and he fully appreciated her talents, which he thought were considerable. She had changed his life in many fundamental ways since she had represented him.

  Understanding the cause of his discomfort with Rosie, a feeling that had assailed him when she first walked in, made Johnny feel much better, and he picked up his fork, twisted spaghetti onto it.

  Nell, Rosie and Johnny were seated at the dining table, eating the first course of the dinner Johnny’s cook, Giovanni, had prepared. Sophia, Giovanni’s wife, had just served the pasta primavera, while Arthur, his English-trained American butler, had poured chilled white wine into the fine crystal goblets.

  There was silence in the room for a few seconds as the three of them ate, savouring the flavourful pasta. It was Nell who broke it, exclaiming, ‘This is superb, Johnny, the most delicious pasta I’ve eaten in ages. Isn’t it good, Rosie?’

  ‘Delectable,’ Rosie agreed, and looked across at Johnny. ‘It’s better than anything I ever had at Alfredo’s… Alfredo’s in Rome.’

  ‘Giovanni’s a genius in the kitchen,’ Johnny said almost snappishly, and turning to Nell, excluding Rosie, he softened his voice, as he asked, ‘So, how’re we gonna do all these concerts next year? I think I’ll need a stretcher at the end of the tour.’

  Nell gave him a very direct look and decided to say what had been on the tip of her tongue since yesterday, when they had done more brainstorming on his proposed world tour.

  ‘I don’t think you should do the whole tour, Johnny,’ she announced caref
ully. ‘It’s just too much for anybody. Too many cities in too many far-flung countries. It’d be a killer. In my opinion you should restrict the tour to Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris and Madrid, some of which have been more or less set. Skip the rest.’

  Johnny was taken aback by her statement, and his surprise showed on his face. He gaped at her. ‘Hell, honey, I think that’s a terrific idea, but I don’t know that my agent’ll agree with me. Anyway, he’s already started the ball rolling around the world.’

  ‘But he hasn’t made all of your bookings, or closed all of the foreign deals with the theatres and auditoriums. I know that for a fact, and—’

  ‘How do you know?’ Johnny interrupted, frowning.

  ‘I asked him just before I left yesterday. You were on the phone in the other office. You see, during our brainstorming session, it struck me that the tour was far too strenuous, perhaps even a bit ill-conceived. The distances you would have to cover are tremendous, continents apart. You’d be on that tour for almost the entire year, virtually living on your plane, as you well know, I’m sure. In any case, Johnny, this particular kind of tour spreads the artist too thin. I really do believe you should stick to the States and Europe this coming year. You can do Japan, the Far East and Australia the year after—in 1993.’

  ‘It don’t sound half bad to me.’ Johnny beamed at her. ‘I just hope Jeff’ll go for it.’

  ‘I am quite certain he will, if you broach it in the right way. Better still, why not let me bring it up at the meeting tomorrow afternoon? I could make the points I’ve just made to you. Also, let’s not forget the recording sessions for the new disc. Those sessions are going to take several months, and put a great strain on you. You know what a perfectionist you are. Maybe I should mention that too, don’t you think?’

  An admiring look flickered in Johnny’s eyes. He nodded. ‘You’re the smartest, the brightest, Nell. I love it when you do my thinking for me. Okay, it’s agreed. You drop the bombshell on Jeff. I’ll duck. You take his fire. And when the dust settles I’ll take us all out to dinner.’ Johnny grinned. ‘I like it, I like it. And Jeff admires you, darlin’. You can certainly make some good points with him. Listen, he’ll take it from you.’