by Diana Fraser
By habit, Rose walked directly across to the windows that she’d had enlarged. She stepped out on to the small balcony and looked over to where the turrets of an old palace—now a museum—rose. The small bronze clock on the principal turret chimed the hour. It was ten in the morning. And for the first time Rose felt a sense of inevitability: as though she were in the right place at the right time.
She turned to look at Giovanni. He hadn’t moved: still stood by the door watching her.
“It’s fine. I’ll stay.”
“That was never in doubt. It’s your room after all.”
“And nothing’s changed in two years.”
“Everything’s changed, cara. Always. Time does not stand still.”
“It looks as if time’s stood still here.”
“No. The room had been neglected, forgotten about.”
Like me, she thought.
“I had the staff clean it up.”
She turned to survey the scene outside the window once more. She pressed her lips together in an effort to suppress the feelings of sadness his words evoked.
How much had he forgotten about her? How much had Giovanni’s feelings for her changed? Because one thing was certain, her feelings for him were as strong as ever.
“Rest now. There is a meeting after lunch you will attend.”
“Will I?”
“If you want to keep those girls in scholarships on the other side of the world, yes you will.”
“Have I told you recently what a bastard you are?”
“Last night, if my memory is correct.”
“Good,” she nodded satisfied. “Just wanted to make sure.”
“And don’t be late.”
“Me? Late?”
“You are always late.”
“What time is the meeting?”
“1.00 pm.”
“The meeting’s at 2.00 isn’t it? You tell me an hour earlier to make sure I’m on time.”
He nodded, unsmiling. The heavy door closed behind him and she listened as his footsteps rang on the marble floor, just as his words rang in her head.
Everything changes.
It was hard to believe that Giovanni’s love for her had gone. But he seemed to be making that very clear. First on the plane—he was playing with her, determined to show her that she was as much under his spell as ever, showing her how vulnerable she was to him, how under his control she was still. He was showing her, clearly and unequivocally, that he felt nothing for her. Not even enough to make love to her.
Everything changes.
It sounded like a death knell in her head.
She balled a fist and rubbed her forehead, trying to wipe the sound from her mind.
Why the hell couldn’t he have left her in New Zealand if she meant so little to him?
She turned on the shower in the bathroom and let it run until it was hot. It was only when she was naked and feeling the full force of the water on her body that the tears came. With the sound of the shower, the locked door and nowhere else to run, she let forth the flood of emotions that had been churning within her since Giovanni had arrived at her home and turned her calm little world on its head.
She braced her hands against the cool stone tiles and sobbed, letting the water run through her hair, and mingle with the tears of loss.
Rose emerged from the shower feeling a different woman.
Everything changes.
Well, so it might. But there was also hope in those words: possibility, potential. Three things were certain, she still loved Giovanni, Alberto was nowhere around and she had the next six months with Giovanni.
Giovanni thought he was in control of her over the next six months. But he wasn’t. He might not want her but she wanted him. And she’d do everything she could to have him. She’d done it once, surely she could do it again? If all she had was the next six months she’d make them six memorable months.
She would have Giovanni in her bed.
Sunlight poured through the huge windows and the smells and sounds of Italy floated in to her on the soft breeze. She felt the atmosphere of Milan surround her and she breathed deeply of it, of him.
She wanted him and she would show him that she was as strong as he when it came to getting what she wanted.
With each smooth sweep of the hair straightener, Rose felt herself change. Gone were the casual clothes and curly hair that signaled the passive, quiet life she’d lived in New Zealand.
She dressed in a beautifully cut silk shift dress—one of the many items of clothing she’d left behind that still hung in the wardrobe—and looked at herself in the mirror.
It was a very different Rose who looked back at her: business-like, cool and very, very determined. Superficial changes maybe, but they signaled the deep shift that she felt within.
She checked the time on her cell phone. She’d have enough time to make a brief diversion.
The taxi drew up at the small cemetery on the edge of the city. Sitting astride a small hill, it overlooked the high-rise blocks and buzz of the city. Cars, bumper to bumper, crawled through the streets; trains sped, straight as a die, along the flat plain of the River Po out of the city and shifting waves of people moved everywhere in between.
But she wasn’t here to look at the view. She turned back to the rows of gravestones, some new, others old and bent, their markings lost in time.
Cicadas crackled in the mid-day heat on the unshaded gravestones, a throbbing in the air that held a heavy sadness.
Rose looked around, trying to gain her bearings. She’d been there only once and her heart pounded with anxiety. What if she couldn’t find it? She walked further into the cemetery, under an avenue of huge, light-flickering lime trees that provided shade to those who continued to mourn, shade for Rose. At the end of the avenue she turned up to a ridge that looked across the haze to the distant Alps. And she found what she was looking for.
The grave of her daughter.
Rose dropped to her knees and plucked away the grass that had spread over it, brushing off the dirt with her bare hands.
A gravestone for the baby she lost before full term was unusual, but she’d insisted and had made the necessary bribes. She needed to know that her child had existed and would not be forgotten. It remained a focus for her grieving, even from a distance of thousands of miles.
Carina—much loved and forever missed.
Not a day had passed without feeling her absence. The hardest times were when she’d awoken in joy after vivid dreams of holding her daughter close to her—so close that she could feel the heat of her body against hers, the sweet smell of her and her hungry mouth searching for her breast—only to find they were but dreams. Those times were hard.
Rose stayed only five minutes, not really speaking, not really thinking, just feeling close to her child.
A stillborn baby of 36 weeks, Carina should have been old enough to survive outside her mother’s womb. But she hadn’t and Rose hadn’t been able to sustain her within it, hadn’t been able to protect her from Alberto’s brutal attack.
She’d kept the pregnancy a secret from Giovanni. It wasn’t so hard as they’d been separated by their work for six months: he in the US and she in Hong Kong. Both had been important jobs and full on. If he’d known she was pregnant, there would have been no way he’d have allowed her to work and no way he would have been apart from her. And she hadn’t wanted that. The decision had cost her more than she’d ever imagined. So, he’d never known about Carina.
But Carina was his baby too. She felt guilt at his not knowing, but she couldn’t indulge herself in the truth. She had to be the strong one because, despite all of Giovanni’s strength, she couldn’t trust him to be strong enough not to kill Alberto. Rumors abounded about his father’s violent past, a past Giovanni was terrified of repeating in his own life. And Rose couldn’t trust that his passions wouldn’t twist into violence with such provocation. She knew him. She knew his passion were his weakness—just as he did.
&n
bsp; Her visit to her daughter’s grave calmed her in a way that she hadn’t imagined. She felt more peaceful than she had done in a long time when she walked up to the formal boardroom where the receptionist assured her that she was expected.
“Signora Visconti! Welcome back.”
“Thank you Allegra. It’s good to be back. Is the meeting ready for me?”
“No yet Signora. Signore Visconti will invite you in at 2.30.”
Rose smiled to herself as she noted the time on the clock—2.15. OK, he’d got her there.
“Any papers I should see? Not sure what this meeting’s about. Any ideas?”
Allegra smiled discreetly. “You will find out in due course. Signore Visconti asked that you wait here until he invites you in.”
Rose raised her eyebrows. Cloak and dagger stuff. That wasn’t usually Giovanni’s style. What was he up to?
She pushed aside the lifestyle magazines and plucked out a recent copy of the Economist. Rose had never been interested in trivia. She’d had too much to do all her life. She’d had to work twice as hard as any of her friends whose families supported them financially. Two part-time jobs had to be fitted around her university studies and she still felt ill at ease when she had nothing to do.
After half an hour of re-reading the same paragraph, she gave up. It was now 2.45 and she still hadn’t been invited in. What was going on?”
Rose cast a surreptitious look at the door to the AV room that adjoined the boardroom. It had a projection window through which she would be able to see what was going on.
It was positioned behind Allegra’s desk. For added security, only Allegra held the swipe card needed to gain access. But Rose happened to know that Allegra had had a spare one made for the AV staff if she happened to be on one of her long lunches. It was kept in the drawer. She’d used it herself. All she needed was a few moments.
She winced, in what she hoped looked like an expression of pain. “Allegra, I couldn’t trouble you for a glass of water and some aspirins could I? I’ve got a headache coming on.
Allegra smiled, glanced worriedly to the conference room, but agreed. “Senz´ altro.”
Within moments Rose was in the AV room. She felt vaguely uneasy but justified her deception in view of the fact that Giovanni had kept her in the dark. Something was going on and she needed to know what she was about to walk into.
The first thing she saw was Giovanni’s mother sitting opposite.
Giovanni had total control of his family’s company but had always made sure his mother’s wishes were consulted on business. It had always puzzled Rose, given her mother’s obvious antagonism towards Giovanni.
The window was darkened, so Signora Visconti couldn’t see Rose. But Rose could see that something was riling her. Rose switched on one of the sound controls so she could hear.
“Are you saying you don’t trust the family Giovanni?”
“No.”
He had his back to the window but Rose could see, by the way he sat that he was in command of the situation, as usual. But there was no sense of relaxation: his body was held stiffly. He might be in control of the meeting but he was also a little on edge.
“It is a standard IT security system and the contract you have before you is simply to engage the services of a consultant to undertake security checks and install IT security for all the Visconti holdings. Surely you want our investments secure?”
“Yes of course. But I’m not happy about it.”
I bet you’re not, thought Rose. Both she and Giovanni were aware that his mother treated her family’s business as her personal bank account. There was nothing extravagant in her dealings and Giovanni didn’t mind, just as long as they continued to remain transparent.
“Nevertheless, I think we should proceed. But I would like your agreement.”
“This has always been a family business Giovanni. I’m not happy for outsiders to be raking through our computer files and accounts. No. It should wait until we are able to undertake this work ourselves, in the family. Alberto will return in a few months. A family member is what we need.”
Giovanni turned to the secretary of the company. “Please ensure the minute clearly states Signora Visconti— senior’s—agreement to proceed providing the work is carried out by a family member.”
He checked the minutes. “Good. All agreed?”
His mother inclined her head in agreement.
“Well, if there is no further business, I’ll leave.” Giovanni’s mother rose from her table before Giovanni stopped her.
“One moment.” He reached for the telephone.
Rose slipped past a bewildered Allegra and entered the boardroom, all nerves forgotten by the scene she’d witnessed and the clash of feelings that it had engendered.
Rarely had Rose encountered such a hush in a room—the sort of quiet that felt heavy with unspoken thoughts. But the look on her mother-in-law’s face was priceless.
Ignoring her, Rose strode past her to the seat Giovanni indicated on his right-hand side.
Sparked out of silent amazement at the sudden reappearance of their boss’s long-lost wife, members of the executive team muttered their greetings.
Rose swung into her chair, ran her hands across the smooth grain of the board table and smiled generally in acknowledgement.
“Gentleman,” she smiled. “Signora Visconti,” she nodded in cool acknowledgement. She felt no inclination to smile at her mother-in-law. The woman had done her best to make her life miserable when she’d lived in Milan.
Giovanni’s mother rose from her seat slowly as if movement was difficult, her eyes focused solely on Rose. “Giovanni,” she still didn’t look at him. “What is this woman doing here?”
“Mother, my wife has kindly agreed to carry out the necessary security work. She has an international reputation in the field, as you are all no doubt aware.” He scanned the room observing who was nodding in agreement and who looked as uncomfortable as his mother. “Also, of course, she is a member of our family and so ideally placed to run the project.”
“And do you, signora, have anything to say about this?”
Her mother-in-law’s expression could have frozen a lesser person. But Rose knew her well and disliked her intensely. Not least for how she treated Giovanni.
Rose turned to the others. “Thank you for your welcome. It’s been a long time but I’m glad to be back and looking forward to working with you all.”
“Giovanni. We will discuss this.”
“Madre, we’ve already discussed this and agreed upon a course of action. Rose will take it from here.” He pushed his chair from the table and stood up. “Signora Rose Visconti will report directly to me for the duration of her contract and will provide a report to the Board upon completion.”
“And when will that be? How long will we have to put up with this slut amongst us again?”
Slut? That was a new insult. She’d called her many things during her time with Giovanni but she’d never suggested that she’d had lovers. There would have been no point. Rose and Giovanni were rarely apart—rarely alone maybe—but always together, except for those last months before she’d left.
The silence was even heavier than before. Rose was sure that the other executives would have loved to have dropped through the floor, escaped as best they could, so used were they to the Giovanni’s explosive temper. But they sat transfixed, like rabbits in a car’s headlights.
Rose didn’t dare look at Giovanni. But she could see his temper spark in the movement of his fingers, flicking straight and then curling tightly, trying to hold in the anger. What the hell was he going to say?
She saw him take a deep breath and then look to his team.
“The meeting has concluded. Signora Visconti will report her findings within six months.”
There was a quiet gasp of astonishment from the executives as they left the room as quickly as they could.
Rose knew that they weren’t surprised at the project, at her appointment or
its report date. No, it was Giovanni’s reaction that had them flummoxed—and her.
“Rose,” he indicated that she should precede him.
She smiled tightly and walked on through to his office. She stood, arms folded, looking out the window, across the city to the vast plains beyond and waited for the door to close behind him.
“Thanks for telling me, Giovanni.”
“Thank you for taking it so well, Rose.”
“I am not taking it well. I’m furious.”
“Why? It is your specialty. Perhaps I had not told you all the details.”
“Yes, you’d omitted to tell me that you were pitching me up against your mother. God, Giovanni, she hates me enough already for taking her beloved son away from the family.”
“Not a beloved son, merely her most useful. I wouldn’t have thought my mother’s enmity would matter to you.”
“It doesn’t. But that’s not to say I like it.”
“Then why your anger?”
“Because, I…”
She sighed heavily and dragged the hair off her face as she paced the floor.
“Perhaps because you really did not expect there to be business to be done. Perhaps you thought I was using business as a pretext to lure you back to Milan, back to my bed. Is that why you’re angry? Because you thought it was personal and it’s not?”
Why indeed? He’d plainly told her that the only reason that he’d sought her out was for business. But he’d made her believe it was personal. And it wasn’t.
“I would have been a fool to believe it was personal.”
“And you are no fool. That is why I need you.”
She closed her eyes briefly as a defense against his words, against the meaning that he so obviously wasn’t expressing, and that she wished he was.
“You could buy anyone.”
“Who better than you? You have the creativity, the IT skills, you are a member of the family. But, most of all, it is your lack of trust in everyone and everything that is required here.”
His words hit home as she was sure they were meant to; all the more for their veracity.