The Apartment in Rome

by Penny Feeny

  The sight of it was, in the end, confusing. It didn’t resemble anything she recollected. The bed, which had dominated the space, had been folded back into a sofa, and a large North African style rug was squared in front of it. The computer was a blank screen in the corner; Gina’s overflow clothes were presumably still stored in the wardrobe, but there were rows of photographs framed around the walls, which she didn’t remember. Surely she’d have been aware of all these faces watching her?

  ‘So this is it,’ said Ruby. ‘Your crime scene. Wicked.’

  ‘It’s not a crime scene.’

  ‘You were underage, so technically that means…’

  ‘So were you!’

  ‘No I wasn’t. Anyway, my first time was like, totally shit. I’ve wiped it out actually. I’m not even thinking about it. Or the grotty broom cupboard we did it in. But for you, wow, teen queen of romance, this could be a massive moment.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Nearby noises, a thump and a shuffle, unnerved her and she spun around. ‘Hey, what was that?’ She was jumpy, horribly jumpy. The place taunted her somehow – perhaps because the spare room looked so completely different from its incarnation on the gallery wall. She could almost hear Gina saying, What bed? There’s no bed here. What girl? Can you see anyone who remotely resembles her?

  For a moment she wondered – and the thought was pleasurable – whether the sounds she’d heard indicated a visitor and whether that visitor might be Joe – although Gina didn’t encourage him to call, she knew. He’d only been there on that first meeting for a photo shoot and it was Super Mario who had delivered them on the second occasion. ‘I can hear somebody coming up the stairs.’

  ‘It’ll be the plumber, you idiot,’ said Ruby as the bell rang.

  They opened the door to a harassed man in overalls who seemed surprised to see them.

  ‘Siamo amice di Gina,’ explained Sasha. ‘Lei aveva bisogno d’uscire per un’ora.’

  ‘Hey, well done,’ applauded Ruby.

  ‘Inglese?’ said the plumber with a smile.

  They nodded. Ruby added her contribution. ‘Non c’è acqua calda.’

  ‘Lo so.’ He heaved his bag into the bathroom where the wall-mounted boiler awaited his attention.

  ‘I guess we could go,’ said Sasha.

  ‘Go! What are you on about? We said we’d wait for her to come back.’

  ‘I don’t think I can face it. Anyway, I’m hungry. I’m ready for my lunch.’

  ‘You’ve dragged us both all the way over here and now you’re bottling it!’

  ‘I’ll text her or something. After all, she knows I’m back and, like you said, she owes us. She’ll have to do what I want. Only, I’d rather, like, not have a full-on showdown.’ Gina’s reaction had been unexpected. She’d been hoping for a prickle of annoyance or antagonism: so much easier to have a satisfying argument if the other person was angry too.

  Ruby was inspecting cupboards in the kitchen area. She opened the fridge and scrutinised its contents thoughtfully. ‘There’s food in here. Looks a bit rank though. D’you think the plumber wants a cup of tea? Should we ask him?’

  ‘Italians don’t drink tea!’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘Well,’ allowed Sasha, ‘some of them go in for the fancy herbal sort, but generally they have coffee.’

  Ruby had moved on to a row of canisters, picking them up and shaking them. ‘Oh, this one rattles.’

  There came a clanking in the pipes; the plumber called out something they didn’t understand. Sasha turned on the cold tap but no water escaped. ‘We can’t even make coffee.’

  ‘Look at this.’ Ruby held up a small key. ‘What d’you think it’s for? It’s not big enough for a door. A jewellery box perhaps?’

  ‘How should I know? Anyway I’m not after her jewellery.’

  ‘It must open something important if she keeps it hidden away.’

  ‘People get robbed all the time in Rome,’ said Sasha. ‘It’s famous for it, like Barcelona. That’s why you have to be careful of pickpockets. It’s probably for some money box she keeps under the bed. She told me how people like to pay in cash or in kind ’cos then the taxman doesn’t find out.’

  ‘A money box under the bed?’ said Ruby. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s dirty pictures she’s hiding. There might even be some more of you. D’you reckon she could be a blackmailer?’

  Sasha glanced towards the bathroom. She could hear the heavy breathing of a man exerting himself, a few curses, the chink of tools being jostled. ‘Then it’ll be for the chest.’

  ‘What chest?’

  ‘Over there, that pair either side of the window. The one on the left, which I’ve seen open, has clothes in it, men’s clothes mostly. The other one’s locked.’

  Ruby grinned and tiptoed towards it with an exaggerated sense of drama. She fitted the key in the lock and lifted the lid. Sasha who had been holding her breath, as if a whole host of demons were going to leap out, came closer. She was disappointed to see more clothes, though these were female: sequinned vests and silky tops, pashminas and palazzo pants, interleaved with black tissue paper, all bearing the labels of French and Italian designers. They lay delicate and fragile like sleeping beauties, unworn for some time.

  ‘I reckon these must be valuable,’ she said. ‘If they’re haute couture or whatever.’ Nevertheless the discovery was an anticlimax.

  ‘Just a minute!’ said Ruby, slipping her hands between the layers and down the side of the chest. ‘I can feel something stiff.’ She tugged at a corner and pulled out a heavyweight folder. ‘There must be, like, some major secret in here, else why would she have hidden it?’

  In the bathroom the plumber was whistling, his confidence restored. Sasha was increasingly agitated. If the folder held more compromising photographs, close-ups of body parts or indecent acts, she didn’t want to see them. ‘Whatever it is, hurry up. Let’s get it over. I think he’s nearly finished.’

  ‘Cool it, what’s it got to do with him?’ Ruby closed the lid of the chest and then sat on top of it to open the folder. ‘Who’s Eugenie Raven?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eugenie Raven.’

  Sasha was flummoxed. ‘Haven’t a clue. Why?’

  Ruby waved a printed document. ‘That’s what’s written here.’

  ‘Where. On what?’

  ‘Dunno. Tenancy agreement maybe? Affitasi. That’s the sign you see hanging on buildings, innit? To let.’

  ‘Eugenie… oh my God! It must be her, Gina.’

  Ruby snorted. ‘For real? Sounds like a character from a Disney film, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Is the agreement with a man called Boletti? They’re the family I was staying with, they’re how I met her.’

  Ruby turned the pages. ‘It’s got the name of some company but yeah, Boletti signed it.’

  ‘She was worried he was going to try and evict her. Maybe that’s why she’s keeping it safe.’

  ‘It’s not the only thing in here,’ said Ruby, her eyes widening. ‘There’s like a marriage certificate to the Raven guy and then another when she’s still Eugenie Stanhope, madre… Stone me – doesn’t this look like a birth certificate?’ They regarded it together. ‘You never said she had a kid.’

  ‘She never told me. Anyway, he’d be what, eighteen now? Old enough to leave home.’

  ‘There’s nothing in this flat,’ said Ruby, ‘that would belong to a teenage lad. No sports stuff, no music, no computer games, no clothes…’

  ‘And no dad named,’ said Sasha. ‘So she must have been a single parent. Bet she had him adopted and that’s why he never lived here. What’s his name?’

  ‘Thomas. English, huh?’

  ‘Put it all back, it’s nothing to do with us.’

  Ruby drummed her heels against the side of the trunk. ‘Hey, babe, I’m not done yet. Look, there’s this too.’

  It was a child’s drawing, protected in a transparent envelope. Some squiggles in one corner, some objects that
might have been mushrooms or, more likely, flying saucers and some oddly pretty patches of coloured crayoning.

  ‘How old d’you reckon he was when he did this? Three at least? Four? So she can’t have had him adopted right away. Maybe this was the last thing he drew for her and that’s why she’s kept it. Look, he’s even put a little signature on the back. Doesn’t that say Tommy?’

  ‘Dunno. Can three-year-olds write?’

  ‘Come on, Sash. Get in the frame. There’s more to your mate Gina than meets the eye.’

  There was a powerful hiss and the gushing of water. Quickly Ruby sat on the folder, and Sasha stashed the picture out of sight in her messenger bag. The plumber emerged beaming, rubbing his hands together. ‘Tutt’aposto,’ he said. ‘Scaldacqua funziona.’ The girls nodded and smiled.

  ‘Close one,’ breathed Ruby, after he’d seen himself out.

  ‘I need the loo,’ said Sasha. ‘I’ve been bursting all the time he was in there.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we…’ Her phone started to ring and she fished for it anxiously. She was relieved to see it was her father calling. ‘Oh, Dad, hi. Have you landed?’

  ‘I’m on the fast train to Termini,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Um…’ Too much information wouldn’t be a good idea. ‘We’re in Trastevere.’

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Everything okay with the apartment?’

  ‘Yes. Fine and dandy.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll pick up a cab when I get to the station and buy you something to eat. Dump my bag later. Can you see anywhere you like the look of?’

  ‘Let me talk to Ruby,’ said Sasha. ‘When we’ve found somewhere nice I’ll text you.’

  ‘See you later, sweetheart.’

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ she said, snapping her phone shut, only partially regretful. ‘If Dad needs us to meet him in, like, half an hour or so, we can’t wait around any longer for Gina.’

  ‘We’re not letting her off, though.’

  ‘No way.’

  Ruby restored the folder to the trunk and the key to its hiding place. Sasha used the bathroom. She wasn’t planning to keep hold of the drawing for long – she wasn’t a thief – but since Gina had stolen something of hers and violated a precious memory, she could do with a bargaining tool.

  22

  Gina slid into the seat behind Mario and he smiled at her in the mirror. ‘Buona giornata, oggi?’ he said.

  ‘Benissima!’ she agreed joyfully.

  Less than two weeks ago she had been fraught and frazzled, preparing the replacement photographs for the exhibition and trying not to panic over Bertie’s threats. But she’d heard no more from Bertie or from Franco Casale and now it seemed things were looking up. Maybe not in the bag yet, but she was optimistic.

  Mario was driving her to the offices of a company who published illustrated travel books and guides to social and cultural history. She was meeting a commissioning editor there, Luca Morani. She would overlook the fact that he hadn’t managed to make the opening of her show – and all the confusion caused as a result – because David had kept his word and persuaded him to visit since. It had been a pleasant surprise to get a call saying he wanted to discuss a project he was working on.

  Mario dropped her in Viale Mazzini, not far from the RAI studios where her neighbour with the colourful outdoor furniture worked as a producer. The company was an offshoot of a larger publishing house and she’d imagined books tottering in dusty piles, but the reception, with its fresh flowers, quiet air con, and elegantly framed samples of cover art, was slick and modern. She didn’t have to wait long for the editor to appear. Luca Morani wore a snowy white shirt; his silver hair was swept back like an aesthete’s, but he had the dark twinkling eyes of a true Roman. Not easy to manipulate, but hopefully susceptible to charm. As they shook hands she gave him her warmest, sincerest smile. ‘It’s an honour to be here,’ she said. ‘You produce such lovely books.’

  ‘We have high standards,’ he acknowledged. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘No thank you, I’m fine.’

  The walls of his office were papered with a collage of striking images but she didn’t have time to examine them because he began to speak and Luca Morani could talk for his country. She’d barely sat opposite his desk in a pose of interested enquiry before the flow began. And it was like listening to music. Flattery, maybe, but that didn’t detract from the charming enthralling cadences of his speech. He was saying things she had longed to hear ever since she’d first picked up the camera and she didn’t dare interrupt the momentum. At any point, she feared, he might break off, re-examine his diary and burst out: ‘Madonna mia! This is a terrible mistake. You’re Gina Stanhope, no? But I was expecting Gina Stanowski.’

  She kept waiting for the ‘But’. There was always a ‘But’. You couldn’t get through life without one. That was why Felix had been good for her. He explained it was her natural tendency to be contrary, which meant she had to be positive when she was around him. He was a born pessimist so he brought out her sunny side.

  ‘Però,’ said Luca.

  Okay, not a But, a However. Gina crossed her legs in their slim trousers and locked her hands over her knee. She offered him another slow smile of utmost sincerity and leaned forward slightly to show she was willing to compromise.

  The phone rang. ‘Scusi,’ he apologised, raising the receiver on his desk.

  She caught the vibrations of a high-pitched female voice, though not the words. A harangue, she guessed, probably his wife. She tried not to appear to be listening, not to appear impatient, though she couldn’t stop her foot tapping. When luck see-saws so violently from one extreme to another, the desire to pin down a moment of triumph is overwhelming.

  Morani ended the call and rotated his expensive pen. He straightened a small pile of papers in front of him and it struck her this might be the contract he wanted her to sign.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Però,’ she said reluctantly. ‘You were going to tell me about the catch.’

  ‘The catch?’ And then he laughed, a rich booming laugh. They both relaxed.

  ‘The brief is tight,’ he said. ‘The deadline too.’

  ‘Well, it’s true that I’m very busy. Spring and early summer are prime time for weddings. They’re my bread and butter and I have to eat. But they’re generally at weekends so I have some weekdays free.’

  ‘There would be some travel involved. But you are independent? This wouldn’t be a problem for you?’

  ‘I love to travel.’ This wasn’t true, not any more. In the past, when she’d flown business class it had been different, sometimes a positive delight. Like those far-off days when she’d met Mitch in a string of exotic locations. But budget airlines had destroyed the excitement of flying, turned the process into a chore and a scrum.

  ‘That’s good. Excellent. Allora…’

  She waited.

  ‘Regrettably, the photographer who was working on this assignment for us is unable to continue,’ said Luca.

  Gina stared at him. ‘This book, the project… it’s already been started?’

  ‘But yes. It’s due for publication at the end of the year, to tie in with the market for Christmas. We could take it out of our schedule completely, or defer it if necessary, but we prefer first of all to investigate other options.’ He spread his hands, palms upwards, and then clasped them together, smiling at her. ‘So, by happy coincidence, I hear of your exhibition. I visit. I tell my colleagues this woman could be perfect and so we have our interview.’

  ‘You want me to finish off someone else’s work?’

  He went back to fiddling with his pen, a little defensively. ‘Did I not explain the book itself is the work of a journalist? The photographs are illustrations only. However, you may have heard of him, Nico Stakis? He is Greek, but based in Bologna.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Gina, almost
certain she hadn’t, but she didn’t want to sound too grudging. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He has been in a road accident, broken his arm and his collarbone. Such bad timing! The car is totally destroyed. He is presently in plaster, but he has made us some raccomandazione.’

  Could news of her style have reached Bologna? That would be a fillip. ‘This Nico, you mean he recommended me?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he admitted and Gina envisaged a long list of names scrubbed out because they all had more important things to do. She reviewed those reams of flattery she’d enjoyed so much. There might be a principle at stake here. Would a person who was trying to be taken seriously as an artist agree to subsume their vision to another’s? How would it work out if she stepped into the injured man’s shoes? Who would get the credit? Who, apart from herself, would care?

  ‘We are hoping for a seamless transition,’ Luca continued. ‘It’s not precisely reportage that we’re after. We want to aim for something more enduring. But you call yourself a street photographer, is this not correct?’

  She’d insisted on it, in the piece she’d prepared for the exhibition catalogue. Of late she’d been using the studio less frequently for photo shoots, though she preferred the editing equipment there. She liked to think that out of doors she could create an air of untrammelled spontaneity, even if every item in the frame was tightly controlled.

  ‘Yes I do – since I’ve been following i vulnerati, and they live and sleep where they can. Being on the streets becomes their natural habitat, turns them into foragers.’