The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  ‘Everyone should do that,’ Cesca said solemnly.

  ‘Proving my point: you are the barrister type.’

  ‘I’m not. There’s not another barrister in the land who wears vintage bloomers unironically.’

  Alé laughed.

  ‘Besides, I’m happy here. I’ve got my friends, my deluxe apartment—’ Alé laughed harder ‘—I’m living in the city I dreamed of living in as a little girl. I feel free here.’ She looked around at the bright cloud-shaped shadows on the ground beneath the trees, at the short upright blades of grass resisting the unremitting heat like lines of brave soldiers, at a group of shirtless teenagers playing football on that grass on the other side of the path. Every sense was spoilt in Rome: the scent of jasmine wandered the air while the hum of scooters zipping round the perimeter roads was as calming as the buzz of bees. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to prove the point.

  ‘Are you sure it’s freedom?’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  Alé shrugged. ‘Escape?’

  Cesca looked away, pretending to examine the freckles popping up on her pale skin like daisies. ‘I’m afraid my life isn’t anywhere near as fascinating as you give it credit for,’ she murmured, rolling back down and laying her arms flat on the grass, palms upstretched, closing her eyes and trying to connect with her breath again. But it was a diversionary tactic, something to throw her friend off the scent and stop the questions from coming – because she knew those questions would lead to only one answer: that she had blood on her hands.

  It was almost a carpet. The silk rug stretched to each wall with barely an inch gap all around. The wicker-framed sofas, meanwhile, were so soft and squashy-looking that Cesca half thought she would need a winch to get her back up again. Every side table had a lamp on it and a full-skirted bullion-fringed cloth, and the green-on-cream lattice-printed curtains – curtains, not shutters – matched the wallpaper. It was busy and fussy, an homage to the Eighties, but Cesca was overjoyed: there was no marble in here, nor any statues; there were no angels on the ceiling (just a delicate lacy plasterwork that she could live with) and not one pointless perching chair. Finally, in this palace of almost a thousand rooms – as Alberto had told her while marching her through the galleries earlier – they had found one that felt homely.

  They were sitting in the garden room on the ground floor of the west wing. Elena was sitting opposite, her ankles crossed in Fendi ballerinas, small sun blemishes on her shins betraying a lifetime of summering on yachts. She was wearing a cornflower-blue shirt dress cinched with a leather belt, and tortoiseshell spectacles were perched delicately at the end of her nose. One eyebrow was arched as she leaned forward to scan the assembly of images Cesca had brought here, not necessarily for inclusion in the book but to get the conversation flowing about Elena’s life.

  To her right, Cesca had her voice recorder poised, ready to begin. They were waiting for Alberto to finish setting down the teacups – Lapsang Souchong, this time – and Cesca was idly watching a hatted and aproned gardener working on some rosebushes beyond the arched doors, the snip of his secateurs just audible through the glass.

  ‘Will that be all, your Grace?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Alberto.’

  He bowed his head. ‘And just a reminder that the car will be ready for you in an hour. You have a lunch appointment with—’

  ‘Christina, yes, yes, as if I could forget. Thank you, Alberto.’

  He bowed his head again and left the room.

  ‘Honestly,’ Elena said, her voice barely more than a breath as she picked at a thread on the cushion nearest her hand. ‘This gala. You’d think she was organizing a coronation.’ When she saw Cesca’s quizzical expression, she added, ‘My husband’s foundation has just completed a five-year restoration project of the ruins at Massimo’s Forum and there’s a charity gala at the beginning of September in his honour. He did so many great charitable works for his beloved Rome.’

  ‘And Christina is . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, an old friend. She grew up with Vito and his brother; she rather sees herself as their honorary sister. She’s my cochair at the foundation, this gala’s all her idea.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cesca thought for a moment. ‘Well, perhaps I should speak to her for the book then?’

  Elena frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘It could be good to get in some colour about your philanthropic work. It would provide good balance,’ she said, not wanting to elucidate that a non-stop barrage of luck and in-your-face privilege would also turn off most readers.

  Elena considered the suggestion. ‘Yes, I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll put it to her today and she can set something up. Although, to be frank, I don’t think you’ll get much from her; she won’t be a particularly forthcoming interviewee.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, as one of the Black families, she’s not—’ Elena looked at her, noticing Cesca’s baffled expression. ‘You’ve heard of the Black Nobility, obviously?’

  There was nothing obvious about it. Cesca had never heard of any such thing. ‘Uh . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Elena said, looking surprised. ‘Well, the Black Nobility is used to describe those families who were given their titles by the popes, as opposed to the later White Nobility, who gained theirs from the state. I suppose you might say the Blacks are the ultimate “old money”. Deeply conservative, traditional and very low-key. No scandals. No fun.’ Cesca saw the glimmer of mischief in Elena’s eyes. ‘So if it’s a press release on worthy causes you’re after, then Christina will be your woman. But that will be the sum of it.’

  ‘I see.’ Cesca nodded with a smile, understanding now. Discreetly, she started her recording device, knowing they were off. ‘But from what I’ve seen of your childhood so far, it strikes me that you hail from whatever America calls its aristocracy.’

  Elena sat back in her chair. ‘Well, it’s true we were rich, absurdly so, but we were only second-generation wealthy. We were what they would call “new money”. My father inherited a billion-dollar fortune and doubled it in his life-time. He was an intensely charismatic man and business was easy for him. He was good-looking, intelligent, delightful company – people were just drawn to him; they honestly couldn’t help themselves. My mother used to laugh that they gave him their money, just to have an excuse to be close to him.’

  ‘Your mother was very beautiful too.’

  ‘Oh yes, she was considered one of the great beauties of her generation. And her beauty combined with my father’s star power meant they were highly sought after. I suppose you might say they were a power couple, long before such a thing was in the tabloid domain.’

  ‘Was it a happy marriage?’

  Elena paused. ‘It was a passionate marriage. That is not always the most peaceful kind. But there is no doubt they loved each other intensely, some might say to the exclusion of all else.’

  Cesca thought she sensed an unspoken point: to the exclusion of her. Or was she just being a barrister, still looking for a deeper narrative: a victim, a motive, a plot? ‘Were you an only child? I didn’t see any photographs of other children in the collection.’ As if to prove the point, she scanned the assorted images again, looking for a playmate or companion in the baby shots, but knowing there was none. She never missed the details, having been trained to read crime photos with a forensic eye.

  ‘Yes, my mother had a difficult history. She had miscarried multiple times before falling pregnant with me and she was forced to take five months’ bedrest before I was born. She said it may have saved me, but it almost did for her. She was a sprite, my mother, you see, always darting from one thing to the next, and such confinement wasn’t good for her spirit. She said she couldn’t bear to go through it all again. My father, I know, yearned for more, but my mother’s happiness came above all else for him.’

  ‘It must have been very hard for them,’ Cesca sympathized.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Was
it hard for you?’

  Elena looked surprised. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Being the only child in such a big house? Did you ever wish you had brothers or sisters to play with?’

  ‘Well, of course, which only child doesn’t? But I was never alone. I had Winnie, my beloved nanny, and she came everywhere with me. I couldn’t be parted from her. I would cry and call for her terribly any time she left the room.’

  ‘Is this Winnie?’ Cesca asked, leaning forward and pulling out a black-and-white snapshot of a baby – Elena – in a grand carriage pram. She was wearing a velvet bonnet and coat, a lace coverlet over her legs. A sturdy woman was standing beside her in black boots, a black dress, a tweed coat and matching cloche hat.

  ‘Darling Winnie!’ Elena cried, taking the photograph from her and bringing it closer to her eyes in order to see better the woman’s doughy features. She smiled, nodding at it affectionately. ‘Yes, that’s exactly as I remember her. Stern as a scaffolder, she hardly ever smiled – I think only for me – but her voice was like water tumbling over rocks in a river. She was Irish, from the south; near Waterford, I believe. Oh, it was just the most beautiful accent. Even now, if I hear it, I stop in my tracks and close my eyes and it’s like being transported back to my childhood.’

  ‘It sounds like you loved her very much.’

  ‘I did, I truly did. She was the centre of my world.’

  ‘Did your mother ever feel jealous of your relationship with her?’

  ‘Heavens, no! My mother was just pleased I wasn’t squawking, I expect. You have to understand, my parents were very busy. Ours wasn’t a normal family. My father often entertained important people and with Graystones being such a big house to run, my mother was always over-seeing the staff or dealing with the flowers or checking on the horses – she was a very keen horsewoman, you see. So Winnie and I were left to our own devices most of the time. It suited us very well. My rooms occupied the top floor of the house and Winnie’s was beside my bedroom, so we had plenty of space.’

  Cesca nodded. ‘Did Winnie have her own family?’

  Elena shook her head. ‘No. Although I understand from my mother that she was once proposed to by the head groundsman. They had been courting and he came to ask my parents if he could take her hand in marriage.’ Her eyes sparkled as though the delight was still fresh.

  ‘He asked your parents for her hand? But surely it was a private matter?’

  ‘Oh no, not when her role was so pivotal to the running of our family. Winnie never would have done anything that would have disrupted arrangements.’

  Cesca was taken aback. ‘What did your parents say?’

  ‘My mother had to refuse.’ Elena shrugged, replacing the photograph in the box and sitting back again. ‘I was little more than a toddler and very attached to Winnie by then. They couldn’t afford to lose her.’

  ‘But would her getting married have meant you would have lost her?’

  ‘Well, of course. No doubt they would have started a family of their own and then, at best, her attention would be split; at worst, I could have lost her altogether.’

  Cesca double-blinked as she always did when she was shocked. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Winnie? Oh, she moved on when I left home at sixteen. There was nothing more for her to do, really, once I had gone.’

  ‘And how old was she when she left?’ Cesca couldn’t help asking the question; it was her barrister’s brain, wanting the complete picture, to see every side of the story.

  Elena considered. ‘Mid-forties, I should think? It’s hard to tell. Everyone past thirty looks old when you’re young, don’t they?’

  ‘And do you know where she went next? Did you keep in touch?’

  Elena shook her head sadly. ‘No, and it is something I regret very much. I’m sorry to say I was at that most selfish of ages – sixteen years old. All I cared about was getting on with the rest of my life. I wanted to be an adult, in control of my own future. I was desperate to get away from Graystones and I suppose to some extent Winnie was the emblem of my life there. Once I left Graystones, I never saw her again.’ She glanced at her hands – tiny, pale, with grey-blue veins lacing the skin. ‘Well, not until her funeral, anyway,’ she added, as though that was something notable. ‘She died in 1978. Tuberculosis.’

  Cesca nodded, seeing what Elena seemingly did not – that Winnie had forsaken her (possibly only, certainly last) chance to have a family of her own to look after someone else’s child – only to be dismissed when she was past her own child-bearing years, only to be forgotten by the child she had loved as her own, only to die alone.

  ‘Sometimes I feel very sad about it, but I have to take comfort in the fact that my mother assured me that when she left our service, she wrote a most warm reference.’

  Cesca nodded, words failing her. And this was only the first photograph.

  Chapter Nine

  Rhode Island, January 1962

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to say you’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it.’ Whitney Valentine continued pouring the tea, her hand steady as the tears stood poised in her daughter’s eyes. ‘No man is what he first appears to be. Why, your father would have had me believe he was curing cancer when we first started stepping out together! That’s just what they do.’ She looked up at her daughter from beneath lashes thickly laden with mascara. ‘You must remember, dear, that beauty is every man’s greatest weakness – they’ll say and do anything to catch you. So Jack exaggerated his family’s interests a little? You never would have looked at him otherwise. You could have had your pick of every bachelor in America and he knew it. Besides, it’s hardly relevant, is it? It’s not like he could ever match your inheritance. No, it’s Jack’s resourcefulness and independence that are the very things your father most admires about him.’ She set down the teapot and handed Laney the cup and saucer.

  Laney took it with a trembling hand. ‘But Mother, it’s not just the lies. I think I could live with that; I could understand why he felt he had to pretend he was . . . more. But the gambling—’

  ‘Yes, yes – cards, bourbon and no doubt other women too.’ Whitney sighed impatiently. ‘You need to grow up, Laney. You’re not an innocent any more. You’re a married woman and soon, no doubt, you’ll be a mother too. You need to open your eyes and see the world as it really is. Life isn’t like the movies. No man is perfect and you aren’t either. It’s about making the best of things and putting on a good show.’ She paused, lowering her voice a fraction. ‘And besides, there’s nothing to stop you pursuing your own interests in private if that’s what you want, just so long as you’re discreet.’

  Whitney arched an eyebrow as she sipped the tea. She looked resplendent in a mustard silk dress with teal belt and matching turban, which highlighted the severe curve of her cheekbones.

  ‘You’re right, of course, Mother,’ Laney said after a moment, staring at the tea trembling in her hands. ‘I think I’m just tired and let it all get to me. We’ve been travelling such a lot recently.’

  But finding comfort in another man’s arms couldn’t have been farther from Laney’s mind, not when her financial situation with Jack was so precarious. The Bentley was long gone; the pearls her father had given her the night of her Sweet Sixteenth also a distant dream. She had been forced to sell the diamond lattice bracelet bequeathed to her by her grandmother and she was genuinely terrified of what might happen if those men came back again. They would hurt Jack this time, she was sure of it. But how was she supposed to get her hands on $120,000? Jack – knowing just how to play her father and secure her hand in marriage – had insisted to her parents that they would live off his salary when they married, implying that he was a man of means, of integrity and of pride. But that was before he had learnt she didn’t come into her trust until her twenty-first birthday. Now, with bailiffs – and worse – knocking on their door, they didn’t have anything like that sort of time. His clever swagger had boxed them into a corner: they were surrounded
by money, but couldn’t access any of it.

  She set down the tea on the table and clasped her hands tightly together to stop them from shaking. ‘Talking of discretion,’ she began. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Jack’s birthday is coming up soon – he’ll be twenty-two – and I thought it would be fun to surprise him with a new boat.’

  ‘What a fabulous idea. Your father still adores Andante, even after all these years. She’s been quite his favourite vessel, even though she’s really beginning to look quite tired these days.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of anything on quite that scale. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps an eighty-footer.’

  ‘Good grief, that’s rather meagre, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, he much prefers to skipper himself.’

  Whitney shrugged, baffled by the idea of sailing a boat without crew. ‘I’m not sure our broker, Tony Beresford, deals in that class but I suppose we could ask—’

  ‘That wouldn’t be necessary,’ Laney said quickly. ‘I-I’ve already seen one. In Boston.’

  ‘Boston?’

  ‘Yes. Jack and I went a few weeks back. He had an important business meeting and took me along to meet his client’s wife. We all had dinner and then I saw the boat when we took a walk along the harbour afterwards. Jack admired it so I went back the next morning and enquired after it. The owner said it wasn’t for sale but when I made him an offer . . .’ She shrugged, hoping her mother couldn’t read the lie in her eyes.

  ‘Well, I hope you got a good price,’ Whitney said, looking both surprised and impressed. ‘Did he know who you were? Because you know as soon as they realize you’re a Valentine, you can add a zero to the price.’

  Laney shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think he knew.’

  ‘No, of course. I suppose being a Montgomery now means you can move a little more incognito.’

  ‘Yes.’ Laney swallowed, wringing her hands together so that the skin blanched. ‘The thing is, obviously I don’t come into my inheritance for another four and a half years, but if I buy it through Jack’s bank, the surprise will be ruined. And really, what’s the point of buying him a boat if it’s not going to be a marvellous surprise?’