by Karen Swan
‘How long did the marriage last for?’
‘Seventeen months in total. Married at sixteen. Divorced by seventeen,’ Elena said wryly. ‘It certainly wasn’t how I’d envisaged my new grown-up life to be.’
Cesca slumped back in her chair, feeing saddened. ‘No. Life never is,’ she remarked, thinking about her own grown-up life and how unlikely it was that she should be sitting in an Italian palazzo with an American princess, drinking tea and digging up the past, with a giant sinkhole outside the door. She never could have foreseen this as a teenager sitting on her bed in High Wycombe. Even this time last year, she hadn’t seen any of it coming.
Chapter Fourteen
Malibu, August 1968
The ocean broke at her feet, smashing like glass as it ran up the white sand before bubbling into evanescence and trickling away. Laney flicked her hair back, the shortboard tucked under one arm as she waded through the shallows, her eyes fixed on Leo’s pacing figure on the deck. He was early. She hadn’t been expecting him for another two days.
Her breath was coming fast, her thighs feeling weak from the sunset exercise as she jogged lightly up the cambered beach towards him. This was her daily routine but it always felt different when he was home – watching her from the house, so proud of the way she was able to twist and turn with such ease on the water, making her feel talented, clever, sexy. She had come a long way from those early tentative swimming sessions in the ocean when they’d first married and moved out here. Leo had been the one to teach her to swim, and not Jack, after all – that had been just another of his broken promises.
She raised her arm and waved; he waved back but the phone – that goddam phone – was in his other hand, as it always was, and she knew he was only half-seeing her, his concentration elsewhere.
Another surfer was coming towards her. ‘You’re not givin’ up so soon, Laney?’ he asked, stopping in front of her and jabbing the nose of his longboard into the beach. It meant he wanted to talk, to linger.
‘I wish I could stay,’ she shrugged. ‘But Leo’s back.’
‘Thought he wasn’t back till the weekend?’
‘Me neither,’ she said happily. ‘I’ll see you, Cliff.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, watching her jog up the beach to the steps that led to their deck.
Leo watched her lean her board against the railings, jerking his head down towards the sand and wordlessly asking about the guy on the beach. She threw her hands out in a ‘nothing’ gesture, running over to him and throwing her arms around his waist and resting her head on his chest, her eyes closed in happiness. It felt like such a luxury to be able to do this and she listened to the steady thump of his heart beneath his navy terry-cloth top.
He pulled away after a few moments, his shoulders high, a frown on his face, as he saw the wet marks from her hair on his chest and he rolled his eyes at her, gesturing to them in case she hadn’t noticed. She shrugged happily – what did it matter? – and playfully reached up to take the phone from his hand, but he jerked away irritably and stepped through the sliding glass doors into their vast living room.
Laney sighed. He was always tetchy when he was on a call, but then again he was always on a call and it was always important. She followed him in, feeling the chill of the ceiling fans whirring overhead. Without breaking his conversation, Leo pointedly pulled his damp top over his head and balled it into a corner of the room, glancing across at her. Laney looked at it, knowing he was annoyed.
But she knew how to remedy that. She wriggled the straps of her swimsuit off her shoulders and shimmied out of it, balling that into the same corner as his top.
Arching an eyebrow, she stood before him, dripping wet and naked. He stopped talking, his eyes wide as she stared straight at him, waiting. Her tan lines were deep from a summer spent in the surf and she knew they turned him on, that he liked how they emphasized the dazzling whiteness of her breasts, the pinkness of her nipples. He liked that what was hidden inside the tan lines was strictly for him alone.
She smiled, still waiting, and his mouth parted as he went to tell his caller – another player? A club owner? – that he couldn’t talk right now, that he’d get back to him.
But then he raised his hand, the index finger pointed in a ‘wait’ gesture. To her! He turned away to concentrate and continued the conversation, his voice low and urgent and frustrated.
For a few seconds, Laney stared at his back, trying to believe what she was seeing. He had turned her down? For a phone call? Humiliated, she ran from the room and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. It was another fifteen minutes before he came to knock.
Chapter Fifteen
Rome, July 2017
In spite of the fact that Cesca had been working in a palace for over a week, walking into the courtyard of the swanky Hotel de Russie still took some nerve. It didn’t help that the clipped and primped style of the establishment was the polar opposite to her personal taste. Abandoning her beloved yellow Converse for once, she was wearing a pair of tan leather ankle-lace sandals, teamed with a long 1960s yellow cotton dress with a scooped neck and short tight sleeves. She had her battered hat on too, of course. She never went anywhere in the midday sun without that, but she had taken it off and held it since getting to the hotel, hiding the worst of the fraying with her hands.
She followed behind the maitre d’ as he walked her to her table, where her lunch date was already waiting for her. Christina, Elena’s friend, was tall and slim with broad shoulders and narrow hips, her silver hair worn in a shoulder-length, expensively layered cut. She was wearing a perfect melange of taupes – a gauzy linen knit cardigan over a silk ribbed vest, narrow 7/8ths trousers and Ferragamo pumps – and looked so perfectly understated and discreet, Cesca could almost believe she didn’t want to be seen.
‘Miss Hackett,’ she smiled, rising from her chair and holding out a slim, manicured hand.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Cesca smiled back, shaking her hand firmly.
‘Come, sit,’ Christina ordered, making eye contact with the maitre d’. ‘A bottle of my usual, please, Renato.’ She looked across at her guest as Cesca settled herself in the chair. ‘Wait, you’re not one of those ghastly people who don’t drink at lunch, are you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Cesca replied, relaxing somewhat at the unexpected appearance of a sense of humour from that intimidatingly polished veneer.
‘Excellent. And chill the glasses, please,’ she added to the maitre d’, before looking back at Cesca, fanning herself lightly. ‘I can’t quite believe I’m still here in July.’
‘It’s certainly a scorcher today.’ It was forecast to hit thirty-six degrees that afternoon.
‘Do you find it difficult, coping with these temperatures? You’re so very fair,’ Christina asked, openly taking in Cesca’s lily-pale complexion and freckles, her flame-red hair.
‘Well, put it this way, I always walk on the shaded side of the street these days.’
Christina smiled. ‘Very wise.’
Cesca glanced at a waiter as he came over and filled her water glass. ‘How are things progressing with the gala?’
‘Oh, slowly.’ Christina gave a wry look. ‘The caterers are having trouble sourcing enough truffles for the primi piatti so we may have to rethink on that, which in turn affects the wine and potentially what we were planning for the secondi . . . And half of the venue is still covered in scaffolding following the conservation work, so that needs to come down before we can get the consultants in for the lights.’ She sighed. ‘It’s all minutiae, of course, or “first world problems” as my son would tell me, but we women know that perfection is in the details.’
‘Elena must be so grateful to you for organizing this. It sounds like it’s going to be a wonderful tribute to her husband.’
‘Well, I hope so. It has taken a great deal of work to see the restoration project followed through, and this is a just celebration of all those efforts. Besides, everyone loves a party and Septembe
r always feels like such a fresh month. The worst of the heat is over, everyone’s back in the city again. Life gets back to normal.’
Cesca wondered what ‘normal’ looked like for this woman. Did she live in a palazzo too? Did she own necklaces worth millions? ‘So, you and Elena are old friends?’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve known one another for far longer than I am sure either one of us would want to admit to.’ Christina smiled. ‘I think it was 1979 when we first met? We connected immediately. There was always a primal recognition between us. Do you know what I mean when I say that?’
Cesca nodded. ‘Yes. I do.’
‘We just understood each other. We didn’t need a bank of memories and shared experiences to know exactly who the other one was; you don’t often get that with people in this life.’
‘I agree,’ Cesca murmured. It was how she felt about Alé.
‘But, of course, I knew her husband far longer. I grew up with Vito. And his brother Aurelio, too,’ she added.
‘Oh, really? You were childhood friends?’
‘We are very distant cousins. Five times removed, I think? Something like that. I didn’t have any siblings so I spent almost as much time in that palazzo as they did. We used to tear about the place. It was such fun. I still think of those days, you know.’
‘I’m sure. They sound like treasured memories.’
‘But, tell me, how did you come to meet Elena?’ Christina asked, looking genuinely interested.
‘Well, it was a strange thing, really – I returned a stolen bag of hers which had been dumped in my bin. It turns out I live just around the corner from her.’
‘I see. And so . . .’ Christina still looked confused. ‘You came to start working with her on this project . . . ?’
‘She invited me to stay for a drink and we got chatting about things and I mentioned to her about my blog—’
‘Blog?’ Christina looked as blank as Elena had.
‘Yes, it’s just an online journal, really, about all the different things I love and discover in Rome.’
‘How fascinating. I must try to find it. What is it called?’
‘The Rome Affair.’
‘What an exciting title! I shall be sure to look it up.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, go on. You told Elena about your blog . . .’
‘Yes. Anyway, the next day I only went and lost my job! I was working as a tour guide and I overslept.’ Cesca sighed, rolling her eyes. ‘I don’t sleep very well. Anyway, as luck would have it, when I got home, Elena was waiting for me with the proposal of doing this.’
Christina placed one hand on the table, an emerald-cut aquamarine almost entirely covering one half of her index finger. ‘Wait – so you’re telling me, you lost your job the very next day after meeting Elena, and then she was waiting for you at home, to offer you a new job?’
‘Yes! It was just the most extraordinary stroke of luck. That kind of thing usually doesn’t happen to me.’
‘What a coincidence,’ Christina said with a steady gaze. She took her napkin off the plate and draped it over her lap with deliberate care, her words still hanging in the air.
Cesca picked up on the intimation that the coincidence was almost too much to believe, but Cesca knew it had been her fault and her fault alone that she had overslept – not for the first time – and got the sack.
‘And so, tell me, how are you getting on with her?’
‘Very well. I think she’s one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met.’
‘It’s an extraordinary life she’s led, isn’t it? I must say I was exceptionally surprised when I first heard about the book. She’s always been so private; she hardly ever refers to her life from before she moved to Rome.’
‘Oh really? She seems secretive on the matter? Even with friends?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say she’s secretive about it, more . . . elusive. I think perhaps she’s a little embarrassed about her “wild youth”, shall we say?’ Christina commented drily, sitting back in her chair and calmly placing her elbows on the armrests, fingers interlaced. At that moment the maitre d’ came back with a frosted silver bucket on a stand, a gold-foil-capped bottle of Bollinger and two glasses so cold they almost steamed, as though with liquid ice.
Cesca sat back too and looked around them as Renato expertly popped the cork and began to pour. Below, in the Stravinsky Bar, a thin woman in a body-con dress did a fine job of navigating the cobbled parterre in high heels, her shadow like a reed as compared to those of the bosky dwarf orange trees dotting the courtyard. The entire area was enclosed by sugar-pink walls that split and divided at the far end, with balustraded steps leading up to this level, lollipop box balls in planters at intervals all the way around. The open-air restaurant was characterized by groomed gravel pathways and round white-cloth-blanketed tables, with puddles of shade thrown down from the open parasols. But it was the uppermost level that really delighted her – cascading terraces densely planted with cypress, plane, eucalyptus and monkey trees, ivy fringing the walls, jasmine bushes as thick as buses. It was so unapologetically verdant and dense, not so much an oasis as a jungle, and all the more shocking for being found in the very centre of a city. Much like Elena’s garden.
Renato left them, tears of condensation already tracking down their crystal flutes.
‘Did you know much about her before this project?’ Christina asked, picking up the conversation again and angling her glass in an elegant toast.
‘Honestly? Nothing,’ Cesca said, mirroring the action.
‘Nothing? Really?’ She seemed as flabbergasted as Alé had been, as though the very notion were ridiculous.
‘I mean, I’d heard of the Valentines. Like the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers, I just knew they were this rich American family – but of Elena specifically?’ She shook her head.
‘Well, of course, you’re that much younger, I suppose, an entirely new generation,’ Christina mused. ‘But, forty years ago, she was one of the most famous women in America. She has either been married to, or rubbed shoulders with, almost every famous name of the second half of the twentieth century, be they power brokers on Wall Street, Hollywood actors, rock stars . . . She was the keeper of secrets; the confidante to the rich and famous. Her entire life has been about being seen and being watched.’
Again, Cesca detected an edge. ‘Did that change when she came to Rome? I understand things are different here,’ she said lightly. If the Black Nobility families were as conservative as Elena had suggested, surely there would be friction between them? Each woman had painted the other’s life in polar-opposite terms.
Christina angled her head slightly. ‘I would say so, yes. But then, that’s true love for you, isn’t it? It has the most transformative powers. Elena has grown into a worthy matriarch for the Damiani family. She has become a Romana di Roma. A Roman’s Roman.’
‘Romana di Roma,’ Cesca repeated. It sounded like a compliment of the highest order. ‘And you work closely together on the foundation’s charitable projects?’
‘Oh yes. But then, I keep close to Elena on everything.’
Christina smiled at her and Cesca smiled back, but she felt a shiver ripple up her spine. In any other setting, with any other person . . . that would have sounded distinctly like a threat.
Chapter Sixteen
Malibu, November 1969
‘Jay!’ She opened the door a little wider in surprise. ‘How lovely!’
‘How are you, Laney?’ he asked, leaning forward to kiss her once on the cheek. He stepped in and she moved out of the way to let him in, looking on in bafflement at the bottle of wine in his hand.
‘Uh . . .’
She smiled as he turned back to face her. ‘It’s very quiet in there. Don’t say I’m the first to arrive?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s tomorrow.’
There was a pause. ‘What?’
‘Dinner’s tomorrow night. Leo’s still in Chicago.’
&nbs
p; Jay dropped his head into his hands. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe—’
‘But hey, it’s fine,’ she laughed. ‘It’s no problem.’
He pulled an apologetic grimace. ‘Really?’
‘No, of course not!’ she demurred, and then, catching sight of his face, she realized he thought— ‘I mean, I would rustle something up for you now but I’ve got dinner plans later, so . . .’
‘Of course you do, of course you do,’ he repeated, looking awkward. ‘God, I’m such an idiot.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine!’
There was a short silence.
‘Well . . . at the very least, shall we have a glass of this in the interests of letting it breathe? I mean, I’m here now, so . . .’ He shrugged.
Laney hesitated for a moment. Leo could be possessive of her – he didn’t like her talking to the other surfers on the beach – and she knew it was because the age gap made him insecure. But Jay was his friend, his age; they had been at Stanford together; to do anything less than host his friend would be rude.
‘Absolutely.’ She shut the front door and led him through to the open-plan living area.
‘So, where did you say Leo is?’
‘Chicago. Walt Bellamy’s out of form; they’re having crisis talks.’ She rolled her eyes as she got them both a wine glass and set them down on the counter, passing Jay the bottle opener. ‘I don’t know. There’s always someone having a crisis. Sometimes I think Leo isn’t so much an agent as a counsellor.’
Jay raised an eyebrow sympathetically as he poured the merlot. ‘Away a lot, is he?’
‘Always, or so it feels,’ she sighed, raising her glass and clinking it with his.
‘Why don’t you travel with him, then?’ Jay asked, following her over to the white leather sofas, which were arranged in a U-shape to look out over the sea, although the black of night meant there was nothing to see other than their own reflections looking back at them.