The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  ‘No, not the necklace,’ Vito said, looking up from tying the laces of his dinner shoes; they were so brightly polished, she had seen foggier mirrors.

  ‘But I chose this dress specifically. The neckline—’

  ‘It is too much, Elena. The cuff is more discreet. You don’t want to come across as ostentatious, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Laney looked back down at the emerald suite, nestled in its black velvet case. Unlike the low-key gold mesh Tiffany chains made by her friend Elsa Peretti, which she had been wearing all summer, the Bulgari jewels couldn’t fail to be ostentatious, no matter how few of them were worn at once. She felt confused by this new etiquette, where more was somehow passed off as less.

  Vito rose from the bed and lifted the exquisite diamond-and-emerald cuff from the case, fastening it for her. ‘There,’ he said, kissing the inside of her wrist and looking down at her proudly. ‘They will love you, my little bird, as I do.’

  *

  Christina was everything she was not. Tall and dark-skinned, she wore her hair short and swept back, emphasizing a long neck and the kind of bone structure that had been generations in the making. Beside her, Elena felt scrawny, not delicate, and wished she had spent more time on her tan.

  They had one thing in common, though: they both adored Vito, and that was bigger than any differences between them.

  ‘I just love your earrings,’ Elena said as they were introduced, Christina greeting her with the type of dazzling smile that belonged on a Bond Girl.

  ‘Elena, my goodness, you are ravishing,’ Christina gushed, holding her in outstretched arms so as to get a better look. ‘When Vito told me he had fallen in love with this exquisite American, I could hardly believe it. My dear, precious friend, finding love at last? I had begun to fear it would never happen,’ she smiled. ‘I have been quite anxious to meet you.’

  ‘And I you. He’s told me so much about you, I feel we are friends already.’

  ‘Wasn’t it sweet of him to throw this little party in your honour?’ Christina asked, gesturing to the grand Gallery of Mirrors in which they were standing and in which Elena was painfully aware of one hundred sets of eyes upon her, groups hovering in satellites around them, waiting for their moment with her.

  ‘It is our engagement party,’ Vito clarified. ‘Besides, I wanted to show her off,’ he said, quietly but proudly, his fingers brushing hers as they stood side by side. It was the closest he would come to any public display of affection, Elena knew now, but she understood that; after everything she’d been through with Steve, she liked the novelty of it.

  A man in a ceremonial red sash came to join them and Christina linked her arm through his. ‘Elena, this is my husband, Sigmundo. He’s an attaché at the embassy.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Don’t worry, he’s already spoken to his contacts there. You should have no problem with your visa from now on.’

  She laughed before Elena could frown, for she had indeed had a problem with her visa – Steve’s allegations about her drug use had caused problems that rippled far beyond the custody of their son – but Elena realized it was merely a light-hearted jest and laughed too, albeit unnerved.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Sigmundo said, bowing his head. ‘We felt quite certain that Vito must have been exaggerating when he described you but I see now, if anything, he was modest.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Elena smiled, relaxing. ‘That’s very kind of you to say.’

  ‘Tell me again how you met,’ Christina demanded, her dark eyes bright above her wine glass. ‘Vito said something about killer bees?’

  Elena laughed. ‘It’s preposterous, isn’t it? The most unlikely start to a love story ever.’ She looked up at her handsome fiancé and linked her arm through his. ‘But he saved me. When everyone else was busy saving their own skin, he put himself in jeopardy to rescue me.’

  ‘Your hero,’ Christina beamed, looking proudly at her friend. ‘He is a good man. The very best.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Elena agreed. ‘I’m very lucky.’ She looked back at Christina. ‘And I would love to spend more time with you and hear all about what he was like as a boy. What stories you must be able to tell. Your childhood sounds idyllic.’

  ‘Oh it was, it really was,’ Christina replied, looking round wistfully at the hallowed gallery. ‘We used to creep in at night and play ghosts in here, do you remember?’

  ‘When they had covered the furniture with dust sheets before we decamped to Tuscany for the summer? Yes, I remember,’ Vito chuckled. He looked down at Elena to explain. ‘We would hide under the dust sheets and take it in turns to run the gauntlet. You never knew who was where.’ He laughed. ‘My poor parents, being woken by our screams.’

  ‘Poor Maria, more like! I think she had a heart attack more than once,’ Christina added. ‘Although, I think your mother rather liked it. She said our noise made it a home—’

  A stab of pain tore at Elena’s heart as she thought of Stevie.

  ‘—And brought this place alive. She was right. It could all too easily have been a mausoleum otherwise.’

  ‘Where did you grow up, Elena?’ Sigmundo asked.

  ‘Newport in Rhode Island, on the East Coast. A world away from here in many ways.’

  ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘Well, the weight of history for one thing. Back home, if I hold onto a handbag for more than two seasons it’s considered an antique.’

  Christina laughed. ‘So you like it here then? You will settle here?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve always loved Rome. I just never thought I would be lucky enough to one day make it my home.’

  ‘Well, we feel so privileged that we will get to share our beautiful city with you. I hope you’ll allow me to introduce you to my dearest friends. Roman society can be . . . difficult to infiltrate sometimes. Are you involved with any charities? I believe Vito mentioned your family has a foundation?’

  ‘Well, I’m not involved with that personally. My mother runs it now.’

  Christina frowned lightly. ‘You know, I think we may have met her once, at a gala in Beverly Hills for Tusk Force. Do you remember, darling?’ she asked, turning to her husband. ‘They had dyed the elephants’ tusks bright colours. It renders the ivory worthless to poachers, you see,’ she explained to Vito, who was looking alarmed by the thought. ‘What is your mother’s name, if you don’t mind me asking—?’

  ‘Ladies, if you will excuse us, there is someone to whom I would like to introduce Sigmundo; a business connection.’ Vito squeezed her arm lightly, shooting her a private look to check she was happy to be left. She winked in reply.

  ‘Of course, you boys go, network,’ Christina smiled, shooing them away. ‘Leave us girls to the important task of setting up some lunches so that we can make this beautiful bird of paradise one of our own.’ She looked back at Elena. ‘You were saying? Your mother’s name?’

  ‘Oh, Whitney Valentine,’ Elena replied. It was soon to be Whitney Shaffer, but she wasn’t going to ever call her by that name herself.

  ‘Oh yes, Valentine. Valentine, of course.’

  The men wandered off but something in her tone had caught Elena’s attention – the way she’d stressed her family name, as though it carried connotations.

  ‘I wonder that you have not returned to using the name yourself since the divorce?’ Christina continued. ‘After all, as the entire world is aware, it was not an amicable parting from your latest husband.’

  Latest husband? Elena straightened at the barb, if that was indeed what it was. In truth, keeping Steve’s name felt like wearing a crown of thorns every day – if she had her way, she would never hear or say his name again – but it was her son’s name too, and keeping it felt like one of the only ways left to hold him close to her.

  But surely Christina didn’t mean to wound her? Elena must have misunderstood. Perhaps Christina’s English wasn’t as faultless as it first appeared?

  ‘Tell me,’ Christina smiled, moving in a l
ittle closer. ‘How exactly did you fall to such depths that the courts saw fit to award custody of your son to a promiscuous, drug-addled actor rather than you?’

  What?

  ‘That poor, poor child. How different things might have been for him. How different they should have been. Born into everything – and yet nothing. I cried when I heard; it should never have happened and if you had been any kind of fit mother, it never would have.’

  Elena felt as if she’d taken a blow to the head. The room began to spin – faces, strangers’ faces, reflecting back at her in the mirrors, all of them watching, knowing, judging . . . Christina had put Elena’s face to the lurid headlines; she knew every last detail of Elena’s wretched pain and if the rest of them didn’t already, they soon would.

  ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to allow this to happen, do you? Just stand by and watch my oldest friend in the world throw his heart and good name away for you?’

  Elena couldn’t breathe. Christina was still smiling, her beautiful expression as unchanged now as it had been with the men present.

  ‘Christina, what the papers wrote . . . it wasn’t true.’

  ‘Oh, I think it was. Sigmundo knows the judge.’

  ‘But Steve lied. He perjured himself. He set me up.’

  ‘I suppose you would say that. How else could you convince a good man like Vito that you’re not a monster?’

  ‘Because I’m not. I’ve told Vito everything; he knows the truth. He believes me.’

  It was true she had told him all about Steve’s lies – how he’d exaggerated her cocaine use, calling her an addict when she did no more than anyone else they knew; how he’d lied about her hiding her stash in Stevie’s bathroom when it was his they had found. She’d described, too, how she had gone with other men because her own husband had wanted her to . . . when all it had done was enable him to flaunt his affairs in front of her and call her a whore.

  But what she hadn’t told Vito was that it wasn’t a clear-cut picture, for she didn’t know herself exactly where the truth ended and the lies began. Everything from that time was murky, the blackouts meaning anything was possible. All the very worst things Steve had said she’d done – to her shame, she couldn’t be certain they weren’t true . . .

  But Vito – he was good, he had rescued her and she was different now. He had given her hope, been a guiding light when she’d been in the blackest despair after losing Stevie.

  ‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ Christina said dismissively. ‘In the eyes of the world now, you’re damaged goods and that’s the only opinion that counts. Vito is the scion of one of the grandest families in Rome. He is born to greatness. He can’t be linked to your tawdry scandals. You may have turned his head with, well, God only knows what tricks,’ she said, still smiling, ‘but it won’t last. I’ll see to that. Vito knows his obligations; his sense of duty will overrule whatever feelings he may temporarily harbour for you.’

  ‘Christina, please, we’re happy together. I make him happy.’

  ‘No, you will destroy him and I want you to know I will not allow it to happen.’ Christina tipped her head to the side, looking to all the room as if she was passing a compliment on Elena’s dress. ‘Well, we should mingle. But I’m pleased we were able to have this chat. It’s good that we understand each other.’

  Their eyes locked and Christina blinked just once before she glided off, leaving Elena alone in the room of strangers, her company suddenly less desirable now that neither Vito nor Christina was in her orbit. Backs turned to her as the tears rose to her eyes and she found herself alone in the middle of the party. She had been here before, she recalled, one night nineteen years earlier – and all the pain and all the lies of the intervening years had been for nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rome, August 2017

  ‘I actually cannot believe this,’ Cesca murmured. ‘It’s not a safe. It’s a bank vault.’

  ‘Yes, well, when you live in the building that houses one of the most important private art collections in the country, you can’t skimp on things like insurance. I’m afraid they insist upon it,’ Elena said, walking into the reinforced steel room and up to the floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted cabinets. Automatically, lights came on – ‘pressure pads in the floor,’ Elena explained – highlighting the dazzling jewels arranged on velvet trays.

  ‘I would have thought something like this would need armed guards or, I don’t know, a Swiss bank and a few fierce Dobermans at least,’ Cesca gasped, as she saw rows of sapphires and rubies, emeralds and diamonds, pearls and aquamarines . . . It was like being inside Asprey’s on Bond Street, or Tiffany on Fifth Avenue, or—

  ‘I know, it’s like Bulgari on Via Condotti in here,’ Elena smiled, opening one of the cabinets and tenderly lifting a sapphire drop necklace. ‘Bulgari always say I own more of their collection than they do. They’re forever asking me to sell pieces back to them for their private collection.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I will. After all, I have no daughter to whom to leave them.’

  ‘No? What about your daughter-in-law?’

  ‘She’s a liberal.’ The tone in which she said this made Cesca wonder whether she had in fact meant to say ‘radical’. ‘She thinks it’s “unethical” to spend this sort of money on jewellery. She doesn’t understand – or doesn’t want to understand – that it’s a form of investment every bit as sound and wise as art or wine or property. But then, she’s a biochemist; she’d rather look at things in her microscope than this.’

  ‘It’s a shame she thinks the two things have to be mutually exclusive,’ Cesca said lightly.

  ‘My thoughts precisely, Francesca. I’ve never understood this mindset of “Sunday Best”. Beauty is an elevating force, don’t you agree? We should try to make every day our best.’

  ‘Well, I will make a point of remembering that, should I ever be given something even a fraction as lovely as any of this – which of course I won’t.’

  Elena glanced over at her, seeing how her eyes tripped over the shelves, absorbing the colours, longing to touch. ‘Try something on.’

  ‘What?’ Cesca look alarmed. ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to . . . I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s too precious,’ Cesca laughed, clasping her hands behind her back for good measure.

  Elena turned and came over to her. ‘For a beautiful girl like you? Of course it isn’t. Here, let me put this on you.’

  She had to reach up – and Cesca had to bend her legs, keeping her plait out of the way – to fasten the criss-cross diamond torque around her neck.

  ‘Oh my goodness, it’s exquisite,’ Cesca breathed, fingering it lightly, feeling the cold of the metal against her skin.

  ‘This one’s a Tiffany. Platinum with 32-carat diamonds.’

  ‘Do you know the spec for all of these?’ Cesca asked.

  ‘Of course. Every piece tells a story for me. That one, for example, was a gift from my father to my mother on their silver wedding anniversary.’ She walked over to the open cabinet and lifted an emerald, diamond and ruby necklace with a suspended diamond. ‘And Vito gave me this sautoir as an engagement gift – 44.90 carats. This really was a special piece. I usually just wore the bracelet for everyday use.’

  Everyday use? Like it was a string friendship bracelet?

  She picked up a sapphire cuff. ‘And this belonged to my dear friend Elizabeth Taylor.’

  ‘Oh wow,’ Cesca murmured, peering at it closely but not daring to touch, knowing Guido would die to be in her shoes right now. ‘I’ve seen some photographs of you and Elizabeth Taylor together. We really should put those in the book.’

  ‘Absolutely. I do agree. Everybody always loved looking at Elizabeth.’

  ‘Which one is your favourite?’ Cesca asked, reluctantly unfastening the necklace from her own neck and handing it back. It was already warming against her skin and it wouldn’t do to get a taste for such things.

  ‘Now the
re’s a question,’ Elena said, stepping back and looking around at her own jewelled vault. Cesca couldn’t begin to imagine the net worth in this room alone. ‘And you may think it’s a hard answer to give, but actually, it’s this one,’ she said, walking across to a necklace that Cesca hadn’t even noticed: palest pink beads simply strung to sit at the base of the neck.

  ‘That one?’ Cesca asked in amazement. She could see yellow diamonds, pink sapphires and black pearls, and yet that humble, almost plain, string of beads was Elena’s favourite?

  ‘It’s not the most valuable. Not by a long way. In fact—’ Elena considered, standing back and looking around. ‘I think it may be the least valuable . . . Still, it means a great deal to me.’ She lifted it from the velvet case and carried it over. ‘Vito gave it to me. I wore it every day that we were married.’ She handed it to Cesca. ‘Would you mind . . . ?’

  Cesca fastened it for her, admiring its modest simplicity in the full-length mirror. It was by far the closest piece to her own taste too.

  ‘Opal,’ Elena murmured, touching it lightly. ‘It’s funny. Some people are superstitious about opal. In Eastern Europe, jewellers simply won’t sell it at all. People think it brings bad luck to marriage, whereas the Romans thought quite the opposite – the Caesars gave them to their wives as good-luck amulets. Some say a Roman senator called Nonius opted for exile rather than sell his opal to Mark Antony, who wanted to give it to his lover, Cleopatra.’ She shrugged. ‘And then the Greeks, on the other hand, believed it brought the wearer second sight.’

  ‘Second sight?’ Cesca echoed.

  ‘I just thought it was pretty,’ Elena smiled, taking it off again and kissing the beads tenderly, before replacing them on the velvet shelf.

  ‘So which one are you going to wear tonight?’ Cesca asked, sinking onto the ivory silk-velvet buttoned ottoman in the middle of the room, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hand.