by Karen Swan
‘Well, Signor Armani has been so kind as to make me an oyster silk skirt suit, so I thought perhaps . . . this,’ she said, picking up a string of large gold pearls. ‘These are from the South Sea and so flattering against the skin. At my age, Francesca, less is most definitely more.’
‘They’re stunning,’ Cesca smiled, gazing at them dreamily. Never in a million years would she ever get so close to such beauty again.
Elena stopped and stared at her. ‘You should wear emeralds.’
‘Me?’ Cesca laughed. ‘Yes, well, I don’t think I’ll ever have to make a choice on the matter.’
‘With your hair and skin tone, they’re absolutely the stone for you.’
‘Well, that’s nice of you to say but—’
‘Try this.’ Elena picked up a dramatic piece that wasn’t so much jewellery as clothing – an elaborate lattice of white diamonds and emeralds that swept from a high, Victorian neckline down to the shoulders and chest, almost like a collar.
‘God, no. I couldn’t possibly,’ Cesca cried, looking horrified.
‘Why ever not?’ Elena laughed, amused by her reaction. ‘Come on. It won’t hurt you.’
‘But—’
‘No excuses. I insist.’
Cesca got up, lifting her plait out of the way again and marvelling as Elena draped the necklace over her skin.
‘A plait is not how we accessorize it,’ she said, pulling the band from her hair and teasing out the braid. ‘There, that’s better.’
Cesca’s hair, fanned out, looked aflame against the radiant jewels. ‘I’ve never . . . I’ve never seen . . .’ she mumbled, her fingers tickling the stones.
‘Me neither,’ Elena said, looking thoughtful. ‘It needs something simple. Strapless.’
‘Black?’
‘No. White.’ She looked at Cesca in the mirror, their eyes meeting. ‘Wait there.’
Cesca gawped as Elena left the room, leaving her standing there wearing what must be several million pounds’ worth of jewellery – and her Converse.
Elena returned a few minutes later. ‘It’s all settled. Signor Valentino is sending it over.’
‘What over?’
‘Your dress for tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘The Bulgari party.’
‘But I’m not invited.’
‘Of course you are. You can be my plus-one, Francesca. It’s absolutely right you should come with me. Every girl should get to wear a four-million-dollar necklace for at least one night in her life.’
‘But—’ Four million dollars? Worse than she’d thought, then. She’d need a guard, or an AK47, or an SAS SWAT team to leave the palace in this.
Elena smiled, taking the necklace from her. ‘What are you waiting for? Go home and shower. The dress will be with you in forty minutes. I’ve given them your address. Get ready and come back here in an hour to put the necklace on. Insurance, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ Elena said, patting her shoulder. ‘We’ve both been working very hard recently, Francesca. Tonight, we shall have some fun.’
The dress alone was worth more than her car back home (a battered twelve-year-old Golf that actually groaned every time she sat in it and only went into fifth gear from third). White lace and floor-length, with a black velvet bow at the waist, it gave her a shape she’d never imagined on herself before. She had blow-dried her hair for once, and gone as far as applying some grey kohl and mascara to her eyes, as well as slicking a tinted gloss across her lips.
She stood in front of the mirror in her bald little apartment, the lace hem incongruous as it kissed the terracotta tiles, and worrying whether it mattered that her toenails – which peeked through the black suede shoes that had come with the dress (all miraculously in her size) – were unpainted.
Well, there was no time to do anything about it now. With a deep breath, she closed the door of the apartment and tiptoed carefully down her steps, taking care to lift the hem of the dress so as not to trail it through the freshly watered geranium pots.
She felt conspicuous as she walked the short distance between the apartment and the palazzo, wishing it had a side door onto the piazzetta as people stopped to stare at her hurrying over the cobbles, feeling too tall in her heels, lace gathered in one hand, her hair shimmering in the fiery dusk light.
‘Francesca!’
The cry made her stop in her tracks. Signora Accardo came hurrying out of the osteria towards her, abandoning her diners and making them all turn and stare. The little old lady’s white bun didn’t wobble as she bustled quickly in her direction, shaking her hands in the air in a gesture that could have been praising the heavens – or damning them. ‘Carina, carina, where are you going? You look like a princess.’
‘I feel like one,’ Cesca shrugged shyly, noticing even Signor Accardo standing by the fig tree watching them, wiping his hands on his long white apron. He’d left the kitchen? She must look different . . . ‘I’ve been invited to the Bulgari party on Via Condotti tonight. They’re show-casing their new collection. Or something.’
‘You are a vision,’ Signora Accardo said, walking around her and sighing. ‘Mia cara. Mia cara. Where is Signora Dutti?’
‘I’m not su—’
‘She should see you. Otto!’ She called across the width of the square to her husband. ‘Fetch her! Fetch her!’ she cried, motioning to the closed door below Cesca’s apartment.
‘Actually, I should get going. I’ve got to—’
But Signora Dutti had been roused anyway by the shouts outside and was already hurrying towards them.
‘Mia cara, mia cara,’ she began crying, her hands fluttering above her heart as she too started praising Cesca’s fairy-tale dress and the two women started gabbling in rapid-fire Italian. Cesca didn’t dare tell them about the four million dollars’ worth of emeralds she was about to put on with it.
‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go,’ Cesca said, using her thumb to indicate her direction. ‘I’ll be late.’
‘You go with your sweetheart?’ Signora Dutti asked, eyes misty with the romance of it all.
‘My boss. The Principessa.’
In a flash, both women’s faces changed.
‘Pah.’
‘Tuh.’
‘She is wicked woman, Francesca. Bad lady. Why are you with her?’ Signora Dutti demanded.
‘Because it’s a job. And I need a job. I really don’t understand why you both don’t like her. She’s fine.’
But Signora Accardo shook her head stoutly. ‘Is no good, Francesca. Is problema.’
Cesca nodded, knowing they meant well. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay. It’s fine. Really. It’s just a job. It’s fine. But thank you. I know you’re only looking out for me. But I really must go. I’m sorry. Thank you . . . Okay . . .’
She took her leave, having almost to run out of the piazzetta and into the Piazza Angelica, up the steps to the palazzo. The door opened as she reached the top step, as though Alberto had been waiting for her – which, of course, he had been.
Elena, too, was waiting: on a satin bench, the necklace ready for her. Within three minutes, they were in a bullet-proof black limousine being whisked off to the party, security guards riding on motorbikes behind. Her fingers at her neck, Cesca looked out of the tinted windows as they sped through the city – past Mussolini’s grand marble monuments, past the crumbling ruins of an ancient empire, past the winged angels of Castel Sant’Angelo and the colonnaded saints of Vatican City – and she knew she was part of a different Rome tonight, one where she could almost forget that beneath the pomp and the grandeur, there were quarries and holes and pitfalls which could break the ground beneath her feet at any given moment.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Venice, October 1980
The clerk’s polite claps would have to pass for the ceremonial ringing of bells. The flowers in her hands were not her favourite old-fashioned Bl
anche de Belgique roses, but pale-pink tulips bought from the market that morning; her plain white shift dress was enlivened only by the short white lace communion veil she had borrowed from Vito’s goddaughter, whose parents were officiating as their only witnesses. No one else knew. It was their secret.
It had to be.
As the clerk wound up the formalities and Elena stared lovingly at her new husband through the heavy lacework, she felt heady with relief that she had pulled it off. She had beaten Christina. True to her word, the other woman had begun an insidious whisper campaign in which smiles to her face when she was on Vito’s arm turned to vicious sneers when she was alone. Christina knew exactly how to tread the line between treachery and loyalty, pleading prior commitments at her country estate whenever Vito questioned why the dinner-party invitations were not as forthcoming as he had expected. But Elena knew what was happening. They were being frozen out and, sooner or later, Vito would realize that too and have to make a choice.
She had managed to convince him that her ‘past record’ as thrice a bride meant a low-key wedding would be in the best interests of his family’s profile. She hadn’t wanted to embarrass him, she had said, and although he had replied that he could never be embarrassed by her, that he was proud to have her as his wife, he had still readily agreed to elope. It was all the proof she needed that Christina had been right – the family name mattered above all else.
So as Vito lifted the veil back and clasped her face gently with his hands, kissing her lightly on the lips, she felt the thrill of victory ripple through her. Those bitches might not like her, they might not approve of her obscene wealth and chequered romantic past, but she was safe at last. As Vito’s wife, as the Principessa dei Damiani Pignatelli della Mirandola, married to the scion of one of the grandest families of Rome’s Black Nobility, she was untouchable now.
Born lucky. She had won.
Rome, Christmas Eve 1980
‘You agree now I was right?’ Elena asked as she walked slowly through the galleries with him, the large beeswax church candles flickering at every single window.
‘I agree it is still the greatest fire hazard ever to afflict the palazzo in its 800-year history,’ Vito said lightly, before squeezing her hand. ‘But it does look beautiful.’
‘Maria and Julio worked so hard getting it just right. It’s so atmospheric now, don’t you think? And it must surely look so beautiful from the piazza, such a welcoming sight,’ she sighed.
‘An extravagant one, perhaps.’
‘Well, I’m sure your mother would have agreed with me. You’re always telling me how she wanted this place to feel like a home and not a museum.’
Vito stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘I know what this is really about, Elena. Stop fretting. He will love it,’ Vito said reassuringly. ‘He will love you.’
But Elena took no comfort from his words – wasn’t that exactly what he’d said about Christina? Wasn’t Aurelio going to resent her for robbing him of a brother’s greatest duty by insisting they elope? Wasn’t he going to think of her the way the rest of them did? A flashy American: no class, just money? It was turning out that her victory over Christina had been a pyrrhic one. The usual invitations had started coming in for dinner and cocktail parties, balls and the opera – enough, anyway, to reassure Vito that in spite of the shock elopement, his marriage had been accepted. But Elena knew better. Women were attuned to the minutiae of each other’s social behaviour – cool eyes and tight smiles, limp handshakes and slightly turned cheeks, the whispered asides and shared looks. Though to the common onlooker she held rank in their top tier, from within the enclave it had been made perfectly clear she would never be one of them.
But then . . . hadn’t it ever been thus? She had been an outsider her entire life, excluded by the middle-class women in Newport on account of her wealth; by Leo’s circles on account of her youth; by Steve’s on account of her motherhood; and now again, here.
She would have felt more secure if she could have been more certain of Vito’s overarching affection for her. She knew he loved her – more passionately, perhaps, than he had ever loved anyone – but his feelings were still secondary to his duty. Like her, he was a product of his upbringing, unable fully to break free. Whilst she had been taught to live in exclusion and stand apart from the masses, always perversely yearning to belong but never quite breaching the gap, Vito – as the eldest son and heir – had been trained to override his own passions and no longer recognized this sublimation as sacrifice; the need to do the ‘Right Thing’ had become automatic.
As a result, he often seemed distant and hard to reach. He wouldn’t hold her hand in public. He insisted on following the aristocratic protocol of separate bedrooms, even though he visited her most nights. And although he was technically proficient in bed, he was very straight; playful affection was hard for him and if she was sitting on his lap or nuzzling his neck when Maria entered the room, he would gently push her off. He didn’t like her in any fashions that were too short or too tight or too low-cut – and, of course, not too much jewellery either. Modesty was the highest virtue, it seemed.
Tonight’s black velvet Yves Saint Laurent wrap dress was a daring push of the boundaries. Falling to her knee, with long sleeves, it nonetheless featured a deep V neckline that precluded the wearing of a bra. He hadn’t commented – it was just a private family dinner, after all – but she would have to sit with her back ramrod straight at the table whilst entertaining the prodigal son.
In spite of what Vito assumed, it wasn’t nerves that had her on edge about tonight. Aurelio was everything Vito could never afford to be and – protective of her husband – she resented him for it. As the ‘spare’ and not the heir, there was none of the weight of expectation upon him to uphold the family reputation, run the estates, be the figurehead for a family held in the highest regard. Instead, he’d been spoilt, indulged by his mother to run wild and free himself from the constraints that were inevitable for her oldest son.
At seventeen, Vito had told her, Aurelio had run away from boarding school to take part in the 1957 Mille Miglia, racing a prize Alfa Romeo 750 Competizione from his father’s collection and crashing it a mile outside Rimini. At nineteen, whilst playing polo in Argentina, he had been embroiled in a scandal involving one of the daughters of a cartel druglord and had to be smuggled from the country in the back of a coffee truck. He had continued in much the same mercurial vein until their aged father’s death in 1974, which proved to be a sobering event for him. For a short time, he had appeared to mellow somewhat, helping Vito with the daunting task of running the estate. Until, that was, four years ago when he had packed his suitcase for a week-long safari to Kenya and simply not come back. According to Maria – who could be a useful source of information if handled lightly – Vito had been furious and dismayed in equal measure, his anger hardening with every year that passed without contact. It was little wonder Vito didn’t keep a photograph of him in the apartments and Aurelio’s sudden reappearance – a telegram informing them he would be ‘home for Christmas’ – was both unexpected and unwelcome.
It was her and Vito’s first Christmas together as man and wife, their first Christmas together full stop, and she could only hope Aurelio would remain true to wandering form and sequester himself in his (currently locked) suite of rooms, which lay directly opposite theirs in the west wing. She wanted privacy – a lot of it. She was hoping to fall pregnant this holiday, to cement this relationship by becoming a family. A new one. Vito needed an heir and she needed another Stevie, a child to cradle in her arms.
The Christmas tree in the sitting room of their private apartment was enormous. Four metres high and almost as much round, Maria had decked it with red satin ribbons tied in bows. Several large bow-topped boxes sat at the foot of it, including one which was to be opened privately, later. She had set the lamps to a low setting, creating an ambient, flickering light, and added huge bunches of mistletoe to every doorway – a tradition he didn’
t understand but which gave her the perfect excuse to flirt with her own husband.
The bell sounded and Vito looked across at her. She saw the tension in his face suddenly and realized it wasn’t her nerves he’d been trying to calm earlier.
‘Darling, stop fretting,’ she laughed, running over to him and taking his face in her hands, kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘He’s your brother. Of course I shall love him.’
He nodded but the motion was stiff, his feelings withdrawn to a place far below the surface. She felt a rush of love for her husband. His love for his brother was deep but complicated.
‘I’ll give you two a few minutes alone together first. You go greet him. I’m just going to freshen up,’ she said, squeezing his hand and walking to the powder room.
She appraised her reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror. She was wearing her hair – dyed dark again – in a tight, lacquered bun, red lipstick on her mouth. She touched up her bronze eyeshadow and walked through a mist of Shalimar.
With one final, approving glance, she took a deep breath and walked out.
She could hear their voices as she strode through the rooms, her stilettoes intermittently click-clacking on the parquet floors as she passed over the rugs.
The brothers were talking, drinks in hand, both of them smart in their dinner jackets. Vito, facing her, looked up as she entered, breaking into a relaxed smile at the sight of her. She felt herself loosen. The reunion had clearly been successful, Vito as forgiving and magnanimous as always. She could afford to be too.
‘Aurelio,’ she said to his back.
Slowly, with an almost indolent air, he turned and she came face to face with the only person in the world who could compete with her for Vito’s love. He was strong-jawed, with hooded, elongated brown eyes, a large, nobly broken nose and a wide mouth. He looked more Greek, to her eye, than Roman.
And she felt instantly, powerfully attracted to him.
‘Darling, you’re not eating,’ Vito said, noticing her food was barely touched.