by Karen Swan
‘Tell me about this photo,’ she said, tapping the photograph.
‘Oh.’ Elena paled at the sight of it, reaching for it with a visibly trembling hand. ‘Well now, that day . . . that day, I seem to recall Vito and I had the most terrible argument.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Cesca said sympathetically, but inwardly she was groaning. It was a great picture but she could already see what was going to happen.
The silence lengthened as Elena continued to stare at it. She looked . . . haunted, almost.
‘Was the argument after the photo was taken, do you remember?’ Cesca asked. Elena’s eyes in the image looked distant, as though she hadn’t heard the command to ‘say “cheese”’.
‘. . . What? Oh, yes. I think so.’
Cesca wondered what the argument could have been about to upset her so much all these years later. ‘The thing is, it would be lovely to use it if we could; it’s the only photo I’ve been able to find so far of Vito and his brother together.’
Elena’s eyes flickered to hers. ‘Well, it’s not like that is crucial to the book. I don’t think anyone cares one way or the other that my fourth husband had a twin.’
‘No. I guess not,’ Cesca agreed reluctantly. ‘But it is a great image. Quintessentially Italian. And you look so glamorous. It really encapsulates the spirit of your life in the Eternal City. We’ve got the yacht pictures in Newport, shots of the surfing scene and beaches in Malibu, snaps of the discos in New York, and this is—’
‘I don’t think so.’
That was it? The topic was closed? Cesca felt a pulse of anger that there would be no further discussion on the subject. As with the diaries, there was no collaboration here and she felt her professional pride needled, springing back to life just for a moment. She wasn’t used to being a ‘yes person’.
‘Well, perhaps we could put it in the “maybe” pile?’ she persevered, digging her own heels in.
‘There is no maybe pile, Francesca, just what makes the cut – and I don’t wish to include, in a book about my life, a photograph that is painful to me.’
‘I’m sorry, but I just th—’
There was a sudden commotion outside the door – they heard Alberto’s voice raised in anger – and in the next moment it flew open and Nico fell into the room, physically wrestling Alberto off him. For one second, as the butler backed off and Nico was still bent double, his clothes awry, his eyes met Cesca’s and the disaster of their dinner at the osteria, three days earlier, mushroomed between them. She had hidden herself away since then, and she had been both relieved and devastated that he had made no attempts to find her. His expression darkened at the sight of her. You killed someone.
‘Signor Cantarelli!’ Elena exclaimed in alarm. ‘What on earth is going on?’
Nico tore his eyes off Cesca, seeming surprised to find Elena sitting there too, even though it was she who he had fought his way in to see. ‘I am sorry for the intrusion, but I had to see you.’
‘It couldn’t wait?’ she demanded, looking displeased.
‘No.’ He straightened up, practically swatting away the butler, who could only send his employer a disapproving but helpless stare.
Elena in turn glared at Nico, but eventually sighed, defeated in the end by sheer curiosity. ‘Very well. It’s fine, Alberto.’ She waited for the door to close behind him. ‘What is it you needed to see me about so very urgently?’
Nico glanced at Cesca, his scowl deeper than ever. ‘You may wish for us to continue this discussion in private.’
Cesca bridled, straightening in her chair. Seriously? He was going to be petty about this?
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Elena tutted, obviously of the same mind. ‘Francesca is my biographer. Isn’t it implicit I keep nothing from her?’
The irony that she had been doing exactly that just before Nico had disturbed them seemed to pass her by.
Nico’s eyes slid between the two women. He looked especially displeased today, Cesca thought. ‘Very well. Then I thought you would want to know . . . we found this.’ And from the deep cargo pocket on his right thigh, he pulled out something small and wrapped in cloth. He let the cloth fall open.
‘Holy shit!’ Cesca cried, her hands flying to her mouth at the sight of an absolutely enormous ring comprised of two triangular stones: one a diamond, the other a pale sapphire. She had never seen anything like it: not the scale of it, nor the brightness. Even dirty, as it clearly was, it was more dazzling than anything she had ever seen.
Nico held it up to the light, watching Elena closely. ‘I assume it is yours?’
Elena was already on her feet, her legs shaky, her face ashen. ‘Where did you get this? I demand to know.’
‘As I said, it was in the tunnel, Principessa. It must have been there for many years.’
‘Yes,’ Elena whispered, looking as if she might pass out. Cesca had never seen someone go that pale before. Elena took the ring from him and slipped it on. It was slightly loose but the stones were too big to let it slide around her finger.
‘If this is your ring then there is something I do not understand, Principessa – and it is a question I must ask. If you did not know about the tunnels, as you told me you did not, then how did your ring come to be down there?’
It was a good question, Cesca thought, her eyes sliding over to her employer.
‘Well, clearly someone must have tried to rob me,’ Elena replied tersely.
‘Rob you?’
‘Yes. They must have wanted to use the tunnel as an escape route and . . . accidentally dropped it somewhere down there.’
‘And then turned back when they could find no other way out?’ Nico suggested.
‘Exactly.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘There is a way out. We know now that one of the tunnels leads to the basement of the osteria in Piazzetta Palombella.’ His eyes slid across to Cesca and she felt herself hold her breath.
Elena arched an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I see.’ She was quiet for a moment before seeming to become aware of Cesca’s presence again. ‘On second thought, I say we continue this privately, Signor Cantarelli. Francesca, you will excuse us? We can pick this up later.’
‘O-of course,’ Cesca murmured, staring after them as Elena rose to her feet and led Nico to another room. Nico’s dark gaze was the last thing Cesca saw before he closed the door softly behind them.
What the hell? Irritated by both her burning curiosity and her restlessness at Nico’s new indifference towards her, she scooped the photographs into a pile and returned them to the envelope, switching off the digital recorder. The photograph of the four of them on the scooters was still on Elena’s chair where she had dropped it when Nico had barged in and Cesca walked over to retrieve it, her eyes falling upon the framed black-and-white photos arranged on the side table beside the chair. From where she had been sitting, she had been able to see only the backs of them.
That wasn’t the case any more. Cesca stopped dead at the sight of one, knowing that to examine it further was going beyond her professional remit. This wasn’t research, it was snooping. The photographs in the boxes she’d been invited to see, but that one there . . . Was she ever supposed to have seen it? This was Elena’s private space; Cesca was here only because Elena felt too sick to move about much today.
Hands trembling, she picked up the heavy silver Tiffany frame. The black-and-white image was backlit, light streaming in through a window in the background, lending a celestial aura to the picture. In it, Elena was holding a newborn baby, its skin still creased, eyes slitted against the light. Elena’s lips were in a tender pucker on the baby’s cheek, her eyes closed. The frame had been engraved with an inscription: Stevie Easton, 14 March 1974.
Cesca sank into the chair as she realized what it meant. Elena had had a child, with her previous husband – and she had said nothing about him. She was writing a book on her life but hadn’t thought to mention having a child?
She looked aro
und the beautiful room again, realizing she’d got everything the wrong way round: the secrets didn’t stop at that door there – they started at it. The lies were all in here.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rome, June 1982
‘. . . called my agent. They want me to go in for a part in the new Scorsese,’ Milana said, her cigarette tip glowing brightly. She sucked hard on it again, leaving pink lipstick marks on the paper. ‘I don’t know, though.’
Vito looked up at her incredulously. ‘You don’t know about working with Scorsese?’
‘I don’t know about upping sticks and moving to New York for six months. Your brother here can’t be trusted.’
Vito and Elena looked at Aurelio, anticipating his stock outraged expression. He was dipping his bread in the olive oil. ‘What?’ he asked, seeing their stares, seeing how they waited. ‘You want me to respond to that?’ Aurelio glanced at his lover. ‘You gotta do what you think is right, baby.’
Milana arched an eyebrow. ‘See what I’m saying?’ She shifted in her seat to face him more squarely. ‘You never reassure me, Reli. You never say that I can trust you. Which means that I can’t.’
‘Not this again,’ he sighed, dropping the rest of the bread back in the basket and reaching for his own cigarettes on the table. His eyes flickered towards Elena and back off her again. It had become almost like a tic.
‘Why do you do that?’ Milana demanded, beginning to sound shrill. ‘Fob me off. You always—’
A young girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen years of age, came over to their table, a square piece of paper in her hands. ‘Excuse me, Signorita. I’m sorry to interrupt but I’m a huge fan of yours. Could I get your autograph?’
Milana smiled, blowing the cigarette smoke away from the girl’s face and taking her pen. ‘Sure. What’s your name, sweetie?’
‘Domenica.’
‘Domenica? That’s a pretty name.’ Milana smiled again, signing the paper with an elaborate yet easy flourish that suggested hours spent perfecting a suitable signature.
Elena looked away, sensing the end was in sight. Milana and Aurelio were on the brink of another of their fights; she gave it less than five minutes before they would leave the table in their usual high passion and it would be up to Vito to pick up the bill, the two of them left sitting in muted, companionable silence.
The horizon was black, the sky beyond the parasols billowing and restless, great bruised clouds roiling and jostling for space. Rain was coming – Rome’s urgent heavy pelting rain that made a mockery of London’s drizzle and New York’s sleet. Here, it really was as though the heavens opened, the raindrops like bullets. Elena welcomed it; anything to break the heat. The rain was one of the things she loved most about this city.
The teenager departed and the mega-watt smile left Milana’s beautiful face as she sat back in her chair and pinned Aurelio with one of her stares.
‘Don’t start up again,’ Aurelio said in a low growl, not even looking at her.
Four minutes.
Vito cleared his throat. ‘We should think about getting up to Pienza next weekend,’ he said to his wife.
Elena looked at him. ‘Why?’
‘There’s the Cacio al Fuso. The cheese-rolling competition.’
It was another moment before Milana could respond. She looked as though she had never heard of such a thing. ‘Really?’ she asked Elena. ‘You want to watch cheese being rolled?’
‘It is a tradition,’ Vito said stiffly. ‘Someone in our family always judges.’
‘Not Aurelio, I bet,’ Milana smirked.
Elena felt another tiny piece of her begin to die. ‘Of course we must go.’
‘Good girl, Elena. We can’t break with tradition,’ Aurelio said, tapping his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘What would people say?’
‘It is more fun than it sounds,’ Vito smiled, taking his wife’s hand and squeezing it. ‘Isn’t it?’
She managed a nod, knowing Aurelio was staring again. She didn’t need to look at him to know it. The weight of his gaze was almost like something she wore now – a scarf in the summer months, making her too hot, fidgety, restless. She kept her eyes down on the green-checked tablecloth. She had quickly become accomplished at avoiding his presence, even when she was in it. Avoiding him – them – wasn’t a viable long-term option, for Vito would become suspicious, but she had become adept at minimizing her presence. She didn’t say much; she didn’t look at anyone.
Milana stretched like a cat. ‘I want an ice cream.’
‘Really?’ Aurelio sighed. ‘You are not a child—’
‘It’s too hot! I can’t breathe!’ Milana panted, pulling her flimsy off-the-shoulder top away from her skin.
Aurelio rolled his eyes but stubbed out the cigarette.
Two minutes. This would be over soon; soon, he would be gone. Elena kept still.
Vito’s arm went up, signalling the waiter.
Aurelio scraped his chair back and reached for the scooter helmet dangling off the back of his chair. He fastened the chin strap and reached into his pocket for the keys to his red Vespa. Milana stood too.
One minute.
‘Hold on, we’ll join you,’ Vito said unexpectedly, rising too. ‘And I believe this meal’s on you, Reli?’
What? Elena looked in alarm between her husband and his brother.
‘Milana’s right. It’s so muggy,’ Vito explained, putting on his own helmet. ‘I fancy an ice cream. Giolitti?’
Aurelio shrugged but he was looking at Elena as he handed his credit card to the waiter. ‘You’re the boss, big brother.’
Strawberry and hazelnut for Milana; pistachio for Vito; lemon sorbet for Elena . . . another cigarette for Aurelio. They ate the ice creams on the kerb, all sitting on the bikes, Vito insisting on a photograph and flagging down a passing girl who looked delighted to have been both noticed and asked.
‘You know, there’s one thing that you haven’t said to me, Aurelio,’ Milana said, eating her ice cream alluringly and attracting the admiring glances of several more passers-by.
‘Jesus, Milana, you think now is the time?’
Milana glowered at him. ‘I was going to say, you could have said you’d come to New York with me. But yeah, seeing as you brought it up, there’s that too—’
Aurelio got off the bike and started pacing. ‘Enough, woman. Jesus!’ He flicked ash on the pavement and scowled.
Milana watched him. ‘It’s an idea, though, isn’t it? You, me and Manhattan?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘It’s only six months,’ she laughed, but her eyes were pinned on him, anxiously watching as he paced. ‘It’s not like I’m asking you to give all this up. I’m not asking you to fucking marry me.’
Aurelio stopped pacing and walked over to her, kissing her on the lips. ‘Okay, we can talk about it. Six months . . . six months is possible.’
Elena felt her gut twist.
‘Thank God I wasn’t after a proposal,’ Milana said wryly, watching as he grabbed the bike helmet from the handlebars.
‘What are you doing, huh?’ Aurelio snapped, tetchily. ‘I never promised you anything. Not marriage, not babies.’
‘No, it looks like I got the wrong brother for that,’ Milana retorted, casting a look at Elena and Vito. ‘Hey, you don’t want to swap, do you, Elena?’
Elena felt his eyes again. What would he – any of them – do if she actually said it? Yes.
‘Sorry. Can’t help you there,’ she said, managing to sound bored.
‘That’s right. Elena married the man and not the face, isn’t that right?’ Aurelio said, scorn in his voice.
Elena looked into the crowd, refusing to meet his eyes again, noticing how people turned to stare as they passed. Once, she would have feared it was because they knew she was a Valentine, or they recognized her from paparazzi pictures of the Broadway parties with Steve, but now she knew their wattage as a four didn’t come from her background or Milana’s bit part in a film
at all. It was the brothers – both of them tall and commanding, oozing glamour with their dark looks and easy style, their shared handsome brooding face remarkable enough just once over, much less twice. She saw how people tried to scrutinize them, looking for a defining difference that simply wasn’t there, wondering which one was the elder, which one more attractive (because there always was one that edged it, even in identical cases); looking at her and wondering why she had chosen Vito and not Aurelio, and then wondering the same of Milana. Did any of them ever wonder that perhaps it had never been a choice? That it had come down to circumstance, fortune, sheer rotten bad luck to have met one first and not the other. Could any of them see it in her eyes, the awful shocking truth that she had married the wrong brother?
The sorbet dropped from her hand as the scales fell finally away. Oh God. There was never going to be an escape from this anguish; no remedy. She had thought that staying would be enough – that just seeing him was better than nothing at all – but she’d been wrong. It was like pouring vinegar on an open wound, having to suffer him parading his girlfriend in front of her, flaunting their passion and everything they had that she and Vito didn’t. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Recently, she’d taken to going to bed with her shutters open in case the lights should come on in the private apartment of the west wing, telling her he was back, he was near. And yet still too far.
And now he was going to go again. But it didn’t matter how many times or how long he left for – six months in New York, two years in Paris – he would always come back, for this was his home, and that would mean they’d go through this all again. It would never stop.
‘Elena?’ Vito asked, turning around to see what had happened, just as the first heavy raindrops smacked the ground.
‘Shit,’ Aurelio muttered, grinding out the cigarette beneath his heel and throwing his leg over the bike as Milana made room for him. He turned on the ignition. Nothing happened.