The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  ‘Yes.’ He tried to be stern but the look in his eyes told her otherwise.

  Her hand began to travel downwards under the sheet as her eyes danced. ‘Is there any way I can make it up to you . . . ?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Rome, August 1982

  The thrum of the engine vibrated through her bones, the wind whipping her ponytail as the car gripped the winding coast road and, below them, pretty pastel-coloured villages clung to the cliffs like barnacles above the bright blue sea. She sighed, knowing that this was true happiness at last. Even though Aurelio had gone again. Even though she’d heard not a word from him since. Even though he’d said not a word apart from her name – angry, despairing – as he’d slumped against her, his face buried in her neck, her legs still wrapped around him. Even though he’d left her there in the dark, his breathing ragged as he’d stumbled back to the west wing. ‘You make me hate myself, Elena.’ Wasn’t that what he’d told her, standing in the rain in the Pantheon?

  But if Aurelio couldn’t forgive himself, she didn’t regret a thing. How could she be sorry for something that was so right? It had been inevitable from the start and they’d both known it. They had done everything in their power to fight and resist, to push back and keep away, but it had been an unwinnable war. It wasn’t just chemistry that locked them together, but gravity: they had been destined for one another.

  Beside her, Vito’s arms were outstretched, his fingers unconsciously stroking the leather wheel. He was wearing sunglasses and a blue linen shirt, navy shorts, his Tod’s car shoes. He looked incredible. He looked like him.

  She smiled as he glanced across at her, his hand reaching for and squeezing her thigh. If anything, her seduction by Aurelio had improved things between her and her husband. She felt alive again; Aurelio’s touch – passionate, hungry and intense – had awakened her to Vito’s. They laughed, talked once more. She felt able to take on the role of a Damiani wife which had previously felt so stifling, and she was throwing herself into the charity circuit with a zeal that made Christina’s appear positively anaemic.

  She could do all this because, one day, Aurelio would come back – to Vito, to her – and it would happen all over again. The pattern had been set. He would resist her and fail; he would leave her and return. He would resist her and fail and leave . . . But he would always come back because their love had a physical shape now, one that was growing day by day. Her hands fluttered to her stomach again, her newfound sense of peace like a sedative in her bloodstream. He didn’t know it yet, but seven months from now, she was bringing a baby into this world – one that would look just like its father.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rome, August 2017

  Cesca knocked on the door, not even sure if Elena was behind it. She had walked through the palace looking for her and the private sitting room of the private apartment was the only suite left.

  ‘Yes?’

  The voice was faint but distinct and Cesca popped her head around the door. Elena was sitting on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around her as it had been the previous week, when Nico had interrupted them with his discovery of the ring.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wondered whether you were free to talk? We didn’t get a chance to finish our interview the other day.’

  Elena was quiet and very still. ‘The other day . . . ?’

  ‘On Friday. Signor Cantarelli interrupted,’ Cesca prompted.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Her eyes seemed to sharpen at the mention of his name. ‘Come in. I am in fact waiting for Signor Cantarelli. I am expecting him to tell me they are finally finished with their wretched explorations and I can reclaim my privacy again.’

  Cesca was puzzled as to why she should think that. Only three days ago, Nico had returned to her a priceless ring. If that could have been found down there, surely there might be other items of interest or value, too? What if a burglary had gone wrong? What if a burglary had been missed? What was the rush to seal it all up again?

  ‘He will be here any minute, but we can talk while we wait. This won’t take long, will it? I recall we had almost finished our discussion anyway.’

  ‘Uh, well, however long you’ve got,’ Cesca said, though she still had plenty of questions to ask – such as why Elena had failed to mention the small matter of having had a son? She could well understand the subject was too painful to want to discuss it, but they couldn’t just ignore something like that. Today’s was going to have to be a tough conversation. An interrogation, for once.

  She crossed the room, feeling Elena’s eyes on her 1920s high-waisted cream bags and black vest. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Not as tired as you, I suspect.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Cesca asked, not sure if she’d heard correctly.

  ‘You look pale this morning, Francesca,’ Elena said, her grey eyes steady upon her. ‘Did you not sleep well?’

  Cesca swallowed. ‘I slept very well, thank you.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The thought of Nico, of last night and the night before that, of all Sunday spent in bed, flustered her, and she fussed with the digital recorder and the photographs in the envelope, trying to buy some time to compose herself. He had left ten minutes before her this morning so that they could stagger their arrivals at work, and even that separation had felt hard to bear. Things were moving fast and she was falling for him, hard. ‘So, I thought we could continue our conversation about Vito,’ she said, her eyes flicking up as she laid out the photographs on the ottoman again.

  Elena nodded, without looking at them.

  ‘So we . . . uh . . . we’d been talking about his relationship with his brother – Aurelio – and how that impacted upon you.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Cesca’s eyes flittered towards the photo frame beside Elena’s left arm – the picture within it, of her first son, was out of sight from where she sat.

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Reli? No. He died in November 1989.’

  ‘Can I ask how?’

  Elena looked surprised, no doubt wondering at its relevance to the book. ‘He was in a car crash,’ she said simply.

  Cesca nodded, knowing perfectly well now that that crash hadn’t killed anyone. ‘It must have been a terrible loss for Vito,’ she said, watching Elena’s expression closely, noticing it was a long time before Elena answered.

  ‘Yes. He might even have been destroyed by it, had it not been for Giotto . . .’ Her voice faded into silence.

  Cesca nodded understandingly. ‘Destroyed’ was a strong word, almost violent, but she knew, herself, what guilt did to a person. ‘Giotto is your son?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Cesca fell into silence, deciding to let Elena guide the conversation for once – an old tactic she’d used when interviewing witnesses – but her heart was racing and she felt sure her colour was high. Could Elena see it – the inquisition in her eyes? She felt as though she might as well have been sitting there in her wig and gown.

  But Elena wasn’t even looking at her. ‘Vito changed after Reli’s death. He became more like his brother – a little more reckless and unpredictable. He had lost the person he loved most in the world and all bets were off. In some ways, I think being the only son freed him from the straitjacket of being the older son.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that whenever you talk about Vito, it’s always sadly. As though he was somehow a tragic figure.’

  Elena’s stare sharpened at Cesca’s more direct line of questioning. ‘Well, it is not so easy being good in this world, is it?’

  Cesca shook her head. ‘Did it place a strain on your marriage? If he changed so much, I mean.’

  Elena considered the question. ‘You’d think so, but actually, in a curious way, I think it strengthened it. We all had to learn to adapt. It brought us closer together, somehow. We realized how short life really is, how fragile. After all, we never know when we awaken into our final day.’

  ‘May I ask when Vito die
d?’

  Elena pinned her with a cool stare. ‘13 November 2002. A heart attack. Do you need a time of death?’

  Cesca didn’t look down from those icy eyes. ‘I’m just trying to establish a timeline of the major events in your life, that’s all,’ she said, equally coolly, leading into the first big question, the one that was going to lead to all the other questions she knew Elena didn’t want asked. ‘So you didn’t have any other children?’

  The photograph of Stevie – only the back of it visible to Cesca from her seat – was just a metre away.

  Elena’s gaze flickered over her. ‘No. Giotto was our only child.’

  Cesca picked up on the sleight of hand. Our only child. Not an outright lie, then, but still not the whole truth.

  ‘I was really very sorry to read about Stevie,’ Cesca said, deploying her own sleight of hand – she had read about him, not heard, clearly implying that she knew Elena was choosing which truths to share and which not.

  Elena didn’t move, the expression on her face becoming almost frozen, and Cesca felt herself paralysed in Elena’s spectral stare. A full minute passed before she stirred.

  ‘Not that we needed another child. Giotto cemented us as a family.’

  It was as though Elena hadn’t heard her, or couldn’t allow herself to hear the expression of sympathy. Cesca swallowed, wondering whether she had gone too far, but she had needed to throw down a marker of sorts, something that showed Elena they needed to be open and honest. They couldn’t dance around the facts – facts that were out there for anyone to see.

  ‘Elena, look, if this book is to be at all credible, I need you to be honest with me. And I mean that in the fullest sense; half-truths are no good. I need full disclosure, do you see? Elena?’

  Elena blinked back at her, that curiously impassive expression on her face that made it so impossible to read her feelings. She could have been absolutely furious or utterly despairing and there would have been no way of knowing which it was.

  She tried again. ‘Elena, I know the truth. I know about everything. Little Stevie. The questions around your brother-in-law’s death—’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Ah. That will be Signor Cantarelli for our appointment. Come in,’ she called, looking almost triumphant that their interview would be terminated early again.

  The door opened and Nico walked in, faltering a step as he saw Cesca sitting there. Vignettes of last night and this morning bloomed between them and he looked away from her quickly, his expression closing up again as she felt her own cheeks burn. ‘Principessa? If this is not a good time—’

  Elena held up a hand. ‘It is fine. Francesca and I were just finishing up.’ She looked back at Cesca with cold eyes. ‘You were just leaving, weren’t you, Francesca?’

  Cesca exhaled. So that was it, then? Elena was going with a bare-faced denial of the facts, like a Holocaust denier, refusing to see a truth that was clearly documented for anyone who cared to look. ‘Yes,’ she said wearily, gathering herself to stand.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Francesca,’ Elena said, watching closely as she stooped to pick up the photographs. ‘I would like to see a first draft of what you’ve written so far.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Cesca asked in shock. She had barely written anything so far. She was still interviewing and compiling notes.

  ‘Yes. Giotto is coming over for the gala next weekend and I should like him to cast an eye over what you’ve done so far, to make sure we’re on the right track. I’m sure you understand. If you could get it to me by then?’

  Cesca raised an eyebrow. That was five days from now. In five days she wanted a manuscript for the first forty years of her life, when, just seconds ago, she had literally closed her ears to Cesca’s pleas for the whole truth?

  ‘I very much hope you will have been rigorous in your research and application of the facts. My son is a stickler for the truth.’

  ‘So you want me to put down everything I know so far? Everything?’

  Elena nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  Cesca blinked at her, realizing this was a test: Elena wanted to know if she had her loyalty. She wanted to see with her own eyes exactly what she was going to put in – and what she intended to leave out. Cesca was in no doubt that if she were to literally do as Elena asked, and include the less savoury chapters about which she had just questioned her boss, she’d be fired on the spot. Elena was clearly of the mind that there was no point wasting time continuing with the book if they were going to fight over the content. Was this what had happened with the archivist? Cesca wondered. Had he got too close to the truth too? It was obvious Elena had no intention of opening up about Stevie and Jack and all the rest of it.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, benignly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Do.’ Elena’s eyes slid smoothly towards Nico, brightening considerably. ‘Tell me, Signor, shall you be going to the gala on Saturday night?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said noncommittally. Cesca could tell by his guarded expression that he had picked up on the tension between her and Elena.

  ‘Oh, but you must. Giotto would be pleased to see you; he would find your work deeply interesting. And you must bring your beautiful fiancée.’

  There was a frigid silence before Nico replied. ‘Thank you, Principessa, but—’

  ‘I insist. After all your work here safeguarding the palazzo’s structures, it would be a fitting end to our interlude this summer.’

  Cesca didn’t move her eyes off the roses on the console table immediately behind Elena’s head, but though she was still and silent she felt sure the furious drumming of her heart could be heard by every single one of them. Nico kept glancing over at her but his and Elena’s voices sounded distant. There was too much to take in, but only one word echoed in her head. Fiancée?

  ‘I’ll leave you to your meeting,’ Cesca said quietly, slipping from the room, Nico’s eyes pinned to her back. She could sense his sudden desperation, but she wouldn’t look at him, not at either of them, and with shaking hands she closed the door behind her. It looked as though Elena wasn’t the only one to have played her for a fool.

  ‘I’m a damned idiot; I never even liked the guy. Well, not before now, anyway,’ she sobbed, as Alé handed over another tissue.

  ‘He’s contemptible,’ Alé spat. ‘Treating you like that. Just because he’s hot, he thinks he can do what he likes. Guys like him are the worst.’

  Cesca sniffed, shaking her head. ‘No. It’s my own fault. I should have seen it coming.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘. . . I don’t know,’ Cesca wailed. ‘But I should have done. Of course he’s bloody engaged! He’s thirty-six. Why would he still be single?’

  ‘He’s thirty-six, not a hundred and six. He is not old. Ish. You weren’t to know.’ Alé rubbed her arm consolingly as Cesca dabbed at her eyes for the thousandth time. ‘But you deserve better than this, Cesca.’

  ‘I-I know.’

  ‘You’ve just got to put him out of your mind.’

  Cesca nodded. Out of her mind. Yes. She could do that.

  ‘And think of it this way – at least you found out early, before you got really involved.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ It had felt pretty involved in the shower that morning.

  ‘Not to mention, pity the poor fiancée! She probably has no idea of who she’s really marrying, and by the time she does find out . . . ?’ Alé drew a line across her throat. ‘Christ, who’d be a wife?’

  Cesca sniffed again, looking across at her friend, detecting a particularly poignant note in her voice. ‘What’s happened with you and the headmaster?’

  ‘Oh. We broke up.’

  Cesca’s hand fell down into her lap. ‘When?’

  ‘Few days ago.’

  ‘But why? I mean, apart from the obvious that he’s your boss and he’s too old for you . . .’

  Alé gave a deep sigh. ‘Because he’s got a family, that’s why.’

  ‘Oh, Alé.’

  ‘I know
. And before you say how terrible it is he deceived me – he didn’t. I knew.’ She bit her lip, shaking her head disgustedly. ‘I knew, but as far as I was concerned, it was all just supposed to be a bit of a laugh. A learning curve. Until he started talking about leaving them, walking out on them – for me. Me!’ Alé’s eyes were wide with horror. ‘It was never supposed to be that.’

  ‘So we’re both the “other woman” then,’ Cesca sniffed.

  ‘No. You were in the dark about it. Me? I knew and I didn’t care. I’m the shit here.’

  It was Cesca’s turn to put her hand on Alé’s arm. ‘Well, you’re doing the right thing now. At least it’s not too late.’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve handed in my notice.’

  ‘Alé! Why should you be the one to leave? He’s the cheater!’

  Alé shrugged. ‘Less fuss this way. He’s got a family, remember. I can work anywhere. I’ve still got my freedom.’

  ‘Freedom,’ Cesca echoed, remembering how wonderful it had felt wrapped in Nico’s arms last night, the weight of his leg over hers. ‘Well, I may be getting mine back sooner than I thought.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Elena has asked me to write up the first draft of everything we’ve covered so far – i.e. the first forty years of her life. Supposedly her son’s coming over at the weekend and she wants him to read it.’

  ‘Supposedly?’

  ‘It’s not about her son coming over. She’s testing me, daring me to see whether I’ve got the nerve to defy her version of events and present the truth.’

  Alé looked worried. ‘And do you?’

  Cesca stared into the distance, remembering Elena’s scathing treatment of her that morning, how she’d brought Nico’s fiancée into the mix, almost as if she’d known. ‘Have you been spending much time with Signor Cantarelli?’ Elena had once asked. ‘You look tired.’

  Cesca’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah, actually. I think I do.’

  ‘What about Nico, though? Can you work if he’s around?’