by T A Williams
Alas, on Monday morning, she discovered she had an even bigger problem with a man. The previous Friday, Giancarla had informed her with considerable satisfaction that she had signed up a private student for an intensive course of fifteen lessons – three lessons each morning for the whole of the week. In an attempt to put the student off, as they were so busy, she had quoted him an extortionate amount but, to her surprise, he had agreed and paid up there and then.
Debbie had been equally pleased to see over a thousand euros appear on the balance sheet, even though this would mean teaching most of the lessons herself. What she wasn’t expecting was to discover that she knew the student.
‘Deborah, how good to see you again.’
Her heart sank to her boots and beyond as she looked up from her desk to find Signor Rossellini standing over her. She took a deep breath.
‘Signor Rossellini, what are you doing here?’
He gave her a broad smile. ‘I’m off to an international trade fair in New York in ten days’ time and I badly need a bit of a refresher for my English. So, are you going to be my teacher? That’s wonderful.’
Debbie didn’t know what to say. His course of lessons had been booked, full fees paid, and she was the only available teacher. It looked like she was caught between a rock and a hard place. Taking a deep breath, she smiled sweetly.
‘That’s right. Well, if you’d like to take a seat at the table by the window, we’ll make a start.’
She had been intending to take the lessons in one of the empty classrooms, but something made her think that she would prefer to be within calling distance of Giancarla – just in case. Although he was pretty obviously on his best behaviour now, she couldn’t forget the lustful way he had looked at her last week, especially when she had appeared in the swimsuit. She got up and went over to the door.
‘Giancarla, I’ll be doing the lessons with Signor Rossellini in here. Please could you hold my calls.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll call you if I need you.’ She was pleased to see Giancarla nod in silent comprehension.
‘Of course, Debbie.’
She turned back into the room, but left the door just slightly open so her voice would carry if need be.
In fact, Signor Rossellini, or Tommaso, as he preferred to be called, behaved with perfect decorum that day, and every day that week. His English was already pretty fluent and he turned out to be a serious student who did the homework assignments she set him without fail. By the time the last lesson finished at lunchtime on Friday, his spoken English was definitely stronger and her opinion of him definitely higher. It just showed that first impressions weren’t always to be trusted.
‘Thank you so much, Deborah. You’ve been a great help. I don’t suppose you might feel like reconsidering my offer to take you out for dinner, say tomorrow night?’
Debbie took her time over formulating her reply. Flora had taken her to one side on Tuesday before her lesson and, after thanking her profusely for the antique plate that had, apparently, met with the count’s seal of approval, had passed on a snippet of good news. Apparently Signor Rossellini’s company had placed their biggest order yet for summer clothes. Both Flora and Barbara felt sure this was due in no small part to Debbie’s efforts. She had repeated Barbara’s warning that he had a reputation as a womaniser, but had also put in a plea for her to be nice to him, if possible.
Debbie looked at him for a few moments. He was shorter than her and, as far as she could see, he wasn’t particularly muscular. If it came to a fight for her honour, she reckoned she could take him on and win. He had behaved himself impeccably, after all, and he was an important client for Flora’s firm, so, against her better judgement, she said yes, but hastily added a proviso.
‘That’s very kind, I’d love to, but could we make it an early evening dinner, and somewhere close by, so I can get home early? It’s been a very busy week and I’m exhausted.’
‘Of course. Would seven o’clock be all right for you? Now, where do I collect you from?’
‘It’s probably easier if we meet here at seven. I’ll be waiting downstairs by the main gate to the street.’ She had absolutely no intention of giving him her home address. A meal in a public place was one thing, but she didn’t want him anywhere near her flat. Although his behaviour this week had been exemplary, there was something about him that she still didn’t totally trust.
He was clearly unhappy with that, but in the end, he agreed, shook her hand and left. Debbie walked out and told Giancarla what had transpired. Interestingly, she, too, was suspicious of him.
‘Just make sure you don’t let him take you out in the country. Stay in the street lights.’
* * *
For dinner with Tommaso Rossellini on Saturday evening, Debbie deliberately dressed down. Or rather, she covered up. She wore a knee-length skirt and the most conservative top she had. She could see from the light reflecting in the puddles on the roof terrace that it was raining, so she put on her old raincoat and grabbed an umbrella before going out. All she needed was a plastic rain hood over her hair and she could have been her granny. Fine, she thought to herself, as she walked briskly around the back of the Duomo to meet him, this way he can be under no illusions.
In spite of the weather, there were still the inevitable tourists everywhere, and she found herself in danger of coming round to thinking of them as pests who slowed the city down and got in the way all the time. Of course, she told herself, only a few months ago, she had been one of them herself – and whether the Florentines liked them or not, the prosperity of the city was largely due to the influx of people from all over the country, and the world. Tourism in so many places like Florence was definitely a mixed blessing.
When she got to the school, she found a black BMW parked half on the pavement. As she approached, the driver’s door opened and Tommaso Rossellini climbed out.
‘Deborah, good evening. In view of the rain, I brought the car. The restaurant’s not far away, but I didn’t want us to get too wet.’ He came round and shook her hand before opening the passenger door for her. ‘Here, do get in, please.’
Debbie hesitated. Getting into a car with him had definitely not been part of the plan as far as she was concerned. However, the rain was starting to come down harder now and she could see the logic of his decision. Also, the fact that he had only shaken her hand and had not tried to greet her in any more intimate manner had been encouraging. Making up her mind, she did as he said and climbed in.
As they drove off, he explained about a second change of plan. ‘I’ve changed the reservation. The original restaurant’s in the pedestrian precinct, so I’ve booked somewhere a little further out, where there’s parking.’
‘It’s not too far away, is it? I really need to get home early.’
‘Not at all. It’s at Piazzale Michelangelo, if you know the area. It really isn’t far, I promise.’
Piazzale Michelangelo sounded reassuringly familiar, so she did her best to relax as he drove, surprisingly slowly, out of the old part of town, across the river and onto the sinuous, tree-lined avenue that wound its way up the hillside. Somehow, with this sporty-looking car, she had been bracing herself for some crazy macho driving. The fact that he was driving like a normal person helped her relax even more. Maybe she had misjudged him after all.
Dinner was very pleasant and he turned out to be quite good company. He was attentive, interested, and keen to hear about her. Nevertheless, she drank very little and kept a keen eye on her wine and water glasses just in case. She had heard enough stories of date rape and Rohypnol to be very wary. However, as the evening progressed and his behaviour remained exemplary, she gradually allowed herself to relax.
Everything went well until the return journey.
As they were driving slowly back down the hill towards town, he suddenly turned off into a dark side road leading into what looked like a park. Immediately worried, she sat upright.
‘What’s happening, Tommaso? Why have you turned off?’
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‘There’s something I want to show you, Deborah.’ His voice had changed. Now it was strained, full of raw passion, and she felt a sudden stab of fear. The road, by this time, had deteriorated into a rough track and the trees were closing in around them.
‘What do you want to show me? Please go back to the road.’ She could feel the fear rising as her blood ran cold. This wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all.
‘Here, see for yourself.’ He pulled hard on the wheel and the car slipped off the track into a dense group of trees and bushes and came to an abrupt halt. As the engine stopped, he turned towards her and she caught a flash of his eyes reflected in the orange lights of the dashboard. Without warning, he lunged across and his left hand grabbed hold of her knee and thrust intrusively upwards.
‘Stop it, Tommaso! I said stop it! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ She could hear the fear in her voice and, presumably, so could he. His eyes glinted once more as he caught hold of her hair with his other hand and pulled her roughly towards him, his left hand now reaching way up under her skirt. She felt a rising wave of panic and then, to her amazement, this was immediately replaced by a surge of anger. First Paul, then Pierluigi and now this bastard – who did they think they were, to treat her so badly?
With her free right hand, she picked up her bag and swung it as hard as she could at his face. She heard an ear-splitting shriek as she did so and vaguely registered that it came from her own lips. As the bag smashed into his face, she drew her arm back again and this time punched downwards into his groin so hard, she felt the bag split open and heard its contents scatter on the floor. This time he was the one doing the shrieking and she felt his hand let go of her hair as he clutched at himself in anguish.
Taking advantage of his temporary incapacity, she scrabbled for the handle and kicked the door open. Unclipping her seatbelt, she pulled herself out and ran for her life.
She ran blindly at first, slipping and sliding in the wet grass, until she was well away. Finally, she tripped on a steep slope and landed on her bottom. As she lay there, catching her breath, she listened intently, but heard no sounds of anybody behind her. Presumably he hadn’t been in a fit state to give chase. What she did hear, however, were cars in the near distance so, pulling herself to her feet, she hurried clumsily through the bushes toward the road. To her delight, she came out of the trees and saw streetlights, cars and, even better, a bus, just starting to pull away from a bus stop. She ran towards it, waving her arms and, to her infinite relief, the driver spotted her and stopped again, the door hissing open as she arrived.
She climbed onto the bus gratefully and thanked the driver. He gave her a quizzical look, but she hurried past. There were only two other passengers on board – what looked like a couple of immigrant street traders with huge bags of merchandise on the floor beside them. They, too, subjected her to curious gazes, but she slipped past them and took a seat in the corner of the back seat.
Her heart was beating wildly, her tights were ripped to shreds and her knees and legs scratched and filthy with mud. Her hair was soaked and she had lost her handbag. Her old raincoat had snagged on something and one of the pockets had been torn open but, apart from that, she was unharmed, physically at least. She wiped the water from her eyes, some of it rain, and some of it tears. She found a damp tissue in one of the pockets and did her best to clean herself up as best she could. All the while, the bus twisted and turned its way down the hill until they were down level with the river Arno once more. Five minutes later, they reached the main station and she followed the other passengers off the bus, her legs suddenly feeling like lead. As she reached the pavement, the driver emerged from the front door and gave her a sympathetic look.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ She had to clear her throat before trying again. ‘Yes, thank you. It’s all right. Nothing happened.’
As she turned and made her way up the road towards the Duomo and home, she found herself wondering why she hadn’t told him the truth. A man had tried to assault and maybe rape her and she had been running for her life. By the time she reached the cathedral, she still hadn’t managed to produce the answer and she was too tired to care. She took an inordinately long time to climb the stairs to the second floor. It was only when she was finally outside the door to her flat that she realised her keys, along with her purse and her phone, were lying on the floor of Tommaso Rossellini’s car.
A wave of exhaustion overcame her and she sank to her knees, the tears she had been working so hard to repress finally pouring out. She suddenly felt very cold and very tired. Her hands had started to shake uncontrollably and her brain was incapable of logical thought. She didn’t even hear his footsteps until he was standing over her. Only when she heard his voice did she manage to find the strength to look up.
‘Are you all right?’ There was a pause before she heard him again, this time speaking more to himself than to her. ‘Of course you’re not all right. Just look at you.’
By this time she had registered that this was a stranger. At first she had thought he was Flora’s son from the flat across the landing. He was tall and dark-haired, with the same broad shoulders, but this wasn’t the same man she had had an altercation with before Christmas. She would have asked him who he was, but, for some reason, her mouth didn’t appear to want to work.
She was vaguely conscious of him moving away from her and the door to the other flat opening. She just slumped there as he disappeared inside, only to reappear seconds later with a couple of thick blankets. He crouched down and she heard his voice again, this time from close by.
‘I’ve brought you some blankets. You look cold. Here, let me help you.’ She felt his hands touch her shoulders and she flinched, but then the tiredness returned and she didn’t resist as he wrapped one blanket round her shoulders and the other round her legs.
‘Do you want me to call an ambulance? Are you hurt?’ His voice was kind and caring and, for some reason, this made her start crying all over again.
‘Are you hurt?’
This time the message got through and she managed to find the strength to raise her face towards him.
‘No, I’m not hurt. I’m just cold and tired.’ Her brain began to function once more. ‘I’ve lost my keys and I can’t get into my flat.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get that sorted out. We’ll get you into your apartment. Do you want to come into my flat while we wait?’
Something in her eyes must have struck him, as he immediately stood up. ‘There’s no need for that. If you’re comfortable here, just wait where you are. I’ll make a phone call and then I’ll make you a hot drink while we’re waiting.’
She felt herself nod slowly.
‘Do you like tea?’
She nodded again and saw him turn away immediately, leaving her with a sense of abandonment so strong she started to cry all over again. He was back again very shortly, with a steaming mug of hot tea. Even through her befuddlement, she noticed that he had put milk in it, rather than just leaving it black.
As she took the mug from him, she managed a few words. ‘Thank you. And you’ve made English tea. Thank you so much.’
‘Well, you’re English, so I took a chance.’ He was smiling. There could have been relief on his face. ‘Feeling better?’
She took a sip of tea and straightened her back. As she did so, the blanket slipped off her shoulders and she felt him pick it up and replace it for her.
‘Thank you. Thank you for everything.’
‘You’re welcome. Giacomo’s on his way with the spare keys to your flat. He’ll be here soon.’
Debbie felt a wave of relief. ‘That’s great, thanks.’ She drank a bit more tea and felt her brain and her body slowly start to function once again. As her mind cleared, she took a closer look at him. He was squatting beside her, an expression of concern still on his face. It was a nice face and a kind face and she felt comfortable with him, whoever he was.
‘Erm, excuse me,
but who are you?’
For a moment he looked puzzled. ‘My name’s Dario. You’re Deborah, aren’t you? You’re friends with my mother.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Flora Dellatorre, my mother. You know her, don’t you?’ He was looking more worried now.
Debbie was confused and it must have showed on her face.
He tried again.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe I really should call that ambulance. Have you had a bang on the head, maybe?’
Debbie shook her head. ‘No, thanks, honestly, I’m fine. But how can you be Flora’s son? I’ve met her son. He and I had a shouting match back before Christmas when he and his friends decided to have a party up here in the middle of the night.’
She saw comprehension dawn on his face, followed by an expression of regret.
‘I owe you a big apology, Deborah. That was my cousin, Arrigo. I’ve been away on an extended European tour, researching a book, and I’ve only just come back. Before I went off in the summer, I made the mistake of giving him a key in case he wanted to use the flat at any time. When I came back last week I found it had been trashed. I suppose I should have guessed that he and his friends would have made a racket as well.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That would explain why you’ve been ignoring me.’
Debbie felt a sense of relief, knowing that the cause of all the disturbance had not, after all, been Flora’s son. She took a closer look at the man beside her as she drank the last of her tea. He was very good-looking and, now that she knew who he was, she could immediately see the resemblance to his father, the count. His eyes, in particular, were fascinating – a deep bottle green colour – but, above all, they were kind eyes. She found she was smiling at him.