‘Pronto?’
‘Paolo here.’
‘What do you want?’ Roberto asked rudely, his thoughts still swimming with Donatella’s news.
‘Only to tell you that Covent Garden have asked Rosanna Menici to accompany you to London,’ replied Paolo crisply.
‘Yes, Chris told me yesterday.’ Roberto regained control of himself with an effort. He must think of his career. ‘I’m delighted, of course. We’re good together, yes?’
‘Yes, Roberto, you know you are. But just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Rosanna has never travelled abroad before. She’s going to a strange country and is nervous at the prospect. I want you to take very good care of her for me.’
‘You don’t even need to ask, Paolo. You know how fond I am of Rosanna. I’ll protect her from all harm, I promise you.’
‘Good. Would you be willing to rehearse La Traviata with her before you leave? She needs as much practice as she can get.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. And Roberto?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just remember I have my spies in London. Ciao.’
Roberto slammed the receiver into its cradle. Why did everyone treat him like a naughty little boy who had to be told how to behave? He was fed up with Paolo, fed up with Donatella, and fed up with Milan. He was glad he had some months away. After London, he’d visit the villa he’d bought a couple of years ago on Corsica. He was exhausted. He needed a rest.
The one bright light on the horizon was that Rosanna would be with him in London. Roberto was amazed at just how fond of her he’d become, and had mused that she might be one of the reasons why Donatella’s charms had paled so dramatically of late. Rosanna didn’t demand, didn’t take from him as everyone else did. She was serene, balanced and a joy to sing with. Then, of course, there was that heavenly face and body. He found himself thinking about her incessantly and had dreamt of her on several occasions.
A strange thought entered Roberto’s head, and he wondered if he might be just a little bit in love with her. He pushed the thought from his mind as quickly as it had entered. It was almost certainly the fact that she seemed immune to his charms that made him want her more.
As for Donatella, she would have to be told she’d got it wrong. Roberto stood up and headed for the shower, grimly trying to convince himself that she’d understand.
Later that evening, Roberto arrived home, drained by a particularly difficult performance of Don Giovanni. The audience had been raucous, distracting the performers. The patrons at the after-party had seemed even more vacuous and demanding than usual. He’d left for his apartment at the earliest opportunity, longing for peace and some sleep.
He turned the key in the lock and discovered the door was already open. Chastising himself for his carelessness, Roberto wandered down the hall and opened the door to the sitting room.
‘Signor Rossini.’ The man stood up from the sofa and smiled at him with a chilling lack of warmth.
‘How . . . how did you get in here?’ Roberto stuttered.
‘It was very simple. I made a copy of my wife’s key. I’m Giovanni Bianchi. I believe we’ve met on a number of occasions at La Scala. I hope you don’t mind, but I poured myself a brandy while I waited. Shall I get you one too?’
Roberto nodded, too shocked to object. He sat down as he watched Giovanni pour the brandy into a glass. He mentally searched for an object to defend himself with and wondered whether, if he called out, the neighbours would come and investigate. With a sinking heart, Roberto realised his neighbours were used to regularly hearing him air his vocal cords at strange hours of the day and night.
This was it. Giovanni Bianchi had come to kill him for screwing his wife. He probably had a gun in his inside pocket that he would pull out at any moment. Roberto took the brandy and lifted it to his lips, his hand shaking.
Giovanni sat down in a chair opposite him.
‘So, my wife Donatella wishes to leave me to come and live with you. Well’ – Giovanni glanced around the room – ‘this apartment is certainly a little smaller than she is used to.’ Giovanni placed his brandy glass on the table in front of him and leant forward. ‘Signor Rossini, or may I call you Roberto?’
He nodded uneasily.
‘Roberto, let me be honest with you. I find myself in a strange and difficult position. My lovely wife of many years suddenly announces she wishes to leave me. This is bad enough, but then I discover the source of her amore is one of the most famous tenors in the world, certainly in Italy. I then think of the media, the way they would take such pleasure in dragging all three of us and our reputations through the mud.’
Giovanni paused to take a sip of his brandy. ‘Roberto, I am a man with a certain position in Milan. You might well understand that my pride would not allow me to be publicly humiliated by you and my wife. Besides that, I have to tell you there has never been a divorce in the Bianchi family. My mamma would turn in her grave. No, I think to myself, the situation is completely unacceptable. So what should I do? Arrange for Roberto to be disposed of?’ Giovanni looked at Roberto’s pale face, smiled, then shook his head. ‘No, even though he has committed adultery with my wife, I am a peaceful man. I decide that the best plan would be to discuss this with Roberto in a civilised fashion. Do you not agree?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, here I am. Tell me, have you asked my wife to move in with you?’
‘No, I haven’t. Ever.’ Roberto was surprised by the vehemence of his own voice. ‘And then, this afternoon, she tells me she’s leaving you. I was horrified, Signor Bianchi, believe me.’
‘Giovanni, please, Roberto. Do you love my wife?’
‘I . . . she is very beautiful and I am very fond of her but—’
‘You have had a pleasant arrangement that Donatella is now trying to make into something more permanent.’ Giovanni finished the sentence for him. ‘This is not something you want, I take it?’
Roberto shook his head nervously, not wishing to insult Giovanni’s wife, but wanting to clarify his position.
Giovanni nodded thoughtfully. ‘I imagined this might be the case. Donatella is at a . . . difficult age. She is losing her youth, her hormones may be playing tricks on her and she believes she’s in love with you. So, Roberto, what can we do to stop her making this bad decision?’
‘I’ll tell her tomorrow it’s all over between us. In a way, it will be a relief to end it,’ replied Roberto candidly.
‘And you think that will stop her pursuing you?’
‘Of course. I shall refuse to take her calls, avoid her completely.’
Giovanni shook his head. ‘It’s not so easy to avoid a determined woman. Especially a woman like my wife. There’ll be many occasions in the future when you are bound to meet. You see, Roberto, my wife and I have always had an understanding between us. We have each turned a blind eye and used discretion. I’m a tolerant man, but I would be so unhappy if a whisper of your affair with my wife appeared in any newspapers.’
‘But it won’t. We were always careful.’
‘Perhaps, but that was before Donatella fell in love with you. While she is so unstable, she may not wish to be careful any longer. I gather she would like the whole world to know of your affair. No.’ Giovanni shook his head again. ‘Merely telling her it’s over is not the answer.’
‘So . . . what do you suggest?’
‘I believe I’ve thought of the best plan, Roberto. Distance is the key. If you are not here, she cannot see you.’
‘I’m to go away to London in a few weeks. I’ll be out of the country for three months. That should be long enough for the dust to settle.’
‘It’s a good start, certainly, Roberto, but I think it will take longer than that for Donatella’s obsession to leave her. I would suggest you stay away from Milan . . . no, let us say from Italy, for at least five years. Maybe forever, if necessary.’
Roberto looked at him as if he
were mad. ‘But I have professional commitments, performances at La Scala that are already booked for the next year.’
‘Then I suggest you cancel them.’ The smile was still in place, but Giovanni’s eyes were hard and cold. ‘As I’ve said, I’m a reasonable man. If you agree, we can solve this conundrum very simply. If you don’t agree, then things become . . . a little more complicated.’
‘You’re threatening me, Giovanni.’
‘No, I’m suggesting a solution.’
‘And what if I refuse?’
Giovanni picked up his brandy glass and drained it. ‘Life is sadly full of unseen perils and freak accidents, Roberto. I would hate to think of you falling prey to such things.’ He stood up. ‘I think we understand each other. You are a sensible man. You will make a sensible decision. To help you, I’ve provided two gentlemen who will watch your every move. Until you leave Italy they will be with you. And remember, there will not be a pleasant welcome here if you ever decide to return.’
‘But Donatella will call me. She might even arrive here unannounced if I don’t speak to her.’
‘No. Tomorrow Donatella leaves with me for New York. She has agreed to come on the premise of discussing a separation agreement. We will be away for three weeks. By the time we arrive back in Milan, you will have gone. Don’t think you can come back to any part of Italy unnoticed. I have . . . friends who will inform me of your arrival. Do we have a deal, Roberto?’
‘Yes,’ he murmured miserably, knowing he had no choice but to agree.
‘Good. Then it’s settled. I’m glad. I do loathe violence of any kind. Goodbye, Roberto. I shall miss you at La Scala.’
Roberto watched Giovanni leave the room and heard the front door close behind him. After a few seconds, he stood up and walked over to the window. Down below, he could see a car parked on the opposite side of the street. Two men were leaning against it, staring up at his apartment. He moved away from the window.
An hour later, after three more large brandies, Roberto checked again. The car and his minders were still there.
Should he call the police and tell them what had happened? No, it would do no good. Giovanni was too powerful, almost certainly with Mafia connections, and even if they did manage to bring charges of threatening behaviour, Roberto would fear for his life every time he set foot on Italian soil.
Roberto tried to think about how all this would affect his future. Apart from La Bohème and Rigoletto at La Scala, he had no other Italian engagements planned. Paolo would be furious when he heard the news, but given the circumstances that couldn’t be helped. Roberto went to bed a little calmer. After all, it could have been worse. He could be dead.
And at least Donatella was no longer his problem.
20
As the plane began to taxi along the runway, Roberto breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed back into the cushioned leather of his first-class seat. The longest three weeks of his life were finally over. He’d hardly slept since Giovanni’s visit. He’d watched the car containing the two henchmen tail his own limousine everywhere he went. They’d even followed him as far as the check-in desk at Linate Airport.
After much thought, Roberto had decided to make London his base for the next few years. His Milan apartment would be sold fully furnished, and the proceeds from the sale, along with the contents of his Milan bank accounts, would be transferred to London. While he was at Covent Garden, he would look around for a suitable house to live in. Chris Hughes, his agent, had no idea that his leaving Milan was permanent. Roberto would tell him of his plans in the fullness of time.
He turned and studied his companion’s pale face as she stared out of the window. He noticed that she was twisting her hands round in her lap. He stretched out his own hand and covered hers with it.
‘Don’t panic, principessa. Soon we’ll be in the air, high above the clouds.’
The engines began to roar as they sped down the runway. Roberto said a silent goodbye to Italy, then watched as Rosanna closed her eyes and crossed herself as the nose of the plane lifted and the wheels left the ground. He chuckled softly.
‘If you’re to be an international star of the opera world, you’ll have to get used to flying, little one.’
‘Are we in the air yet?’ Rosanna asked, her eyes still tightly closed.
‘Yes. We are up. You can look now.’
Rosanna opened her eyes, peeked out of the window and gasped with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. ‘Look! There are clouds below us!’ she breathed in awe.
‘Yes. Although if it was a clear day, you would see the spire of the great Duomo beneath us.’
‘Champagne, sir?’ An attractive stewardess offered two glasses and a bottle.
‘Thank you.’ Roberto turned to Rosanna. ‘Have one – a little champagne may calm you down. Normally I don’t drink on a flight as it dehydrates you. But today I feel like celebrating.’
The stewardess poured champagne into two glasses and smiled at Roberto shyly. ‘I saw your Nemorino at La Scala. We sat in the upper gallery, so we didn’t have the best view, but I thought you were wonderful.’
Roberto smiled back. ‘Thank you, Signorina . . . ?’ he prompted.
‘Call me Sophie,’ the stewardess said, blushing. ‘Are you staying in London for long?’
‘A month. I’m singing La Traviata at Covent Garden.’
‘Oh, how lovely. Maybe I’ll be able to get tickets.’
‘Give me a call at the Savoy and I’m sure we can arrange some for you.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Rossini, I’ll definitely do that.’ Her heavily mascaraed eyelashes fluttered coquettishly.
Roberto’s eyes followed the stewardess’s shapely legs as she moved forward to serve the passengers in the seats in front of them.
‘Well, principessa, salute!’ Roberto took a gulp of his champagne. Rosanna, who had quietly observed the flirtatious exchange, was staring at him in disgust.
‘What is it? What have I done?’ he protested.
Rosanna sighed and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘No, please tell me why you look at me with such disdain.’
‘No, it’s none of my business.’
‘I want to know why you’re cross with me,’ he persisted.
‘Okay, if you insist, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what I have to say,’ Rosanna warned. She hesitated for a second before blurting out, ‘I think you’re terrible with women.’
Roberto threw back his head and laughed.
‘I don’t think it’s funny, actually, especially when you treat them so badly. Like you did my friend Abi Holmes.’
Roberto’s face immediately became serious. ‘Ah, now I understand. You hate me because I had an affair with your friend.’
‘No, I don’t know you well enough to hate you. It’s just that, well . . .’ Rosanna struggled to find the words, then gave up and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes it does. For some reason I value your opinion.’
‘Well, I think you never take women’s feelings into account. You promise them things and then you drop them when it suits you.’
‘And you have that on good authority, do you?’
Rosanna flushed. ‘The whole world knows what you’re like.’
‘Rosanna, I know of my reputation. And I have to take most of the responsibility for it. Yes, I enjoy female company and in my position I’m given plenty of opportunities, which I frequently take advantage of. I don’t deny it. But don’t you see that it’s because I love women? I worship them. I think they’re one of the only things on this planet of ours that make life worth living. And I never make promises I can’t keep. They know what Roberto Rossini is like. If they cannot accept that, then they shouldn’t become involved with me. It’s simple,’ he shrugged.
‘Have you ever told a woman you loved her?’
‘Not of my own free will, no.’
‘They force you to say it, do they?’
‘There a
re moments when, in the height of passion, a woman asks you and you respond. But I’ve never been in love.’ Roberto sipped his champagne contemplatively. ‘You know, Rosanna, you must understand the other side of the story too before you judge me. I am easy prey for women. They like to be seen with me because it’s good for their egos, and often for their publicity campaigns too. Many times they are using me more than I am using them.’
Rosanna rolled her eyes in disbelief at his defence.
‘You see? Nobody understands poor Roberto. They always think badly of him. One day, when you too are a big star, you’ll see for yourself how lonely it can be.’
Rosanna finally gave in and chuckled at his blatant attempt to garner sympathy, shaking her head at the same time. ‘I can’t feel sorry for you, Roberto.’
He looked at her squarely. ‘You don’t like me, do you, Rosanna?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Now, I wish to study the La Traviata score.’ Flustered, Rosanna pulled her music case onto her lap, retrieved the score and turned away from him.
Roberto closed his eyes and wondered yet again why he was so keen to have Rosanna Menici’s approval.
A sleek limousine was waiting for them outside Terminal 3 at Heathrow and they were driven into the centre of London. Conversation was limited to pleasantries, since Rosanna spent most of the journey gazing out at the unfamiliar landscape, from the grey suburbs to the increasingly grand buildings that flanked the road as they made their way through Kensington and Knightsbridge. The car finally came to a halt beneath the imposing art deco canopy of the Savoy hotel, where the manager was waiting in the lobby for them. Roberto was ushered to a suite and Rosanna to what she considered to be a delightful room. She was beginning to unpack when there was a knock on the door. She opened it and Roberto swept in. He looked around, then shook his head.
‘No, no, no. It will not do.’ He went to the telephone and dialled reception. ‘This is Roberto Rossini. Tell the manager that Signorina Menici requires a suite. He is to come and meet us both in mine immediately.’
‘Roberto, please, this room is more than fine,’ Rosanna protested as Roberto flung clothes back into her case.
The Italian Girl Page 17