“I’m being very good,” she finished. “See you soon, Daddy. I miss you.”
Maybe she really did think she’d been very naughty and she didn’t want Matt to know about it; that would be the best outcome. It was an increasingly familiar scenario. God, she was clever, Eliza thought, watching her in rather alarmed admiration.
“OK, then,” she said, when she got the phone back, “I’d better go; this is costing a fortune. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Teatime, you said? I can’t meet you; sorry—got a meeting.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“But it’ll be good to have you back,” he added, clearly catching the edge in her voice. “Bye till then.”
“Bye, Matt. I miss you.”
“Bye, again.”
“Was that your husband you’re missing?” asked Mariella.
“Yes,” said Eliza, holding back a sigh. “I think he’s missing me too.”
“He didn’t say so?”
“No. He’s not romantic. Not like Giovanni. Words aren’t his thing.”
“Well,” said Mariella, “words are not everything.”
Thursday dawned very still and misty.
“I hope the nebbia does not come,” said Mariella.
“What’s that?”
“The fog. It is very, very disagreeable. It paralyses the city. You can’t get out; you can’t get in.”
“Oh,” said Eliza, “and does it often come?”
“In December, yes. We are in the middle of a big bowl, you see, with the Alps on either side, and if the wind is in the wrong direction, it settles upon us. In fact, I think perhaps we should leave a little early. We do not want to miss the opera.”
They left at four in the big Lancia. Mariella had arranged for them to change at the Hotel Grande Mizzoni.
“It is only a tiny room—all the big ones and the suites have, of course, gone—but at least we will have some privacy.”
Emmie had been left in the care of Anna-Maria and, in case of trouble, Bruno, Giovanni’s valet, whom she adored. She was very good when Eliza said good-bye to her, and was clearly far more interested in the supper she was to eat with Bruno in the kitchen than in her mother’s departure.
Milan was indeed blanketed in fog: not the dark smoke of London, but a swirling grey haze, the Christmas lights and street lamps and the golden Madonna at the top of the gingerbread Duomo all but swallowed by it. Paolo, the chauffeur, dropped them outside the hotel, said he would pick them up at six.
The Hotel Grande was a study in ostentation: mirrors, arches, marble statues, gilt; the tiny room described by Mariella was about the size of a large flat. Eliza was ready long before Mariella, who had imported her hairdresser and a makeup artist; she and Giovanni sat and had a glass of champagne.
“You look most beautiful,” he said, smiling at her, “and in a very special way. I am proud to be with you.”
Eliza tried to remember when she had last felt so much appreciated.
Mariella appeared, unbelievably lovely in cream brocaded silk, her cloud of dark hair piled high and studded with jewels, her great eyes shining beneath what Eliza reckoned was at least a double row of eyelashes; she heard Giovanni actually catch his breath before rising and kissing her hand.
La Scala was floodlit, a golden glow of splendour, shining through the mist; waves of limousines came and paused and went again, discharging their dazzling cargoes. The opera started at seven, but first Milan had to meet, kiss, flirt, flaunt itself.
Eliza followed Mariella and Giovanni up the wide winding staircase. She lost them in the huge crush of people, all so wonderful-looking, the men, the dashingly romantic-looking Italian men, in dinner jackets, the women in brilliant colors, their hair piled high. And their jewellery: stunningly bold and beautiful, great ropes of pearls, sculptured twists of gold and emerald, jet and ivory set in silver, and diamond earrings, bracelets, watches. She wanted to stand still just to gaze at them, but was borne majestically upwards to the great Arturo Toscanini foyer, where the scene was quadrupled in the huge, gilt-studded mirrors.
She was enchanted, drunk by it, and when she reached the bar she felt no longer nervous about meeting Jeremy; he had become merely an adjunct to this evening of visual feasting.
Which was just as well, as he wasn’t there.
“Last saw him dashing into the Hotel Grande to change,” said Timothy Fordyce, shaking her hand. “He’ll make it. He’s never late.”
“But always very, very near it,” said Eliza, laughing.
“I’d forgotten you knew him,” Fordyce said. “Now, Eliza, this is my wife, Janey.”
Janey Fordyce was rather understated in a little black dress, but she was sparkly and pretty, her looks English rose, with blond hair and large blue eyes.
“How do you do, Eliza. I’ve heard lots about you—of course.”
“We never stop talking about her; that’s why,” said Mariella. “Eliza, champagne?”
People came and went, flowed towards them and retreated, all charming, all stylish, all clearly very, very rich. There was much gossip about Callas, who had been replaced by Jackie Kennedy in the life of her lover, Aristotle Onassis.
“They say her voice is not what it was,” said Giovanni, “but I think it is still incredible. I heard her sing Tosca not so very long ago; it was an amazing experience.”
The first warning bell went and then the second. Still no Jeremy.
“We shall have to go,” said Giovanni. “We will tell them to show him up to the box.”
The view of La Scala from the box made Eliza feel quite literally dizzy. And awed.
“Oh, my God,” she said, “it is so amazing. It’s all boxes, no seats …”
“Nearly all,” said Giovanni. “There are the stalls, as you see, and the loggione above.” He waved his hand towards them, the equivalent, Eliza presumed, of the gods. The boxes were on three sides of the theatre, stacked in great golden and red tiers, the stage directly ahead.
They settled, Mariella insisting she sit in the very front; still no Jeremy.
“Very naughty,” said Timothy Fordyce. “I’m so sorry, Giovanni.”
“It is OK. I hope they will allow him in; they may not now.”
The opera was, of course, beautiful. Eliza was not very musically literate, but the searing heartbreak of the story and the soaring beauty of the music found her oddly tearful. She sang, flirted, laughed with Violetta, felt herself in love with Alfredo; and then as Violetta sang alone in her parlour, musing upon a possible romance with Alfredo, something most unfortunate happened. Eliza started to cough. It was quite a genteel cough, and the first time it was all right; Mariella smiled at her sympathetically, touched her hand, no one else took any notice. But then … again. Louder. Not only did their party hear it, Mariella frowning slightly; she saw someone in the adjacent box glance along. And then, at a particularly poignant moment in the aria, a third cough rose in her chest; there was only one thing to do. She stood up, holding her breath, her hand over her mouth, and almost burst out of the box and then ran down the stairs out into the ground-floor foyer, where she coughed loudly, uninhibitedly, almost joyfully, her eyes watering, fighting for breath. One of the uniformed lackeys came forward, inquired whether she was all right; she managed to smile at him, nod, and make her way slowly to the ladies’ room, where a kindly attendant fetched her water, stroked her back, and handed her a towel.
It had all taken only five minutes, and then she was perfectly all right again, makeup repaired, breathing quite normal, cough gone.
Clearly she could not go back to the box, but she could wait outside; it would be the interval in cinque momenti, the kindly attendant told her. She thanked her, put a hundred lire in the saucer, and made her way up to the third level, where she knew the box was. Only … which box? The doors were all numbered, but she had no idea what the number was, had just followed Mariella and Giovanni while goggling at her surroundings. Clearly the box had been more or l
ess central—but that could account for any one of five doors. She was just standing uncertainly outside one of them when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned with relief, thinking that whoever it was might be able to tell her, and there, even more handsome than she remembered, smiling at her in that so familiar here-we-are-you-and-me-alone-in-the-world way, was Jeremy Northcott.
“Eliza! How lovely! How wonderful you look! How are you, and are you lost?”
She stared at him, stared and stared, literally unable to speak. She felt as uncertain, as foolish, and as dazzled as she had done all those years ago, the first time she had set eyes on him, and he seemed as glamorous and as sophisticated. The light from the chandeliers seemed to fade and brighten several times.
And then, as reality returned and he continued to smile at her and she continued to stare at him, she knew. Of course she did … And she could see that he did too.
“Matt, it is you, isn’t it? Hi!”
It was Gina, looking very little older and really very good, in one of the new black maxi coats and a fur Dr. Zhivago hat, her thick bangs just appearing underneath it, her grey eyes sparkling at him.
“Hallo,” he said. He’d forgotten how extraordinarily pretty she was.
“How are you? It’s really good to see you.”
“I’m fine. Yes. Great.”
“Successful, I gather. Can’t stop reading about you. Millionaire Matt. Got your twenty yet?”
She’d remembered: how he was determined to have at least twenty-seven million by the time he was thirty-nine, like Harry Hyams. He was touched.
“Not quite. You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers.”
“I’d believe anything I read about you, Matt. Anything.”
He’d also forgotten how she could put a sexy slant onto everything.
“Well … you know, it’s gone pretty well.”
“Yeah? And how’s your wife?”
“She’s great. Yes. Thanks.”
“A good few years now, isn’t it? Old married man. You don’t look it, Matt; you look just the same. Same old Matt. Or rather, same young Matt.”
He’d also forgotten how nice it was to be flirted with.
“I’ve got my own boutique now. In Kensington Church Street. It does pretty well. Biba brings the punters down that way, and then they wander.”
“Yeah, I see. Well, I’m glad, Gina, really glad. And are you married?”
“Divorced. If you’re ever down there, come in and see it. It’s called Dressing Up. Here … take my card.”
She pressed it into his hand, and managed to make even that a provocative gesture.
“I’m not … not often down that way,” he said hastily. He felt almost shy.
“It doesn’t have to be often.” The grey eyes were amused. “Just the once.”
She’d recognized how he felt and was using it. He’d liked that. He’d forgotten that too.
“Right. Well, lovely to see you. You’re looking pretty good yourself, by the way.”
“Thank you. Date, then? At the shop?”
“Date,” he said, and grinned.
She smiled, reached up and kissed him.
“Till next time. Lovely to see you. Bye, Matt. For now.”
“Bye,” he said. He had no intention—ever—of visiting Dressing Up. She was too bloody disturbing.
“Are you all right?” Jeremy Northcott said.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Thank you. Sorry. Just felt a bit.… dizzy.”
“It is terribly hot. Would you like some water?”
“Oh … no. No, it’s fine—”
“Is that why you’re not in the box?”
“Um … no. I started coughing. In the middle of an aria.”
“How ghastly. That’s happened to me. Here.” He rummaged in his pocket and produced a packet of Tunes. “They make you breathe more easily. If you remember that particular jingle.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling, “of course I do. Goodness, how welcome. And it’s so nice to see you. How … how are you?”
“I’m fine. In disgrace, though, I should think. Now that I know you’re with the Crespis … I didn’t before this afternoon, when Tim told me. Are they absolutely furious with me? I just got lost in that infernal fog.”
“Oh, I think they’ll understand. But—Oh, now listen.” Waves of applause reached them from the auditorium.
“Sounds like we could go in,” he said. “Not a proper interval now, is it?”
“No. But do you know which box?”
“Yes, Tim’s scrawled it on my ticket.” They opened the door of the box to a second surge of huge applause as the curtains swung down. Jeremy smiled. “Is that for us?” he said, then: “Mariella, Giovanni, can you ever forgive me?” He bowed over Mariella’s hand and kissed it. “I am so, so sorry. I got lost in the fog. And then, of course, I could not come in until now.”
Giovanni stood up, shook his hand. “Welcome, dear friend,” he said, “we and Milan should not have subjected you to the fog. Let me give you a glass of champagne.”
Ice bucket, champagne, and flutes had appeared from apparently nowhere.
“Thank you. How kind. Mariella, how very beautiful you look.”
“Thank you,” she said, “how kind you are. Come, sit by me.”
Which he did and, as he did so, brushed her hand momentarily, and she looked down at their hands, and then at him, her brilliant eyes somehow embracing him, and then bent her lovely head over the programme, discussing with him what he had and had not missed, occasionally glancing over at Giovanni, and, when she saw that he was engrossed in conversation with the Fordyces, she addressed the full force of her beauty and its sexual power in another direction altogether.
A love affair was indeed born that night in the Crespi box at La Scala, taking the most extraordinary hold as the music surged and surrounded them and the tragic story told on the stage below found a most haunting and unpredictable echo. And the fog, holding them all captive in the city, disallowing escape, enforcing intimacy, played no small part in the drama that was to come.
Returning to an empty house, Matt suddenly felt lonely. He should never have let Eliza go, or at least insisted on a two-day visit instead of four.
He wondered what she was doing—having dinner with the Crespis, no doubt, laughing and joking, drawn out of her depression, while he, stuck here without her, went into one.
Suddenly he wanted to speak to her; he would ring; calling overseas wasn’t very difficult these days. They could have a chat and he would feel better.
He went into his study, sat down at his desk, dialled the operator and asked for the Crespi number. There was a slight delay, it seemed, about half an hour, some problem with the line, but then he should get through. He pulled some papers out of his briefcase and tried to concentrate.
Milan was by now completely fogbound, with no chance of leaving; Eliza was close to panic. She was away from Emmie, whom she had left with comparative strangers, one of whom had already managed to lose her in Milan, and she quailed from the thought of Matt’s reaction to the whole story.
“Can’t we even try to get back?” she said to Giovanni, close to tears. “I really want to—”
“Eliza, you do not know our fog. It is very, very bad. Tonight we must stay here. Try not to worry,” he said, smiling his sweet smile. “All will be well.”
Mariella was dismissive of her anxieties.
“Emmie will be fine. You can speak to her; you can speak to Bruno; you can speak to Anna-Maria.”
“But she might be frightened—”
“Did she sound frightened? When you called earlier? She seemed to be having a wonderful time. Eliza, there is nothing we can do. If we try to get home, we will probably be killed. Please try to accept it.”
Janey Fordyce, who had been listening, put her hand on Eliza’s arm.
“It’s very dangerous, the fog, Eliza. It really is. Now, the thing is, where will you all stay? Mariella, you and Giovanni
are very welcome to stay with us in our apartment, but I don’t think we can find room for Eliza too—”
“No, no, we can use the room at the Hotel Grande,” said Mariella, “and Eliza can stay with you. There. That is settled. Now … shall we go to dinner?”
“We will,” said Giovanni, “but first Eliza and I will go and make a telephone call, so that she can reassure herself about her daughter. It is very worrying for her, Mariella, and I do not like to see people worried.”
“But …” began Mariella, and then stopped, put on her sweetest smile, and said, “of course.”
It was the first time Eliza had seen the true balance of power in that relationship, and it intrigued her.
The conversations with both Bruno, who said he and Emmie had played cards after dinner and she had then told him a story, and Anna-Maria, who was sitting by Emmie’s small bed as she slept, were reassuring; Eliza relaxed a little.
“And now,” said Giovanni, “would you like to try to speak to your husband? To reassure him that you are quite safe?”
“Oh … no, thank you,” said Eliza with a shudder. “He won’t for an instant be worried about me; he doesn’t know there’s a fog, after all, and there’s no way he’ll try to call. No, the best thing is to leave him in blissful ignorance, Giovanni. I’ll call him tomorrow when I’m back at the villa.”
“Bene. Then let us go and enjoy our dinner.”
It took forty minutes to get to the restaurant from La Scala.
“We’d have done better to walk,” said Timothy.
The restaurant, Don Lisander, was so beautiful that Eliza felt she must have strayed back onto the set of La Traviata, with rows of tables, each with its own little white-shaded lamp, and filled with flowers. “You should see it in the summer,” Janey Fordyce said to her. “Somehow they bring the garden inside, wisteria trailing everywhere; you would love it. A million romances must have begun here.”
“Only a million!” said Mariella, laughing. “I do not think so.”
And then she organised them all very efficiently, placing herself next to Giovanni on one side and Jeremy on the other. And flirted with both of them quite outrageously. It was a bit like, Eliza thought, looking in on a ménage à trois.
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