Ron scratched his head and bared his gums, breathing in so the air whistled between his teeth. ‘Oh, goodness,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to say this, that’s all.’
‘Say what?’ Tess asked, unaccountably scared by his grave demeanour. He was silent. She said gently, ‘Ron, come on, tell me.’
‘She’s cracked in the head,’ he said eventually.
‘Who?’ Tess said stupidly.
‘Mortmain. Her.’ He could barely bring himself to say the name. ‘Leonora Mortmain.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I meant what I said just now. But there’s more to it than that. Sh-she’s—sommat’s wrong with her, I don’t know what it is. I think seeing that dog set her off.’ He scratched his head again. ‘Rude bitch,’ he said, with a flare of his anger again. ‘Sorry.’ He looked down.
Tess felt fear strike into her heart, she didn’t know why. ‘Ron,’ she said, as if to a child. ‘Tell me what she said.’
‘It’s hard to say,’ Ron said frankly, his eyes meeting hers. ‘She’s got something on me, for starters.’
‘What’s that?’ Tess said.
‘She knows about something.’ Ron rubbed his face with his hands, in some kind of agony. ‘I bribed a man, fellow on the council. Way back, years ago, Tess, right? I wanted to open a cinema, little picture house.’
‘That would have been nice,’ said Tess, encouragingly. Ron’s face was creased with distress.
‘Would have been. Would ha’ been great for the town, always wanted a cinema when I was a boy, growing up there. But I stuffed it up, didn’t I? Gave a bung to someone on the planning committee, he was bent as they come. They got him for a whole bunch o’ stuff, and they found out about me.’
‘Oh, dear, Ron—’ Tess said, upset. ‘That’s—’
‘It was bloody stupid of me, and I thought no one knew,’ Ron said, grimacing. ‘I got a sentence, suspended, paid my fine, thought it was all done. But she’s found out. How’s she found out?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tess said. ‘I honestly don’t know, Ron, but you mustn’t—’
‘Argh,’ Ron said again, a low angry noise. ‘I hate her. She was enjoying it. She said, she said all that stuff about how I had to apologize to her. That everyone on the committee, the one against the building works, we should all apologize to her. We’ve harassed her, ‘parently.’ His voice was bitter. ‘She said she’d make sure everyone knew what I done. That I should give up the campaign. She’s ruined the town, doesn’t even care—’ He looked up at her. ‘Do you think less of me? Bet you do, now you know. What people are going to say…’
Tess put her hand on his arm. ‘Course I don’t,’ she said, patting his shiny nylon shirt. ‘Come on. You mustn’t let her get to you. She won’t say anything, and who’d believe her? What else did she say?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ he said simply. She nodded encouragingly. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘She doesn’t like you. She’s going to complain about you to the school when we get back.’
Tess nodded imperceptibly, though she felt sick. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Any particular thing?’
‘That’s what I mean. She says you’re a bad influence.’
Tess laughed, almost with shock.
‘She was just saying it as if it were normal, you know, as we’re walking back through the streets, and it’s this nice evening and I say, more to get her off the subject of my troubles and all, I said, “Isn’t it nice havin’ Tess showing us round Rome, she always was a nice girl, even when she was little, Frank and Emily must be proud of her.”’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Anyway, that’s by the by. So we’d just turned off that main square onto a side street, and it’s very dark all of a sudden. She stops and stares at me, but not at me, like at someone else, and she says, “She’s a bad influence.” Just like that.’
Tess shook her head, and gestured to him to carry on. Her throat felt thick, as if a piece of bread were stuck in it. Ron was in his stride now. “A bad influence, and they was right, I shouldn’t have come.” So I says, “Who’s they?” and her voice is all shrill and everything and she says, “Never you mind that, I’m going to make sure she don’t do one of these trips again.” And then she says—’ Ron cleared his throat—‘she says, “I don’t remember him any more.” Like that. She was crying. Trying to at least. My blood ran cold, I tell you.’
‘“Him”?’ Tess said sharply, so loudly that the receptionist looked up from her book again, making a moue of bored curiosity with her mouth.
‘That’s what she said,’ Ron told her, with relish. ‘That’s why I think she’s cracked in the head.’ He shivered a bit. ‘I asked her what she means, and she shakes her head and says, “No one remembers.” And then she laughed! She sounded mad. High-pitched and everything, and I knew she wasn’t listening to me.’ He said, almost calmly, ‘It was like she was talking to someone else, someone who wasn’t there.’
‘Blimey,’ said Tess. She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well—’
‘She don’t like you,’ Ron finished, almost triumphantly. ‘She really don’t like you.’
There was lots that didn’t make sense, and Tess was not sure enough of Ron’s testimony to give in to the sinister feeling of unease uncoiling within her. She remembered Leonora on their first night here. You are rather like me. Well, she obviously didn’t think that today. She pulled herself together and said, in her most normal voice, ‘Listen, Ron, I think she was probably tired. Don’t worry about it.’
He looked at her. ‘She wasn’t tired.’
‘She’s an old lady, Ron—’ Tess wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘And she’s not the easiest of people, let’s face it. In fact, it’s pretty hard to feel sympathy for her. But she’s here on her own, she doesn’t have any friends, and she’s had a long day. I think the wine got the better of her.’
‘She only had a glass.’
‘Look—’ Tess said, squeezing her arm with her hand, forgetting how sore it still was.
‘Your shoulder OK?’ Ron said.
‘It’s all right. Just a bit tender.’ She winced, and it made her remember. ‘It’s been a long day for us all, that’s what I think. So—can you do me a favour? Don’t mention this to anyone. The last bit, I mean, as well as the first bit. I don’t want them thinking Leonora’s gone mad.’
Ron looked unconvinced. ‘Course I won’t,’ he said, gloomily. ‘But I think she has gone mad,’ he said.
Tess patted his arm in what she hoped was a friendly, conspiratorial way, not a patronizing, shut-up-and-give-it-a-rest way. ‘Perhaps she has,’ she said, with gallows humour. ‘But she was a bit weird to start with. Let’s monitor it ourselves, shall we?’
‘It was those eyes,’ Ron said, unwilling to let it rest. ‘Her eyes, they looked so spooky.’
Tess was suddenly very, very tired. ‘Right,’ she said, nodding and feeling that perhaps Leonora was right, she was a terrible tour group leader, but for the moment if she didn’t go to bed she would simply curl up on the fake marble floor of the lobby and pass out. ‘I’ll watch out for the eyes and—and Ron, thanks.’
Ron nodded briefly, like a soldier. ‘My pleasure.’ He stepped back, bowing his head as a farewell gesture, and climbed up the stairs, leaving Tess alone.
She stared around her, taking in the large, attractive Victorian painting of the Colosseum that hung on the wall by the staircase. Around the base of the huge structure, possibly the most recognizable image of Rome, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen promenaded in a genteel fashion, as the dark, brooding circle rose above them, giving no hint of the torture and relentless slaughter that had taken place there. Again it struck her how funny it was, that they had spent the day parading round these old ruins, saying ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aah’ and not really thinking about the reality, the fifty thousand people who could be accommodated there, the bloody games that lasted from dusk till dawn where on one day alone five thousand animals could be killed, and many gladiators too. Staring at the refined
figures circling the old amphitheatre, Tess was reminded of one fact: that the Romans had, by dint of rounding up countless rhinos, hippopotami, tigers and lions, purged the more dangerous corners of their empire of bloodthirsty animals who posed a threat to them. She shook her head. This was civilization, too, but it was a strange kind of civilization.
‘Sir Frederick Fortt,’ she said, reading the name of the artist at the bottom of the canvas. The receptionist looked up again.
‘Mees Tennant,’ she said, her lovely, low voice caressing the consonants of Tess’s name. ‘Tessss Tennant?’
‘Yes,’ said Tess, shrugging her shoulders wearily, wondering what fresh hell awaited her with her messages.
‘Theeese are for you. Che bellissimi fiori!’ she said, and she reached down to her side and picked up a bouquet of roses. She thrust them at Tess unceremoniously.
Tess took them. They were roses, palest pink, scented, tied with a thin blue ribbon to which a tiny envelope was attached, and the scent of them took her breath away. The receptionist smiled at her conspiratorially.
‘You have an admirer here, in Roma!’ she said.
‘I very much doubt it,’ Tess said, thinking of her conversation with Ron, but she laughed. ‘Grazie, signorina.’
‘Grazie, e buona notte.’
She climbed the stairs, tiredness gone, fingering the crisp white card, her fingers fumbling with the keys so she could get into her room and open the envelope.
Hope your shoulder feels better. Come have a drink with me tomorrow after dinner, and I’ll show you the real Rome. No tourists! Via del Mascherone off the Piazza Farnese. You should enjoy yourself too, while you’re here.
Ciao
Peter
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, Tess’s leather thong sandals slapped quietly on the oily black cobbles, her heart beating a tattoo in time with her feet, as she crossed the dark Piazza Farnese, heading towards a side street off the square. Her responsibilities were over, another day was over. They had seen the Pantheon, the Ara Pacis, some more ruins. They had wandered round Rome in the heat till their feet begged for mercy, till Tess was sick of the sound of her own voice, of being the leader, in charge, the focus. At last she was alone, carefree, with the cooling air of a Roman evening on her bare skin.
She stood in the centre of the piazza, and turned slowly around, breathing in, her eyes closed, and when she breathed out again, she was no longer Tess, the sensible Classics teacher who shepherded people around all day, who was muffled up in a scarf and tank top against the chill of a late spring and draughty English buildings, who watched someone like Francesca with awe. She was a girl in a black jersey dress with a coral-coloured shawl and the glow of a few glasses of wine and a limoncello inside her, hurrying across a darkened square to—what? What was waiting for her?
She breathed in again, the now-familiar smell of jasmine filling her lungs. She turned off the square, into the Via del Mascherone, the dark bulk of the Palazzo Farnese towering over the narrow street. A couple were kissing passionately in an alcove of the palazzo; they ignored her as she hurried past, the man reaching behind the woman to pull her closer towards him. When she reached Peter’s flat—a stone building three storeys high, with a dark green front door visible in the light from the street lamp and a blue moped parked outside—she rang the doorbell. There was a jangling sound, far inthe distance, then silence. A moped zoomed past her and she turned, as if embarrassed to be caught doing this. It was another couple, their dark hair fanning out behind them. The woman was driving, the man clinging onto her, one hand round her waist, the other on the back of her neck at the top of her spine in an oddly proprietorial hold.
Tess rang the bell again, flicking the card from the flowers Peter had given her—which had the address on it—against her fingertips. It made a scraping sound in the sudden quiet of the street.
Still nothing.
Perhaps the address was wrong? Perhaps he’d meant another day…Perhaps…And she realized, then, how silly she’d been, building her hopes up all day, getting excited about something as ephemeral as this. It wasn’t real life, it was a fantasy!
One more try: Tess rang the bell, feeling foolish now. If this was the life she wanted to be living he would appear now, apologizing, he was on the phone, in the shower, wherever.
Outside the beam of the street lamp it was oddly dark on the street, no light from the palazzo or the black wall of the garden behind it, and Tess was glad, because she thought she was probably blushing as she finally turned and walked slowly towards the river. She might as well go back to the hotel now; no point in rejoining the others over drinks. She’d felt stupid enough about her exit from dinner anyway; her responsi bilities were over for the day, but as she rose from the table in the restaurant, clutching her napkin, she had told what she knew sounded like a vastly over-concocted half-truth about a friend who lived in Rome with whom she wanted to catch up. She’d tried to make them believe the friend was a she…She wasn’t sure how many of them had believed this.
Tess walked along the cobbled street towards the Ponte Sisto, her heart heavy at the thought of crossing the bridge back to the hotel. It was becoming clearer to her how completely, stupidly ridiculous she’d been. She looked at her watch; it was a quarter to twelve and perhaps it was for the best. They were going to Pompeii the next day. It was going to be a long day. She needed to look out her guide books—oh, and her socks, to wear with her walking sandals, which were starting to rub. No, she didn’t care how stupid it made her look—who was going to notice, anyway?
‘Tess!’
Wearily, Tess started to list things in her head she ought to check again before the morning, and so she almost missed the voice that called again, ‘Tess! Hey, honey! Tess!’
She looked back in amazement. There, standing at the edge of the bridge, one leg resting on the very same bright blue moped she’d just seen, was Peter. He waved frantically, gesturing to her to come over to him. She turned and walked towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as she approached. ‘I can’t take this thing on the bridge.’ He was panting. ‘God, I’m sorry. A minute later, and I’d have missed you.’
‘Yes,’ she said, parting her lips and smiling at him. ‘I—hi!’ She’d forgotten how good-looking he was, his almost black hair shining in the moonlight. ‘I went to your flat—I must have got the wrong—’
She sounded really prim, she knew it, apologizing like an idiot.
‘No, it’s my fault,’ he said earnestly. ‘That’s where I was going. To your hotel to write you a note. I don’t even have your cell.’ She shook her head. ‘I got caught up on a story. Embassy reception for the Queen of Norway.’ She blinked. ‘It’s true,’ he said gravely, but he was smiling. He ran his hands through his hair and then rubbed them together. ‘So. You still want to do something?’ She nodded. ‘I promised you I’d show you Rome, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Tess. ‘You did.’
He patted the seat, and handed her a helmet. ‘Put this on, then,’ he said. ‘We’re going for a ride.’
She shook her head, and started laughing. ‘I—I barely know you!’ she said.
‘Don’t be so British.’ He held out his hand, smiling. ‘I’m Peter.’ They shook hands. ‘You’re Tess. I’m your host, now jump on and let’s go have some fun.’
The night was young—well, actually it wasn’t, but she was in Rome, after all, the air was fresh and suddenly, Tess Tennant was sick of thinking things through, wondering about everyone else except her, chewing her nails over an embittered old woman, struggling to keep the peace, trying not to think about Adam, about back home, about everything. This was the bridge. She could choose to cross over to the other side if she wanted, or she could stay, and try being the person she wished she was. She looked into his treacly black eyes, and smiled.
‘Deal.’ She took the helmet from him. ‘What do I do with this?’ she asked, holding it awkwardly. He looked astonish
ed. ‘I mean, is there a strap or a trick or—’
‘You put it on,’ Peter said. He jammed the helmet over her hair. ‘You don’t need to overthink it. Just put it on and let’s—’ he swung one leg over the Vespa—‘let’s go.’
Don’t overthink it. He was right. As he revved up the engine and they started to move off, Tess caught hold of him, wrapping her arms round his waist and holding on for dear life; wasn’t there a system, an easier way of doing this, she thought? There must be…But no. You just clung on to this almost complete stranger for dear life as everything became a blur, and streets whizzed by, terrifically fast, and then gradually, as the desire to scream loudly receded, you looked up and the blur started to take shape. Now they were zooming down a long straight road, with narrow pavements that occasionally gave out onto small piazzas with tables and chairs, caféwith laurel bushes dividing them from the street…Shops with elegant elaborate old black frontages with gold lettering, white marble Baroque churches crammed in amongst the ochre buildings, all whizzed past in a flash and she looked around her, then looked up between the buildings at the inky night sky, wondering how she got here, until they turned into a side street and Peter gradually slowed down to a halt.
‘Here we are,’ he said, helping her down. ‘You OK?’
Tess shook out her hair and looked around her. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘First time.’
‘I’m glad it was me,’ he said, mock-serious. ‘C’mon, let’s go get a drink.’
‘Where are we?’ Tess said.
‘Right by the Spanish Steps,’ Peter said. ‘But we’re going to a bar nearby first, is that OK?’
She didn’t know where they were and, for the first time in days, she wasn’t in charge. ‘That sounds absolutely great.’
They walked through a grid of thin, narrow streets. Off the main street through Via Condotti, with its designer boutiques all shuttered up, lifeless dummies in the windows, in minimalist blacks, blues and greys, expensive handbags laid out on glass plinths like holy icons to be worshipped during the daytime. They cut one block down and an uneasy silence settled upon them. It was quiet, no cars, few people, and Tess started to wonder if she’d made a mistake, if being a free spirit was so great or whether it was better to be tucked up in bed back at the hotel with the Barbara Pym she had just started.
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