Must call Hiroko, Iris thought. Say thank you. Monday morning, when they’d next all see each other, seemed a long way off. Would they really all be going back into the studio, sitting down to draw, as if nothing had happened?
‘You OK?’ said Jackson nervously. ‘Look, are we going in there? Seriously?’ He nodded towards the misted, dripping gardens. ‘You don’t want to?’ she said, watching him for a response. He looked at her quickly, shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said, ‘only, it’s, like, pouring with rain?’
What had she expected to find out, by arranging to meet him here? She looked into his face in search of guilt, or understanding, but he just looked wet, and tired. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down.’
‘So when did you meet her?’ she asked, as they squeezed behind a table in a narrow bar opposite the Pitti Palace. The place was full to steaming with disconsolate tourists; inside the door a tall stand was overflowing with umbrellas. Iris eased her shoulders out of her raincoat, and as she emerged from the wet nylon, shaking her head like a wet dog, Jackson suddenly smiled at her.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said, and Iris blushed. Again. When would she stop blushing, when she was forty or something? She knew if she dwelled on it one second longer it would go nuclear; it had happened to her once, on a bus in France when a nice-looking boy had tried to talk to her. Her face had felt like it had been scalded, the heat in her cheeks out of control, and eventually the boy had stopped talking and looked at her with concern instead. She squeezed her eyes shut; Ronnie, she thought, and the heat subsided. She opened her eyes.
‘Massi’s wife,’ she said calmly. Did he think by doing that laid-back charming thing she was going to lose the thread? By smiling at her? ‘When did you meet Massi’s wife?’
‘Duh,’ he said striking his forehead. ‘Oh, he invited me for dinner over there.’ He grimaced. ‘The food was kind of weird, too.’
Iris laughed, despite herself. ‘Yep,’ she said. She thought a minute. ‘Was it just you? They invited over?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jackson, shrugging. ‘I arrived early for the course, they thought I was all on my own.’
Iris remembered what Anna Massi had said about Americans having made their money for them; perhaps she’d told Paolo to invite Jackson over. It wasn’t a pretty thought, but perhaps it was just practical, everyone in Florence made their money out of foreigners. The memory of the lunch lingered, stale and dismal; the Massis’ big, gloomy, expensive apartment in an area perfect for families, even though they had no children. Perhaps Anna Massi was child enough all on her own, with her girlish laughter and her silly ornaments.
‘In loco parentis,’ she said, ‘looking after you,’ and Jackson eyed her with amusement.
‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘I do know what that means, you know. Americans aren’t all dumb.’
‘No,’ said Iris, smiling back, ‘I didn’t think you were dumb.’
‘Why were you early for the course?’ she asked on impulse, and his eyes shifted, opaque.
He shrugged. ‘Nothing much else to do,’ he said. ‘My folks are busy, busy, busy.’ He smiled briefly but she waited, wanting him to tell her more. ‘They run their own business, luxury car sales franchise.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Dull, huh? Twenty-four seven kind of stuff. Want me out of the way till Thanksgiving.’
‘OK,’ said Iris cautiously, feeling a little twinge of guilt. Ma was pretty much always there, wasn’t she? Change the subject.
She paused. ‘I guess they feel responsible,’ she said. ‘The Massis, I mean. They don’t have children of their own, so. . .’
Jackson gazed thoughtfully out of the window. ‘Weird, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘Who ends up with who? They’re kind of a crazy couple. She said they were high-school sweethearts.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘D’you see that nun’s room of hers?’
‘Yes,’ said Iris.
‘Well,’ said Jackson. ‘You bet they don’t have kids.’
Iris said nothing; the thought made her uncomfortable.
The waiter came over; the crowd had thinned and she saw that the place was slightly more upmarket than she’d have liked, the tables battered antiques, the waiter wearing a long apron and black waistcoat.
‘Two glasses of champagne, please,’ said Jackson carelessly, without asking her. She stared. ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ she said, ‘un caffe, per favore,’ more out of defiance than anything else, and a gesture towards staying sober because it was three in the afternoon and she wasn’t used to drinking champagne then or at any other time.
The experimental architect used to produce champagne with a flourish in the Ventoux, if he came to dinner, which he did occasionally; perhaps Ma asked him for old times’ sake or, God knew, out of misplaced gratitude for the crumbling house. And even Ma was impatient with him, on occasion, with his assumption that she was still holding a candle for him, and that he was bringing balm to her soul by turning up to eat their week’s supply of food in one night. He would bring out the bottle, which even Iris knew was the cheapest stuff you could buy in the SuperU, as if it was Cristal, and press a glass first on Iris, with a knowing murmur. ‘Isn’t she growing up,’ he’d say. Arsehole; or jerk, as maybe Jackson would say.
But the waiter brought two glasses of champagne anyway, and the coffee as well. His not to reason why, supposed Iris; maybe he thought that Jackson was going to drink both glasses. ‘Grazie,’ she said, pulling the coffee over, and Jackson laughed.
‘You don’t like champagne?’ he said, with that laid-back smile of his. ‘Come on, Iris, everybody likes champagne.’ She gave him a sharp look, conjuring up all her animosity for the experimental architect to maintain it, then gave in. She took the glass, and sipped. It was nice; very cold, so the glass had turned cloudy with condensation. Iris felt herself relax just enough, and she leaned into the padded banquette.
‘Do you know this place?’ she said. She didn’t know why she didn’t just get to the point, instead of making small talk, except that she didn’t really know Jackson very well and she couldn’t just jump in. Besides, she was curious and guiltily she realized that she was enjoying herself.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Jackson, looking around him. ‘Could be, yeah. I think we’ve been here, one time.’
‘We?’ she said.
He looked at her consideringly. ‘The guys,’ he said. ‘You know. The guys. Brett, and Alice, and Tracey and Bernard and Imi and Jonathan. The guys.’
Jonathan had been the one who’d called her the fat chick; Iris remembered the name immediately Jackson said it, like a brand on her skin, and she felt the heat rise to her cheek in response. Jackson was looking at her. ‘I guess you don’t know ’em, do you?’ He sighed. ‘Ronnie always said you had no money. No dough, no point in asking you, you’d get embarrassed.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
Iris swallowed. ‘That’s OK,’ she said, shrugging. ‘She was right, as it happens.’
‘Yeah, but still,’ said Jackson. ‘I’m sorry.’
Iris saw that the cuffs of Jackson’s sweatshirt were ragged, as if he chewed them, like a child.
‘Jonathan came to the party,’ said Iris. ‘None of the others did.’ And again Jackson eyed her with amusement.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘He’s got a thing for you.’
Iris froze, holding her glass at her lips. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said, trying to sound like she didn’t care, like this wasn’t the biggest insult she’d ever heard.
‘Whatever,’ said Jackson. ‘Actually, he does.’
‘Why did he call me the fat chick, then?’ she burst out, except that she knew straight away. There were boys like that.
‘Because he’s an asshole,’ said Jackson, still looking at her. Suddenly his glass was empty; he lifted a hand to the waiter. Iris drained her glass too, stood it back on the table, light-headed. ‘I can’t pay for these,’ she said. ‘You know that.’
‘Another two, please?’ said Jackson to the waiter as if she hadn’t spoken. At least he ask
ed in Italian this time, even if it was with a terrible accent. The waiter nodded; in her light-headed state Iris wondered if she’d ever be able to talk to a waiter that way, as if it was perfectly normal to be drinking champagne at three o’clock on a wet November afternoon. It was the drink, of course, but she felt like crying, then suddenly she thought of Ronnie, that she should be here and that they didn’t know where she was. Come on, she told herself, wake up.
‘So why did no one else come?’ she asked. ‘None of – the guys?’
Jackson’s eyes flicked away from her. ‘Ah, well,’ he said, evasive. ‘Kids’ stuff, Halloween. When she first planned it, y’know, it was all going to be great, we were going to go out on the town, do crazy stuff, dress up, break into the Boboli, do fireworks –’ He broke off, frowned. ‘Uh, her bag – Ronnie’s bag, that’s where they found it, yeah?’ She wondered how he knew; except, of course, word got around.
‘Yeah,’ she said, warily. ‘The Boboli.’ The carabiniere had said something about the vineyard, could that be right? Was there a vineyard in the Boboli? A woman feeding cats had found it. She remembered the cats, one particular corner with plastic trays and a scattering of pellets, and a ginger tom curled up motionless in the sun.
The waiter delivered another two tall glasses, took away Iris’s coffee cup. The place was emptying; through the big, steamed-up window it seemed that the rain had stopped.
‘Uh, OK, the party,’ said Jackson. ‘Well, she seemed to lose interest, didn’t, like, say come, you absolutely have to come. Talked about it like it was kids’ stuff, just for the babies, like Sophia.’ He smiled, far away.
It was true, Sophia was just like that, a big, pretty baby; spoilt, too. Since when, Iris wondered, had she got so world-weary herself? Had Ronnie done the Halloween thing as a way of including her, another baby?
‘What were you doing instead?’ asked Iris, without really thinking. Again Jackson’s eyes flicked off and away from her. ‘Some guy, some friend of Alice’s mom’s, has some place up in the hills, they were having a fireworks party, we got dragged along, kind of.’ He looked back at her from under his eyelashes. ‘It was fun, you know? But I do, like, feel guilty, now. We – well, I should have come over to Ronnie’s, to see you guys.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Iris quickly. ‘It was fine, actually, she didn’t seem upset.’
‘No, I wasn’t thinking of her, exactly,’ said Jackson. ‘I know she wasn’t upset.’ He took a meditative sip.
Iris felt something move into place in her head, a piece of a puzzle. ‘You talked to her? After the party?’ She thought of Ronnie hanging out of the big window at the end of the salotto in the dark, trying to get the best signal on her tiny silver phone. Talking to Jackson?
Jackson stared, his eyes turning dark; Iris heard the almost-accusation in her voice. She thought he was paler; he looked handsome like this, she thought, eyes properly open, serious. He was the one, wasn’t he? Ronnie’d been planning to go away with Jackson. She scanned back through the previous weeks; how could she have missed it? She thought of how they’d been with each other, so casual, everything always just in a group, drifting off to bars with the guys. She felt angry, as if she’d been deceived, Ronnie pretending she was just playing the field when really there’d been Jackson, sweet, laid-back Jackson with his iPhone, her man.
Only there was something else to him, this afternoon; an edge to laid-back Jackson.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ah, you got me. Yeah, I guess I did.’
‘She called you?’ she said quietly.
Jackson whistled. ‘Yeah,’ he said, eyes narrowing. ‘She called me.’
‘So she called you that night,’ said Iris, ‘when you were up in the hills. At that other party.’ Her voice was flat. What was she angry about?
‘No, no,’ said Jackson. ‘Not then. Well, she could’ve called me then, only I didn’t talk to her, I – I left the phone at my place, it was out of battery.’ He shrugged, watching her.
She stared at him. Was he telling her the truth? Ronnie had certainly been talking to someone. She couldn’t work out what he was telling her. Behind the bar a man with slicked-back hair was looking at them as he pretended to polish a glass.
‘Look,’ said Jackson. ‘Do you think I’m lying, is that it? Do you think I’ve done something to Ronnie?’ His voice was cool and level, and Iris sat, frozen, unable to believe it. Not Jackson. But there was something in the quality of his anger, some extremity.
‘Well,’ said Iris carefully, ‘you’ve been a bit weird. About the police, and stuff. And you weren’t in school on Tuesday.’
‘Wasn’t I?’ he said. ‘Maybe not,’ and he shrugged again, still watching her. It was as if he was daring her to ask him more.
‘So what did you get up to, Tuesday?’ She tried to sound light, but they both knew it was serious.
He let out a deep breath.
‘OK,’ he said. He smiled warily. ‘She didn’t call me during the party, she called me Tuesday morning, the morning after.’
Iris saw those two champagne glasses on the drainer, the bottle in the fridge with a spoon in it.
‘And?’ she said.
‘And, she said, she wanted to talk to me.’ He leaned across the table towards her and spoke earnestly for once; now he wanted her to believe him. ‘OK? She was real excited, you know Ronnie.’ Almost imperceptibly Iris shook her head.
‘You came over?’ she said, and he shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘You were going away together,’ she said, her voice flat with the sense of betrayal she could not explain. She put her hands to her face, her cheeks burning into her palms. ‘She planned this whole thing so she could go away with you.’
Jackson started shaking his head and laughing. ‘No way,’ he said. The sound of his laughter made her so angry she glared. ‘Come on, Iris,’ he said. ‘No! Me and Ronnie? No way! No way!’ It was almost comical, Jackson’s expensive education, his vocabulary boiled down to a handful of words, but she couldn’t laugh.
‘Where is she?’ she said quietly. ‘Do you have a key to the flat, Jackson? Did you come into the flat yesterday, after – do you have her keys? Did you wipe her computer, because they took it, you know, the police took it, they’ll be able to get into it.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said Jackson, impatiently. ‘Of course I don’t have a key.’
‘Where is she?’ said Iris, doggedly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jackson bringing his fist down on the table. The glasses jumped and at the bar the waiter turned at the sound.
‘I don’t know anything about her computer. There was totally nothing between us, only friends.’ She was beginning to learn that the angrier he was, the quieter his voice grew. She refused to be intimidated.
‘So you came over to the flat, and drank champagne with her, when you should have been at school.’ She could hear herself, scolding like a schoolteacher. ‘And nothing was going on?’ She stopped, something sticking in her throat. ‘And now she’s disappeared and you don’t know anything about it?’
Jackson let out a strangulated laugh.
‘I drank champagne with you,’ he said. ‘Is there something going on?’
She shook her head, wordless.
‘Ronnie and I were friends,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I came over, jeez, it wouldn’t have been the first time.’ He looked over her shoulder into the distance and she couldn’t tell if he was avoiding her gaze or just concentrating. ‘We were just having fun, talking, stuff.’
‘Stuff?’ said Iris stiffly.
‘Well maybe at the beginning – I mean, when we first got to know each other, uh – we fooled around a bit, come on. But it was never – anything. And Tuesday morning, she. . .’ And again he shifted his gaze ‘. . . she just wanted an audience, I guess.’
All Iris heard was that they’d been more than friends, at the beginning; she and Ronnie’d only been here a month, the beginning might have been three weeks ago, not a hundred years. It felt like a hundred years to I
ris. She breathed out. None of my business, she thought. Who she fools around with; except it is, now she’s run off.
‘So what did happen?’
Jackson folded his arms. ‘You don’t give up, do you? OK, here’s the full deal. We had a drink, in the apartment.’ He paused. ‘Jeez, that place, gives me the creeps.’ He grimaced; all right for you, thought Iris. I’m the one going back there tonight. ‘She was happy. Totally happy. She even said one glass of champagne was enough. She said she didn’t need it.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘She said she’d tell me sooner or later, but she couldn’t say anything just now. A wind-up, I thought.’
Iris looked sceptical.
‘Well, I guess I thought it was some guy, and she’d bring him along one evening, maybe he was some count or something so we were all supposed to be really impressed.’ He sighed. ‘I kind of pushed her a little, just to tease her, but she clammed up. Said she was going to do some painting, that’s all. She was all fired up about painting, suddenly, said she’d been stupid, wasting her time, she really wanted to paint, after all.’
Iris snorted. ‘And you believed her?’ But then she thought, That MySpace page. The Leonardo drawings she’d posted, that dreamy stuff about being an artist. And she’d just thought, You’ve changed your tune, Ronnie. She became aware through the window of the long facade of a stone palazzo, a baroque doorframe, a cornice, a statue; the standard, beautiful Florentine view. Why not? Why shouldn’t this place have got to Ronnie?
Jackson shrugged. ‘Yeah, I know. Ronnie, working? No way, that was what I thought. But y’know, it’s been going on a while. Tuesday, she showed me her sketchbooks, she’s been working on the quiet, like she was going to surprise us all.’
‘What did you think?’ asked Iris, grumpily. ‘About the sketchbooks?’
Jackson sounded uneasy. ‘Well, she was trying, y’know?’
‘If she wanted to get good, it’s a shame she didn’t work a bit harder, after all that eyelash-batting she did at Massi the first couple of weeks. He really put in the hours on her; he must have thought she was serious.’ Iris could hear how she sounded, all pinched, like a schoolteacher, but it had been annoying, really.
The Drowning River Page 14
