by Penny Feeny
PENNY FEENY has lived and worked in Cambridge, London and Rome. Since settling in Liverpool many years ago she has been an arts administrator, editor, radio presenter and advice worker. Her debut novel That Summer in Ischia was published in 2011. She is married with two sons and three daughters.
The Apartment in Rome
Penny Feeny
A complete catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the British Library on request
The right of Penny Feeny to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Copyright © 2013 Penny Feeny
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
First published in 2013 by Tindal Street,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
www.tindalstreet.co.uk
ISBN 978 1 90699 443 3
eISBN 978 1 90699 499 0
Designed and typeset by Tetragon, London
Printed by Clays, Bungay, Suffolk
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Charles
Acknowledgements
This book has had a long gestation. It began as a short story which developed into my first (rather different) novel. I am indebted to Alan Mahar of Tindal Street Press for suggesting I resurrect and rewrite it and I am immensely grateful to him for his skilful and attentive editing. Many thanks are also due to Luke Brown and the team at Profile; to Madeline Heneghan and Mike Morris and all at Writing on the Wall; to Rebecca Goss for companionship along the road to publication; to Elinor and Elliott Elsey for help with research in Rome and to Charles, Jack, Roisin, George and Imogen Feeny for support and inspiration.
PART ONE
JULY 2010
1
It had seemed a small triumph at the time. Gina had been teasing Roberto, boasting about her client list until he called her bluff. Now he believed the idea was his own: a portrait of his son appealed to his vanity.
She had pushed further. ‘Why don’t I photograph your wife as well?’
His wedding ring winked as he flapped his hand. ‘Boh! She’s far too busy. She’s never at home. Besides, why would I risk leaving you alone with her?’
‘What do you think I’m going to say?’
He laughed. ‘I’m more concerned about what she’d say to you. She’s very acute; she’d see through you in a moment.’
Gina felt confident she could handle Roberto’s wife, but when she arrived at his lavish apartment complex, built around a garden as lush as a tropical rain forest and protected by tall electronic gates, she couldn’t help a shiver of resentment. He’d always been cagey about his wealth. Occasionally he would overwhelm her with extravagant gifts – an expensive bottle of champagne or a box at the opera, nothing she could usefully recycle – but in general she regarded him as tight-fisted.
She’d considered getting Antonio Boletti to come to the studio, but she shared the space, which was run by an artists’ cooperative, and she hadn’t made a booking in time. Anyway, for their first meeting it would be useful to see the boy in his own habitat. She’d already guessed at his appearance: he’d have his father’s nose and the sleek waves of black hair that Bertie was losing. He’d probably be wearing Prada, and a watch that would buy a year’s supply of hot meals for one of the bundles of rags that curled up at night outside Rome’s old city walls.
She rang the external bell and was buzzed in through the gardens. Then a maid with broad Slavic features admitted her to the entrance hall, a glistening arena of marble, and indicated a lush purple velvet sofa. Gina sank into the cushions; really it was too low. Glossy magazines were fanned out on a glass-topped coffee table; a single amaryllis bloomed in an angular pot. Evidently the touch of Signora Boletti. The effect, she thought, was of a very expensive dentist’s waiting room or a private clinic; a place where you were being softened up for bad news.
As she waited she glimpsed someone flit through a doorway at the far end of the hall, a gawky teenage figure with the long loose hair often affected by the offspring of the rich. She called his name softly – she’d have preferred an unsupervised encounter – but Antonio didn’t respond. She picked up one of the magazines and thumbed through it until she heard the sharp tap of footsteps. She rose.
At first she couldn’t decide what it was about the woman that disturbed her. Everything was pressed into order: the straight silvery blonde hair, the wings of the collar poking in a preppy way from the neck of her cotton jumper, the turned-back cuffs, the sharp crease in her trousers running from thigh to ankle, the narrow dainty shoes. But something was not right.
‘Signora Boletti?’ said Gina.
‘Si.’ Her handshake was limp, unenthusiastic. Afterwards she tucked her arms behind her back. ‘Roberto said he was going to call you. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
The phone was Gina’s favourite instrument after the camera, but now and again they came into conflict. If she needed to focus she would switch off her mobile. ‘Really? What’s the problem?’
‘Poor Antonio isn’t well. That’s why I’ve come over, to look after him.’
Come over? Didn’t they live together? Was Roberto pretending to be married so she wouldn’t make too many demands? She’d known men who’d done that, who’d found a wife a useful fabrication. She gazed back at Signora Boletti’s smooth maquillage and all of a sudden made sense of what was bothering her. The woman was not Bertie’s wife, for Christ’s sake, she was his terrifyingly well-maintained mother. A far more daunting proposition.
Gina at once altered her demeanour, gave her widest smile. ‘Oh, what a shame!’ she said. ‘But I was planning to do the studio shots some other time anyway. Part of the reason for today’s visit was to get to know Antonio a little. Establish a rapport. Which is so important with portraiture, you see. The person has to really trust you and then you can discover what you want to draw out of them for the image. Is he very ill?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Roberto’s mother said with a finality that Gina immediately wanted to test. ‘An ear infection. The doctor has insisted he keep to his bed. And both his parents are so occupied with their commitments…’ She spread her hands. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Gina nodded, thinking: she knows about me and Bertie. She doesn’t approve. That’s why she’s being so obstructive. I bet there’s nothing wrong with the boy at all. ‘Perhaps he’s feeling better now? I thought I saw him.’
Signora Boletti moved her head a fraction. ‘No, that’s not possible.’
Annoyed that she was being fobbed off, Gina was determined to buy time, investigate a little more. ‘It was quite a long journey here,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I sit down for a few minutes before I have to go back again?’
‘You don’t have a car?’
‘I don’t drive.’
‘Shall I call you a taxi?’
Gina had come to Parioli by bus. Her regular cab driver, Mario, was booked to take a client to the airport and, as usual, she’d been short of ready cash. ‘Actually, a glass of water first would be lovely. If it’s not inconvenient.’
‘Of course. Ice?’
She was lucky. As Signora Boletti went in search of the maid, somewhere behind the panelled double doors a phone began to ring. Gina hoped the caller would be long-winded and effusive
. She glided as quietly as possible across the marble to the room she thought she had identified as Antonio’s. She gave a tentative knock. ‘Permesso?’
She could hear movement and the low throb of music issuing from headphones. The door was already ajar; without waiting for a response, she pushed through it. The figure she’d noticed before was sitting cross-legged on the bed, jabbing at a laptop. When it raised its head, a little sulkily, Gina felt once again confounded. This was not how she had imagined Bertie’s son would look. Freckles for a start. When did Italian kids ever have freckles? And, although she was trying not to stare, the baggy T-shirt didn’t hide the rise of young breasts: it was obvious the person in front of her was female.
She began to apologise. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you. I didn’t realise there’d be anyone else here. I was looking for Antonio. Perhaps you could pass on a message for me?’
The girl pulled off her headphones, bemused. ‘Non capisco. Sono inglese.’
‘Oh, are you?’ exclaimed Gina in English. ‘That explains it.’
‘What?’
The freckles, she meant, but didn’t say.
The girl closed the lid of her laptop and leaned forward curiously. ‘Are you English too?’
‘Yes – at least I have a British passport; but I haven’t lived there for twenty years.’
‘Wow. You’ve been in Rome all that time?’
‘I started off in Milan, on the catwalk, but then the agency sent me down here. It suits me better anyway, more laid-back.’
‘You’re a model?’
‘Not any more.’ For a few moments they studied one another in silence. ‘You’re a friend of Antonio’s, are you?’ said Gina at length.
‘I’m, like, a lodger.’
‘Snap!’
The girl blinked. Her eyes and cheeks were round and childish, her lips plump, as if her face hadn’t yet caught up with her adolescent body.
‘You mean you live here too?’
‘Not exactly. But Bertie’s my landlord. My name’s Gina by the way. Gina Stanhope.’
‘I’m Sasha.’
‘How long are you here for, Sasha?’
She hesitated as if counting the days. ‘Three weeks. I’m going to this Italian summer school to see if I want to take it as an option in the sixth form. And the Bolettis are my host family. Only…’
Gina sat at the end of the bed. ‘You’re homesick?’
The chance to speak her own language seemed to unleash a torrent of frustration in Sasha. ‘No, it’s not that. Everything’s a mess at home right now, anyhow. But most of the others are staying in a hostel closer to the school and they’ve kind of palled up. I had to be put with a family because I’m not sixteen till next month and my mate, Ruby, who was going to come with me dropped out at the last minute with glandular fever and I’m like so useless in the lessons I can’t face going in. And now Antonio’s got this bug and they think I might get sick too. And – ’
‘So he really has got an ear infection?’
Sasha tugged at a strand of hair and coiled it around her finger. ‘Well, yeah, and it’s going to make me even more isolated, so I might as well not be here…’
Gina was digesting the fact that she had not been lied to. She didn’t like being wrong.
‘…Plus we don’t get on. At all. For a start he’s younger than me, and totally spoilt and showing off all the time. Wears this chain around his neck like he’s Johnny Depp or someone. He’s really annoying, like a kid brother.’
‘Do you have a kid brother?’
‘No,’ she wailed. ‘That’s why I’m not used to it. I’m an only child.’
Gina smiled. ‘Me too. But you shouldn’t let this put you off Rome. You should be getting out and enjoying yourself.’ In truth, she’d seen too many teenagers enjoying themselves in recent years: it usually involved overdosing on cheap wine and throwing up in the gutter. Not that Gina herself was unfamiliar with wine or gutters – but the sheer quantity of late-night rabble choking the piazzas had become alarming.
‘Yeah,’ said Sasha, ‘I know. I’ll probably go to the afternoon class but, honestly, they expect us to do homework. It isn’t fair. I’ve just taken all those GCSEs – I ought to be having a break from studying.’
‘Didn’t you know what you were signing up for?’
‘My parents said I was too young to go raving on a Greek island. This was meant to be educational and fun. Which it would have been if Ruby had come too. Only the way it’s turned out…’
From down the hall they could hear the Signora calling for the maid: ‘Katya? Katya? Dove sei?’
‘Katya asked to practise her English on me,’ said Sasha, ‘but I can’t understand her accent. And all the TV programmes are dubbed. I feel like I’m a prisoner sometimes.’ She tapped her computer. ‘Sending messages to the outside world.’
‘That’s daft,’ said Gina. She took one of her business cards from her wallet. ‘Look, I’m a professional photographer. I was supposed to be meeting Antonio today, sizing him up for a portrait, but I’ve not been allowed to see him which has pissed me off, I can tell you. So if you want a break from the Bolettis or from your course, give me a call. If I don’t answer because I’m working, leave a message and I’ll try and get back to you. Okay?’
The relief that washed over Sasha and lightened her expression was surprisingly gratifying. There was something about her smile, too, that stirred a distant, buried memory. ‘Anyway, I have to go now.’ Gina got off the bed, slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. ‘The Signora probably thinks I’m after the silverware. I’ll jangle this a bit on my way out.’ Sasha grinned and gave a thumbs up, as if becoming a conspirator had revived her. Gina stepped out of the room and into the path of Signora Boletti who was carrying a glass of iced water.
‘I was looking for the bathroom,’ said Gina. ‘And – che sorpresa – I found un’inglese.’
‘Poverina,’ said the Signora indulgently. ‘We must keep her away from Antonio, but it may already be too late.’
In Gina’s view, the Italian attitude to malady always seemed excessive. ‘Ah, but young people are made of rubber, aren’t they? They bounce back.’ She took the proffered glass and drained it. ‘Thank you so much.’
She would have liked to explore further, sneak into other rooms to get a fuller picture of Bertie’s home life – although the apartment felt less like a home than a photo shoot styled for a celebrity magazine, already airbrushed. Katya must spend all day polishing the door handles and dusting the light-fittings.
‘I’m sure,’ said Signora Boletti, ‘that when Antonio is recovered, another appointment can be arranged. Roberto is most keen for a photograph. Children grow up so quickly these days. I will find Katya to show you out.’ She extended her fingertips and withdrew them almost immediately. ‘Arrivederci, signora.’
On her way to the bus stop Gina rang Roberto. Her call went straight to voicemail so she left him a martyred message. At the very least he could take her out for a decent meal. Meanwhile, if she wanted to salvage this wasted morning, she ought to get over to the studio and do some retouching. But she wouldn’t be able to concentrate for long. Her nerves were rattled, though she couldn’t tell whether this was because of Signora Boletti, who, after all, had been perfectly civil, or whether there was something else, something unsettling about the girl, Sasha, that she was unable to place.
2
Gina’s apartment building stood at the end of a narrow street in Trastevere. At ground level there’d once been a little hive of craftsmen’s workshops; there now remained only the joiner with his random pile of chair limbs, and the upholsterer. Further along, the lavanderia and alimentari were long established but the optician with his expensive prescription sunglasses had replaced the cobbler and the bijou toyshop was changing hands for the third time. Her building was shabby: patches of plaster flaked over the lintels and paint peeled from the wooden shutters. A stone staircase twisted up to the top floor, but it was worth the climb to r
each her rooftop terrace.
This was the reason she would never move. Four storeys into the sky, with the sun baking the tiles and a view that had scarcely changed in centuries, she could imagine her world was perfect – if not quite as perfect as other people’s. Her neighbours across the way, media folk who considered themselves the new bohemians, had modern Perspex furniture the brilliant colours of boiled sweets, almost good enough to eat. They lounged in their jelly cubes waving matching cocktails and playing loud disco music. ‘Ciao, Gina!’ they’d call and she’d wave back, not letting them see for a second any glint of envy. Her outdoor chairs were old-fashioned, flaking wrought iron. They’d belonged to Felix, whose taste differed from hers, and she hadn’t got around to replacing them.
As she reached the top landing she became aware of a disturbance, of things not as they should be. Her key spun in the lock as if it had been recently oiled, and a rich cloying scent seeped under the door. When she nudged it open, she found herself facing a showy display of lilies on the hall console. In the living room bouquets of irises, roses and carnations covered every surface: the cumbersome walnut chiffonier that was too heavy to move, the low coffee table, the two chests crammed with clothes that were waiting to become vintage (although vintage was not much sought after in Italy).
It was a long time since she’d been besieged by so many flowers. The gesture seemed suspiciously flamboyant. The apartment was gloomy after the dazzling sunshine but she knew the hazards: the trailing flex of the TV, the soft, worn rugs that had slipped their moorings. She tiptoed over them all until she reached the bedroom and gave the door a dramatic shove.
Gina’s bedroom was not a sight for the faint-hearted. If you live alone there is no one to complain about the soiled laundry lying in exactly the same position for three days, the smeared make-up remover pads or the sticky Marsala glass attracting flies. Her dressing table was overcrowded and items of clothing swayed from the pediment of her wardrobe as if she lived in one large changing cubicle. She’d left the shutters closed so that light entered the room in a series of horizontal bands, slicing up its contents. She noticed immediately, however, the pale grey suit, a fine wool and mohair mix, hanging from a knob on her chest of drawers, and the pair of black shiny shoes lined up beneath it. In the middle of her double bed, his head and naked torso dark against her white pillows, the rest of his body beneath the duvet, lay Roberto. His teeth gleamed as he patted the embroidered cotton covers. ‘Surprised?’ he said.
