by Penny Feeny
David tapped the polished surface of his desk. The door to the gallery opened; voices murmured but didn’t linger. ‘So tell me, what are you trying to achieve here?’
‘I take a damn good picture,’ said Gina, wishing he wouldn’t put her on the defensive.
‘Sure you do, hon, but you know what, I think you’re too influenced by your day job.’
‘I don’t have a day job. This is what I do.’
‘I mean your newlyweds. All that romantic touchy-feely stuff. I think you could be harder, know what I mean? It would make your work stronger, more acute. There’s a lot of potential here.’ He continued to toy with some of the nude studies. He picked up one in which the jagged scar on Yusef’s thigh was echoed by the play of light and shadow across his torso. ‘These are a bit sub-Mapplethorpe, but there might be a market for them.’
She had to grit her teeth. She’d always had a problem with her temper. She’d once thrown a bottle of nail varnish at the Lion King. Another man might have thrown it back, but he’d ducked and then, being a priest, he’d crossed the room to take her hands between his and calm her down. David might simply put everything away and show her the door. He was influential and it would be foolish to antagonise him.
‘I hoped you’d say that.’
‘There could be an issue with their age, permissions and so forth. Though no way do these look like kids to me.’
‘I have the boys’ consent. I’ve told them that anything I can get I’ll pass on.’
‘You want me to make enquiries?’
‘That would be great, but it isn’t…’ She fidgeted in her seat, uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. ‘I mean, those are a side line, to try and help them make a living. There’s also the question of… We did talk about a show.’
‘We did?’ He drew his hand across his stubble and tugged an ear lobe, ruminating. His ears were remarkably small, Gina had always thought, delicate pink whorls that you might see on a young child. And weren’t those scars behind them? His jawline was so tight she suspected a facelift. Gina and David were more or less the same age, both trying to preserve the illusion of youth. Unlike him, she didn’t have the money for plastic surgery – but she knew how to work magic with cosmetics.
‘I’m programmed up until next March,’ he told her. ‘I figured I could put on a group show in April. There are a few other guys who’ve sent me some interesting work.’
‘Other photographers?’
‘Well, sure.’
This was a blow. But hadn’t she already learnt that life was a bloody race and there were always competitors snapping at her heels? What was the alternative? To pickle herself as her mother had done? As far as she could tell, Phoebe lay on a couch in her hacienda hooked up to a constant drip of Gordon’s gin and Latin American TV soap opera. She still danced at parties but only in that brief window between inertia and inebriation, when she’d fall over.
Gina would have preferred to be the sole exhibitor, but she had to be realistic. Even a group show offered exposure; it was better than nothing. ‘I’d be happy for you to consider me,’ she said, not wanting to seem too eager.
‘It’s a question of balance,’ he began, as if delivering a lecture. ‘Between one’s instincts for art and the need for… I guess you’d call it saleability.’
‘Oh God,’ said Gina. ‘Not that old chestnut again. Anyhow, I don’t understand what you’re getting at – do you think I’m too commercial, or not enough?’
‘Your work is charming,’ David said, ‘but you know what: charming doesn’t command the same price, not with serious collectors. You could be way more hard-hitting.’
‘Of course I could! If you want challenging I’ll give it to you.’ Images flashed through her brain of the crypt, the dark unsavoury space, barred windows, a brooding mass of vaulted stone; the scarred youths with wounds both mental and physical. ‘And then you’ll be telling me to tone it down.’
‘No, hon. I could double your prices. So here’s the deal: I’ll pencil you into the programme. Show me some more stuff later in the year and if I like it and you fit in with my other choices I’ll take you on. Happy?’
She nodded although she didn’t see how this was an improvement. He had hedged his offer with so many qualifiers his commitment was negligible.
‘These,’ he added, making a neat pile of the nudes and returning the rest to the folder, ‘I’ll hang on to, shall I? You got anything else you’d like me to sell?’
Once, two or three years ago, when she’d had a bad run of late payments and nothing much on the horizon, she’d drawn the line at hocking her equipment or calling her mother, so had sold a couple of paintings instead. Felix wouldn’t have minded, she knew, but she’d felt treacherous all the same and a failure for not keeping his collection together. David’s eyes had lit up – he hadn’t charged gallery commission rates, but he’d taken a cut none the less.
‘No I haven’t.’ He’d riled her with his sub-Mapplethorpe reference and now he was expecting her to be grateful for his largesse. ‘And I need to know if you’re buying those off me straight? Because this is a sensitive area. I don’t want Father Leone to find out or he might forbid me access. At the same time the boys need money, and I need to cover my costs.’
‘Sweetheart, you know I’d no more screw you over than jump your bones…’ He drew his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and handed her a fifty euro note. ‘Take them out to lunch on me. I’ll give you a call if I get any offers.’
‘Lunch,’ echoed Gina, enjoying the crisp feel of the cash and feeling mildly insulted at the same time.
David swept back his hair and checked his handsome watch. ‘Yeah, it’s darn near time. I’m meeting Sergio and a couple of friends for a bite. I booked the table for four but I daresay you could squeeze in if you wanted to hang out with us some more.’
Gina marvelled at David’s ability to make an invitation sound discouraging. It had been Sergio, amiable, good-natured Sergio, who’d asked her over for the Sunday meal; he loved to cook for a crowd. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I already have a date.’
‘Sure you do.’ His eyes travelled to the note she was tucking into her purse.
‘No, not with them.’
His thin lips cracked into a smile. ‘Ah, do I detect a new man on the horizon?’
‘Sadly, I’m making do with the old one. It’s not what you think. I’ve arranged to see a girlfriend who works near here. She finishes at one, so I should get a move on. Thank you for…’ For what, exactly, an offer he might not keep? ‘I know it will be great working with you.’
He gave a stilted little bow from the waist. ‘Take care, hon.’ Then he called her back. ‘Hey, Gina, you’ve left your portfolio behind.’
She beamed at him sweetly. ‘Do you mind? I don’t really want to lug it around. I’ll call back for it in a day or so. Give you a chance to take another look.’
She was on the street again before he could argue, fired up for her next encounter: one where she would be calling the shots.
6
The person Gina intended to haul over the coals for the next hour was her former roommate, Vicki. They’d shared a flat when both had first come to Rome, but they no longer shared a circle of friends. Vicki had captured a dentist and lived several kilometres away on a housing development that had tried to copy the English model, with garages and unsuccessful areas of lawn. Gina visited rarely: for the christening of the couple’s twins and two or three blind-date dinner parties, equally disastrous. As a rule they met in the city for occasional cocktails or lunches.
Vicki worked for an accommodation agency, whose windows displayed wide-angled shots of seemingly spacious apartments with huge monthly rents. When Gina entered, Vicki was talking into the mouthpiece of a headset and scrolling through an online magazine. She clicked off the screen and completed her conversation with a flurry of ‘ciaos’ and ‘grazies’.
‘Gina, darling!’ Vicki seized her bag, pushed her chair beneath her desk and w
aved her colleagues goodbye. She used to be small and thin but was now small and plump, like a full-breasted robin. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Gina. ‘You’re paying.’
Vicki flushed and hunted for her dark glasses. By the time they were out in the melee of office workers lighting cigarettes and drivers mounting the pavement to negotiate inadequate parking spaces, she’d hidden her eyes. ‘You’re right. My treat, I said, so let’s go to La Fontana.’
Gina could have put money on La Fontana a week ago. It was a traditional trattoria with an uninventive menu, but you could always find a seat. It was their default option. They agreed it would be cooler inside and sat towards the back, near the wall-hung air conditioning unit. A paper tablecloth was clipped over the gingham fabric one; colourful ceramic flasks of oil and vinegar and a vase of yellow daisies squatted between them.
‘Heavens, it’s been ages,’ Vicki said with false enthusiasm. ‘I feel so bad about not getting in touch. But it’s been one thing after another with the twins. Everything comes in double doses… Anyway, I’m really glad you rang.’
‘You are?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘Don’t you want to know why?’
Vicki leaned forward. ‘I have to take my shoes off, my feet are killing me.’ There was a smack of leather hitting the tiles. A waiter was hovering so she lifted her sunglasses to study the menu but, as usual, chose a salad. Gina ordered soup, followed by veal and half a carafe of wine; she was hungry.
‘I wish I could eat as much as you and not put on an inch,’ sighed Vicki. ‘Now, I’m going to take a guess. You’re looking for a new place?’
‘You always ask me that.’
‘Only because I think I can find you the very thing. Somewhere the plumbing works, somewhere with a lift even – though I suppose the stairs are good exercise for you.’
‘And a terrace. Can you get me a terrace?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘How far out? At the end of Via Flaminia? Halfway to bloody Civitavecchia?’
‘Well, the further you go the more space you get for your money. It’s not rocket science.’
‘And what about your commission? I bet it’s generous.’
‘Jesus, Gina, you know I don’t do this job for the money!’
Gina did know that. It was a situation she couldn’t envisage. Why would a person choose to spend their morning in a dull office dealing with dodgy landlords when they could, with a little imagination, follow much more interesting pursuits?
Vicki, formerly a holiday rep, had chased a sunny fantasy of married life which had trapped her into a rigorous observance of family traditions: anniversaries and saints’ days and festivals, children’s parties and concerts and school performances. She went to work for the sake of the gossip, for a bit of role-play, for the extra money to justify her designer handbags. Never in her life had Gina bought a handbag; she owned an extensive collection, all presents, which she was whittling down. Clearly Vicki was bored.
‘Anyhow,’ said Gina. ‘I’m planning to stick where I am for as long as I can. I think you know what I’m really here for.’
Her bowl of minestrone was delivered along with a basket of coarse crusty bread; she tore off a hunk and dipped it into the soup. Vicki toyed with a breadstick, snapped it in two and crunched the smaller piece. Thanks to her husband, her teeth were in perfect condition. Gina noticed some spots at her temple that might have been sun damage and could do with concealer.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
Vicki leant her cheek on her palm, consciously or unconsciously covering the moles with her fingertips. Eventually she said, ‘I was trying to be helpful.’
Gina was in the process of adding salt. ‘Helpful!’
‘If you’re talking about the Scuola di lingua, I was just doing my job.’
‘Have they been clients of yours for long?’
‘Who, the summer school? Yes. It’s the same every year, honestly. We block-book a whole load of lodgings for their older students. The rooms in family homes are usually arranged separately but we keep a handful on our books. And, as you know, Roberto Boletti has several properties registered with us anyway so…’
‘I can’t believe Bertie would have the faintest interest in offering open house to some pimply adolescent. Like you, he doesn’t need the money.’
‘It was his wife,’ said Vicki, drawing a pile of dry crumbs into a peak. A group of diners, most likely bank clerks or bureaucrats, came to sit at the adjacent table. The men loosened their ties and hung their jackets over the backs of the chairs, which squealed as they were scraped into new positions. Vicki’s phone began to ring; Gina glared until she switched it off. ‘His wife was genuinely interested, she liked the idea of a British companion for their son. Though when I first contacted her, I’m afraid she may have thought that Sasha Mitchell was a boy.’
‘So you actually called her?’
‘I wasn’t being manipulative! Honestly, Gina, you have to believe me. The trouble was, it was all very last minute because the girl had been going to stay somewhere else. The school asked me as a favour to see what I could do. I tried the Bolettis on the off-chance. I was as surprised as you when they said yes.’
‘You’ve said “honestly” twice now.’
Vicki said angrily, ‘Look, we haven’t seen each other in months and already you’re accusing me of all sorts of shenanigans. I don’t have that kind of power.’
‘Why did you do it?’ Gina pushed her soup away; it was too watery and she’d added too much salt. ‘Was it for divertimento?’
‘I told you, I was doing my job.’
This was too simple a get-out clause; no way was she going to let Vicki off the hook. Although if she’d been in the same position, with every day of her life mapped out, she’d probably be tempted to a little mischief herself. ‘So when did you make the connection? When did you say to yourself, here’s an interesting proposition: let’s see what would happen if I farmed out the daughter of Gina’s old boyfriend to the family of her current one. And how did you know who she was anyway?’
Their main courses arrived: Vicki’s milky circles of mozzarella like slices of the moon on a plate, interleaved with tomato and basil; Gina’s scallopine sprinkled with parsley.
‘There was information about the parents on the form. Name and occupation: Paul Mitchell, pilot. I mean, it’s not an uncommon surname. It could have been a different man altogether. I’d no way of knowing for certain…’
Gina doused her patate fritte in vinegar. ‘But you thought you’d have a little fun at my expense?’
‘You’d’ve done the same,’ said Vicki defensively. ‘I bet you would. And anyway, it wasn’t up to me. I made a suggestion, the Bolettis didn’t have to act on it. It was serendipity really.’
‘What did you expect to come of it? Antonio’s at least a year younger so I don’t think romance is very likely. Or was it the prospect of playing God that pleased you?’
‘Okay – it was a stupid thing to do. I acted on a whim, but no, I didn’t have any expectations.’ With fork poised midway to her mouth, she added, ‘Perhaps it was a bit underhand, but there’s no harm done is there?’
‘Except the kid’s going to wonder why I don’t want anything to do with her.’
‘Oh my God, you’ve met her! That wasn’t meant to happen! I didn’t think for a moment that Boletti would actually introduce you to his family. However did it come about?’
‘He’s commissioned a portrait of his son, as it happens. I went to visit.’
‘And that’s when you saw the girl?’ Vicki looked crestfallen. ‘You have to believe me. I wouldn’t have upset you for the world.’ She laid her hand tenderly over Gina’s. ‘So, was it really painful?’
‘It was disconcerting,’ she admitted. ‘Once I’d realised.’
‘It must have been so weird for you. Did she… look like him at all?’
‘Same colour
ing I guess. Not much else to link them.’
This was not quite true. Already, at their second meeting, she’d been aware of something intangible in Sasha. Holding the girl’s head in her hands while doing her make-up, observing the thrust of her chin, the throb at her temple, the untamed shape of her eyebrows, she had registered a sense of familiarity. The mention of Mitch’s name, although shocking, had not been a total surprise. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. How could she know what had happened before she was born? The break-up that had been handled so badly. It wasn’t an area Gina wanted to revisit; she’d spent years trying to bury her emotions. She would deny that Mitch had broken her heart, but he was the man with the worst timing in the world.
She poured the rest of the carafe into her wine glass. ‘Look, this ought to be nothing to do with me. I don’t want to get involved, but the kid’s out on a limb and seems to need someone to keep an eye on her. I don’t think either the older or the younger Signora Boletti really understands, so in the circumstances maybe you –’
‘Me?’
‘You dealt this hand, Vick.’
‘What can I do? It would be the same whichever family she was lodging with. And I have to get back to the twin terrors every afternoon. Really, if she’s in trouble it’s the language school’s responsibility, not mine.’
‘She isn’t in trouble; she just seems a bit adrift. As well as being naive for her age but, hey, what do I know about adolescence? All that angst? It was a helluva long time ago.’
‘I’ll check with the school,’ said Vicki. ‘I’ll find a way of making discreet enquiries to make sure she’s settling in. And I suppose I could ask her over for a meal one evening…’
‘She’d never be able to find you. I already had to send Mario to the rescue when she got lost.’
