The Apartment in Rome

by Penny Feeny

  She rested her arms on the cover of her silver laptop. ‘I have to think about my next step,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent too long putting other people first.’

  ‘Other people?’ he said, trying to suppress annoyance. ‘You mean your father?’

  It seemed to him that his father-in-law’s Alzheimer’s had dominated the first ten years of their marriage. Corinne had claimed his needs meant she had no energy for any more children. Mitchell stifled the notion that he had been cheated of a son, but from time to time her sacrifice rankled. After her father had died, she devoted herself to the cause, nobly determined to improve the lot of dementia patients.

  ‘And you. And Sash.’

  ‘Me? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m not going to bicker about it,’ she said, as if this were an act of great generosity. ‘You asked me a question and I’m trying to answer it. I feel that I’ve moved onto a different stage and – ’

  ‘ – Now that you’re Dr Mitchell.’

  ‘Don’t mock, Paul.’

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘You’ve worked incredibly hard and done incredibly well. I’m not trying to put you down. I’m trying to understand why your success should have negative implications for our marriage.’ He was pleased with the way he sounded fair and reasonable, even though his fist was clenching and unclenching under the table.

  Corinne matched his equable tone, but she was twisting a lock of hair and avoiding eye contact. ‘I’m finally at the point where I can advance my career. It’s different for you, you made it a long time ago, but I can have ambitions too.’

  ‘So you think Sash and I are holding you back?’

  ‘No, of course not. She’s grown up, for goodness’ sake and you’ve always been self-contained.’

  ‘Self-contained? What’s that supposed to mean?’ He dug his nails into his palm. ‘That I don’t easily lose my temper?’

  ‘You absent yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re never here.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ he said, bewildered. ‘I fly.’ He used to marvel that it only took four letters of the alphabet to spell out the exhilaration, the power, the unbelievable thrill of finding yourself airborne. Twenty years on, the process had become familiar, not quite so dizzying, but the lift was still there, it hadn’t dulled.

  She shrugged. ‘Even when you’re on leave you’re off doing something else, at the gym or some endless cricket match.’

  ‘But your father enjoyed the cricket! You used to encourage me to take him.’

  ‘Or building that damn wall.’

  ‘You wanted me out of the house, Corinne. Out of your way.’

  ‘The point is,’ she said coolly, ‘that I’ve a lot to think about. Future-wise. I might be applying for jobs in other parts of the country. And you might not want to come with me.’

  This was the scenario he’d feared, the three of them scattering in different directions. It had been a constant he’d never underestimated: the pleasure of touching base, coming home to his family.

  ‘I’m thinking of booking a walking holiday, which is why I don’t want to go to Rome with you and Sash. I wouldn’t be able to get to grips with any decisions on a sightseeing trip.’

  ‘We’ve talked about this before,’ he said. ‘You could take a walking holiday with me.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t work. I need to get away.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘From the general home environment.’

  It had happened so gradually, this slow erosion of common ground. At what point could he have called a halt, engineered a different direction? ‘So you’re going alone, are you?’

  ‘With Nadia probably.’

  Mitchell remembered that Nadia had recently celebrated her divorce, which was not encouraging, but with any luck Corinne would get sick of her after spending a whole week in her company. Assuming ‘Nadia’ wasn’t a codename for someone else entirely. Another man? Would Corinne be so devious? He noticed she’d taken her wedding ring off to wash the baking pans. It glinted from the window sill. He wondered how often this happened and she ‘forgot’ to put it back on. He rotated his own around his finger, the gold band a snug fit. ‘So when did you plan all this? While I was the other side of the world, so I couldn’t interfere? And when were you going to mention it? The night before you left?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Nothing’s set in stone yet. But I thought if you took Sash and Ruby to Italy, I might as well go away at the same time. When you got back just now, we were looking into options, that’s all.’

  ‘Where does that leave me?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any harm,’ said Corinne with some asperity, ‘for you to do some thinking too. You’ve been taking me for granted for an awfully long while.’

  ‘So that’s what this is all about? It can work both ways, you know.’

  ‘Paul, be honest. We’re in a rut. We need to stop avoiding the issue and take a good look at ourselves.’

  He wished he could puncture this sanctimonious air of hers, but she was entrenched on the moral high ground with her dignity of care for the demented, whereas all he did was ferry the able-bodied to and from their frivolous holidays. The fact that they placed their lives in his hands was not one she’d consider pertinent.

  ‘You ought to go to Rome with the girls,’ she said again. ‘I think it’s a good idea. You can keep an eye on them, take them out for meals, spoil them a bit.’

  ‘While you get your hiking boots and thinking cap on?’

  She pushed her hair off her face and he could see the fine lines drawn on her forehead, the slight woeful droop to her mouth as she said, ‘Yes. And I reckon you’ll be grateful in the end. I can’t have been much fun to live with lately.’

  ‘True enough.’ He smiled to bridge the gap between them, but was flummoxed by her next remark.

  ‘Don’t you have some friends in Rome anyway? That woman.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? She kept ringing up, soon after I moved in with you, and leaving messages. But you’d never ring back. It was ages ago. What was her name… Vicki?’

  ‘Vicki Harris? God no, I hardly knew her. She was some ex-pat, probably moved on.’ He waved his hand as if to bat away the distant Vicki. He’d forgotten all about her, but the precision of Corinne’s recall alarmed him.

  Even more alarming, on reflection, was the licence she was giving him to return.

  19

  Gina opened her internal mailbox on the ground floor and withdrew a white envelope. Her hands shook; there was a tremble in the back of her calves as she climbed the stairs. Should she open it once she got in or throw it straight into the bin? This must be the fourth or fifth she’d received – she hadn’t kept count – and she knew it would contain another notice to quit the apartment. In theory she was protected for a further eighteen months, until her lease came up for renewal, but Bertie wouldn’t let a bit of legislation get in the way of his ambitions.

  He hadn’t forgiven her for dumping him, that was the truth of it. After his holiday last summer he’d rung her several times, remonstrating, trying to coax her back. When this failed he’d turned irate and vindictive. There had come the occasion when the police battered at her door with a search warrant. She had been denounced for indecency.

  Later, with friends, she could laugh at such absurdity, but at the time she’d had to hide both her shock and her desire to giggle. ‘What sort of indecency?’ she’d demanded, admitting two officers into the hallway. She was confident that she was dressed demurely and all her sensitive prints were safe in the studio.

  The complaints, she was told, concerned the fact that she was running an unlicensed business, a casino or bordello. People had been seen trooping up the stairs either to supply or to pay for sex.

  Gina had kept her nerve. ‘This is a private residence,’ she’d said with dignity. ‘Look around if you like, but most of what you’ll find here belonged to my late husband. I can’t imagine where this lurid suggestion has come f
rom.’

  Sheepishly, the police agreed their informant must have been mistaken. Their glance into the rooms was cursory; they didn’t open a drawer or a cupboard. They issued an apology, which was also part warning, and left on good terms. Gina resolved to take extra care in future – and then the writs started to arrive.

  The legal advice she’d sought had not been reassuring: fighting Bertie would drain time and money she didn’t have. On the other hand, his tactics were scaremongering rather than enforceable. The easiest response was simply to ignore them.

  Which was why she did not now open the fourth (or fifth?) letter. She crumpled it into a ball and plunged it into a mess of coffee grounds, orange peel and yoghurt pots in the bin under the sink. She sought something mouldy from her fridge to pile on top. Frankly, she didn’t have time to be cowed by Bertie’s bullying. Clearly she would have to devise a strategy of her own, but not yet. She had other, far more exciting, priorities to occupy her: tonight was the opening of her exhibition.

  David had honoured his commitment and in between commercial assignments, she had been selecting, editing, retouching and recomposing her images for his satisfaction. He had a good eye, she had to admit, and he’d agreed to her chosen title, I Vulnerati, which she hoped suggested the wounds and scars of her vulnerable subjects. They’d had a few arguments over what to say in the publicity and whether any of the boys in her photographs should come to the opening (answer, no). And of course it wasn’t a solo show. But, minor niggles apart, she owed a debt of gratitude to David Farnon.

  She was turning away from the sink, switching on the iron, blotting out the very existence of unwanted post, when he rang her. ‘Hope you’re putting your best party frock on.’

  ‘I’m about to iron it now. Red as sin, it is. Knock out.’

  ‘I have a nice piece of news for you.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You remember,’ David said, ‘I have a client, an art-house publisher, on the guest list and I reckoned you’d be right up his street? Well, I’ve been speaking to him and he’s kinda keen to meet you.’ There was a pause; she could hear him giving directions to a minion.

  ‘Sounds almost too good to be true,’ said Gina.

  ‘Have faith, hon. He has a crowded schedule, so he can’t stay long. But he’s going to swing by early so if you want to make the right impression roll up in good time, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘You think I’d be late for my own show?’ She’d allowed plenty of time to prepare herself and already made a booking with Mario.

  Three hours later he dropped her off in front of the Galleria Farnon. She mounted the shallow stone steps and pushed through the swing doors. A vast reception table was beached on the limestone floor, spotlights dazzled from the ceiling. Waiters in slinky black outfits posed with trays of fizzing prosecco. David was deep in conversation with one of the other exhibitors. He waved but didn’t come over. Gina could have joined them, but she wanted to savour the pleasure of seeing her images so well ordered on the walls. She lifted a glass of prosecco to her lips and enjoyed the first surge of alcohol.

  There was another person already studying her portraits, a lanky man in a brown suit. Ideally David should make the introductions, but why wait if the publisher was in a hurry? As she hesitated, the man turned and approached her, holding out his hand. He had a formal old-fashioned air. ‘Signora Stanhope? I have been hoping to meet you.’

  ‘Gina, please.’

  ‘I am Franco Casale. I admire your work very much.’

  ‘You do? Thank you.’

  Casale had a beard that emphasised the jut of his jaw – more Venetian than Roman, she thought – and he stroked it as he appraised her, rather as if she too were for purchase; her composure didn’t falter.

  ‘So, Gina…’ He tapped the catalogue pinned under his arm. ‘I have been reading about you. You have been following these people who live… on the margins, shall we say?’

  ‘I find them interesting. Of course, I realise the images could be seen as a statement on society…’ They were standing in front of a shot of refugees lined up along a graffitied wall. She’d used a long exposure so the men appeared like wraiths, the belligerent slogans harshly visible through their bodies. ‘But I’m not making a judgement. I want my work to be seen as art, not propaganda.’ This was not exactly what she had told Father Leone.

  ‘This is a new development for you?’

  ‘In that it’s not a private commission, yes. I do enjoy working for my clients, but there are restrictions… I mean you can’t always be truthful. And that’s what I aim to do as an artist, convey the truth.’

  A waiter approached with a platter of canapés. Casale helped himself to two crostini and an anchovy stuffed tomato. He must be one of those men, Gina decided, who was permanently hungry. She couldn’t eat a thing. He dabbed oil from his mouth with a small paper napkin. No crumbs in his beard fortunately. ‘But you have not always been a photographer?’ he said.

  ‘True. I began as a model.’

  ‘So what made you switch to the other side of the camera?’

  She was feeling exhilarated and a little reckless. This man liked her pictures. And if he wanted to learn more about Gina Stanhope the person, she would do her best to entertain him.

  ‘Let me tell you a funny story.’ She allowed her glass to be topped up and continued. ‘You know the famous scene in La Dolce Vita where Anita Ekberg wades into the Trevi Fountain? Well, I’d been booked for a high-class jewellery campaign and we were going to reproduce it.’

  Casale tipped his head to one side, he seemed to be listening with interest.

  ‘We had to shoot in the early hours of the morning with the area cordoned off. So there I was in the middle of the fountain in a peroxide wig, a black silk taffeta dress and this string of topaz stones on a gold chain. We’d been hanging around for so long I’d folded my arm, cosi.’ She demonstrated, cupping her elbow in her left hand, caressing her collarbone with her right. ‘Then, just as the photographer raised the camera, some kids on a scooter came charging through the cordon. You know what the carabinieri are like, all posturing and pistols. They whipped out their guns, though the kids had gone before they could do anything. But because I was startled my fingers caught in the chain and it snapped.

  ‘The guy took the shot anyway, at the very moment the topaz went spinning off like great balls of fire. It was fantastic actually, but it couldn’t be used for the campaign, so he entered it for a competition instead and won a major prize. Meanwhile, what had I got? Wet feet!’

  This was a tale she had told before and it usually made her listeners laugh but Casale, if anything, looked disapproving. Puzzled, he said, ‘You mean you were obliged to stop modelling because of a broken necklace?’

  ‘No, not at all!’ He had completely missed the point. Gina was annoyed with herself. She had wanted to show him, what, that she was someone with a colourful past? Marketable. But a photographer didn’t need a personality; she had to remember this. She was only a filter.

  ‘I think the story is not true,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Had he actually called her a liar? She gulped at the rest of her drink.

  After an uncomfortable silence he added, ‘I’m sorry if I offend you.’

  This was not going well. She needed to change the subject. ‘It’s my fault,’ she said lightly, ‘for talking too much about myself. What about your projects? I’ve seen some of your books, I think. Those beautiful editions following the routes of the pilgrims…’

  ‘My books?’

  ‘You are – ’ Hell, she couldn’t remember what the company was called. And why hadn’t David given her his name? ‘I mean, you do publish…’

  ‘But no, mi dispiace, this is not my profession.’ He repeated, ‘I am Franco Casale,’ and handed over a business card.

  She accepted it with forefinger and thumb and slipped it between her palm and the base of her wine glass, too mortified to read the details. It was enough that he wa
sn’t who she thought he was.

  ‘I believe we have an acquaintance in common.’ He had an unswerving gaze and was watching closely for her reaction. ‘Roberto Boletti?’

  Gina blanched. If the man was a friend of Bertie’s, there was no knowing what he might be devising. She raked the room for rescue. Friends had begun to arrive; she thought she spotted Vicki with her husband. ‘I’m afraid there are other people here I need to see.’

  ‘If this is not a suitable occasion, I apologise, but with regard to Boletti – ’

  ‘I’m sorry. I really don’t think we have anything else to say to each other.’ She edged away, not wanting him to see how he had unsettled her. She ripped the small white card in half and discarded it. She took a fresh glass from the waiter’s tray and allowed herself to be drawn into a warm clutch of well-wishers. As long as she could keep herself cushioned by drink and company, the rest of the evening should swim along perfectly.

  The following day David sent her a series of urgent texts. When she rang him back he said accusingly, ‘You didn’t answer your phone.’

  ‘I went to bed late. I had it on silent. What’s up?’

  He wasn’t calling to gossip or dissect the occasion, that was for sure. He sounded agitated. ‘You’d better get your ass over here, pronto. And bring your laptop.’

  David was no longer her favourite person. The promised publisher had failed to materialise altogether, and despite, or because of, oceans of prosecco, she had a nasty taste in the back of her throat and a sharp pain at her temple. She bridled. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  Gina refused to be rushed. She took a long shower, tossed down a scalding espresso, and chose to walk. She needed the fresh air.

  When she arrived at the gallery, David was halfway up a small stepladder unhooking a pair of photographs from the wall. She held the door open, not wanting to call out while he was on the ladder. As soon as his pristine moccasins found their footing she let it click shut. ‘What are you doing?’