by Penny Feeny
‘The changing face of Italy,’ he said, ‘is our theme. In particular, we don’t wish simply to produce vacant beauties. We are looking for portraits of character to illustrate this position of flux. I will give you the full brief with the manuscript.’
‘I promise you, my portraits won’t be lacking in character.’
‘Bene. I think, from what I’ve seen, that your work and Nico’s has much in common.’
Gina didn’t care for this. Nobody likes to hear they aren’t unique. ‘Really?’ she said, as non-committal as she could manage, given that she was being compared to an accident-prone Greek she’d never met.
‘Well, you are both, if you like, immigrants yourselves. Perhaps you are attracted to rootlessness.’
‘Actually I’ve been based in Rome for the best part of twenty years.’ She paused. There was every chance the actions of Bertie and his henchman Casale might render her not only rootless but roofless too. As vulnerable as her subjects. She should not argue with this man. He had influence and contacts, the parent company was prestigious. ‘Sorry to be so prickly,’ she said, all honey again. ‘I’m sure you know the insecurities we freelancers suffer from. The project sounds fascinating and I would love to take it on. With the appropriate credits, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘We would need to discuss a fee. Plus expenses.’
‘You have an agent? Does David Farnon represent you?’
‘Only as a dealer.’ There was no need for David to have a larger slice than he was entitled to. He was already in an enviable position: a dabbler, as she thought of him.
As it turned out, the fee Morani quoted was not especially generous. However, he reminded her of other openings the project might lead to and she agreed to take away a detailed brief and the contract, which she would go over with her avvocato – not that she had one. She’d sacked her previous lawyer when he’d been incapable of dealing with Bertie’s ridiculous writs; David had offered to find her another. The actual manuscript, with accompanying images, would be emailed. Most of Nico’s work had covered the northern industrial cities. Gina’s focus was to be Rome and the south: Brindisi, Taranto, Naples, Catania. Bandit country, as she thought of it. Places where finding beauty could be a challenge, although there would be no shortage of character.
He then rose and shook her hand warmly across his well-ordered desk. More like a bank manager than a publisher, she thought to herself when he failed to ask her out to lunch. Not that she would have accepted; she’d no time for a leisurely meal. She had to get home to check the plumber had turned up. That would be the icing on her perfect cake: hot water.
Or so she thought, until she checked her phone on her way to the bus stop and saw that David had sent her a text. Possible buyer alert. Call me.
The bus was approaching. She caught her breath, didn’t breathe out until she had swung aboard. Then she dialled, the mobile sweaty in her palm. ‘Hi, David, it’s me. Mission accomplished.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Good, I think. Morani’s offered me first refusal on the commission.’
‘You aren’t going to refuse it, are you?’
‘I need to check over the terms before I sign but, you know me, I’ll do anything that raises the profile.’
Progress as they wound towards Castel Sant’Angelo was slow. The area around the Vatican was always a bottleneck and in addition they were halted by a temporary traffic light. She had a good view of a piece of stone wall. She added, ‘So if you’re looking for gratitude, darling, you have it. In spades. He wouldn’t have noticed my work if you hadn’t given me the show and nudged him to come along… so do you want me to lick your shoes now or later?’
‘You sound high, hon.’
‘I feel high. Get on with it, tell me the big news.’
‘Are you sitting down?’
‘Well, I’m on a bus, but yes, I’ve managed to get a seat. It’s not that crowded, but they’re digging up some gas pipe in the road so we’re stuck a while. You have my full attention.’
‘You got my text?’ said David. ‘I think we may have a buyer.’
‘That is so delicious! I hardly dared hope money would change hands. I thought the subject matter would be too challenging. Anyway, no matter. Tell me which one?’
‘Two, as it happens. Numbers 42 and 43.’
‘I can’t remember your damned numbering, David! What are their titles?’
‘You numbered them yourself. Aftermath 1 and Aftermath 2.’
‘Aftermath?’ said Gina as the bus finally lurched forward and gathered speed along the riverside. Through the streaky window she could see a party of schoolchildren strapped into backpacks, a daredevil scooter nipping along the narrow space between their crocodile and the side of the bus.
‘The pair you produced,’ he said, ‘when we had to take down your young football player. You are one hell of a chancer, Gina, I’ll give you that. But it turns out to be the best thing you could have done. No?’ She didn’t respond. ‘Are you still there? We have to figure out a price. Do you know which shots I’m talking about?’
‘Aftermath,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I know exactly which prints you mean. And they’re not for sale.’
That steely voice of David’s sharpened a fraction. ‘Not for sale? What’s your problema?’
‘They were a last minute substitute, weren’t they, because Bertie was putting pressure on and because you’d planned everything so rigorously we couldn’t possibly allow any blank spaces. According to you, the whole world would cave in if the proportion of gallery wall to frame was not absolutely precise. So I had to come up with the Aftermath pictures. But I don’t want to sell them.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because…’
Because Sasha Mitchell was back in Rome, and might actually still be in her apartment. This was extraordinarily bad luck and something she could never have foreseen. She hadn’t expected the girl to return, let alone seek her out. But it seemed she’d only just arrived. If Gina acted fast enough there need be no repercussions, but she couldn’t explain all this to David. He’d berate her for being unprofessional. ‘I have my reasons,’ she said.
‘They’d better be good ones.’
‘Just take them both down, will you?’
‘What, in the middle of the show? Gina, you can’t do this to me.’
‘I’ll find you something else.’
‘We already went through your portfolio. Those were the most stunning. And the buyer thinks so too. What am I going to tell the guy? He’s coming in to the gallery this afternoon and my instructions were to find out your price. Capisce?’
‘Let me think about it then.’
‘Half an hour,’ said David. ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’
‘Okay. Okay. I got the message.’
She switched off her phone, too agitated to make or receive any more calls. At Piazza Trilussa she stumbled homewards through the narrow streets. Moments ago she had been on cloud nine; why should anything change because Sasha Mitchell had reappeared? The girl need never know. In fact, the sale of the pictures presented a solution. If the buyer took them away at once and she replaced them, David might not be happy, but hey, she’d have the money and he’d get his cut. She should ask for the highest price she dared. She toyed with numbers in her head and her step lightened.
Signora Bedini was out on the pavement in her slippers, pulling down the shop’s shutters for lunch. She hardly ever left the premises or the flat above where she lived with her younger son. He sat at the till by the door collecting payment or raced around in a delivery van, dealing with orders. ‘Ciao, come stai?’ the signora hailed her, as if hoping for a chat: another chapter in the battle with her daughter-in-law. In the last instalment the grandchild had developed a shocking McDonalds habit.
‘Bene grazie,’ Gina called, not wanting to be delayed, speeding up as she neared her front door.
She was, she had to admit, apprehensive about dealing wi
th Sasha and her friend. Arguably, since the girl’s face was scarcely visible, permission should not be necessary. She’d prefer to get it, naturally, but doubted it would be granted. Gina had learnt, in her years of being photographed, to detach herself from the end product. The extraordinary looking person on the magazine page wasn’t her; it was a two-dimensional creature, preened and primped and painted. In real life no one would recognise her. But try telling that to Sasha Mitchell. She would be far too self-conscious to appreciate the power of the image Gina had created.
She needed to find a way of getting rid of the girls without arousing suspicion. If she could sweet-talk them, send them on some wild goose chase to another part of the city, out to the Catacombs for instance, it would give her time to get over to the gallery. Whereupon she’d have to sweet-talk David, who was a much tougher proposition, but she’d think of something.
She reached the top landing. No voices in her apartment: perhaps the girls had left, which would be a temporary relief. The tension constricting her neck and shoulders eased. She pushed her key into the lock. At least, she tried to push it but met resistance. Perplexed, she tried again and then thumped on the door.
‘Sasha, are you in there? Stop playing silly buggers.’
Silence. Why on earth would the girl block up her keyhole? She banged and listened once more; it was hard to tell whether there was anyone inside. She knelt and peered into the lock: nothing was visible. She poked at it uselessly with the key. Glue, that’s what it must be. She’d heard of it as a student prank, like an apple-pie bed. Then it struck her that Sasha might have been after revenge, that she might already have visited the exhibition and seen the shots of herself in abandonment.
Gina grew cold. The day that had begun with such promise was splintering into fragments. She would not let the bad luck win out. She still had the girl’s number on her phone, though she’d need to do more arm-twisting than sweet-talking at this stage. Standing in the small square of sunshine pooling from the rooflight, she thumbed through her contacts’ list. She didn’t preamble. ‘This is Gina Stanhope,’ she said when Sasha answered. ‘What are you doing right now?’
‘Right now?’ Evidently the girl was too flustered to think of lying. ‘I’m having lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, um, in a pizzeria called Ivo’s. I’m sorry we didn’t wait for you but the plumber came and fixed whatever it was, and then – ’
‘Ivo’s? San Francesco a Ripa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t leave,’ said Gina. ‘Wait for me there. I need to speak to you.’
She hung up without giving the girl time to reply. If she hurried she could get to the pizzeria in five minutes. She wouldn’t allow Sasha Mitchell the chance to run out on her. Meanwhile she had another call to make – and she was well within her allotted half hour.
‘David?’
‘Yes, hon?’
‘I’m willing to sell. The sooner the better.’
‘I knew you’d see sense. So, what – ’
‘Get as much as you can for them. I hope he’s loaded, this buyer.’
‘Could be. I’ve not come across him before.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Let me check.’ She heard the rustle of papers, diary pages perhaps or filing cards. He spoke in a low tone to the pretty boy who worked for him. Then he came back to her.
‘Franco Casale,’ he said.
23
The girls were waiting outside the pizzeria at a table covered with a green checked cloth. Sunlight dappled the paper place mats, sparkled on the glasses and the cutlery. Sasha and Ruby with their tousled hair and little pastel cardigans looked fresh, young and expectant – though not as relaxed as Mitchell had anticipated. Sasha was chewing her bottom lip, a habit of hers when she was troubled. He hadn’t wanted them to arrive in Rome ahead of him but it had been unavoidable, and they’d insisted they could cope for such a short length of time.
He dumped his soft holdall – no need for a trolley case on a casual trip – and hugged his daughter as she rose to greet him. ‘Hello, sweetheart, everything all right?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘No problems on arrival?’
She flashed a quick eye-roll at Ruby. ‘No, not really.’
‘Not really? Did the airport transfer meet you okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘The apartment,’ Ruby began.
‘What’s the matter with it?’
‘Nothing, Dad. It’s great. Only…’
‘Only what?’
‘Wicked location,’ said Ruby. ‘Done up recently too.’
‘It isn’t the one we thought we’d booked, that’s all. It’s similar though.’
‘Oh well.’ He was annoyed by the substitution, but glad it was nothing more serious. ‘These things happen. Not worth stressing over.’ The girls exchanged a look of surprise tempered by relief. ‘Have you ordered yet?’
‘We were waiting for you.’
‘And now I’m here,’ he said jovially, determined he was going to enjoy this week and the company of the two young women. He was not going to dwell on what kind of holiday his wife might be having. No point even in wishing a downpour on her: she’d probably revel in it. ‘Choose whatever you like. Let’s push the boat out.’
Their order was modest: Coke and pizza Margherita. He went for Peroni and a Capricciosa. The drinks and a basket of bread were soon set in front of them.
‘So tell me,’ said Mitchell, ‘what have you been up to this morning?’
Ruby jumped in. ‘We went to Piazza Navona but it was murder.’
‘So what brought you over here?’
It was a simple enough question but they seemed uncertain of the answer. At length Ruby said, ‘I wanted to see the river and Sash said there were all these dinky shops over this side. So we’ve been, like, browsing.’
‘Did you buy anything?’
‘Not yet. We don’t know how far our money will go. But Sash saw these earrings she really liked, turquoise and pearl and silver. They were in this proper quirky shop full of random accessories, peacock feathers and stuff and…’
Ruby was keeping up her end of the conversation but Sasha wasn’t joining in. He’d expected her to persuade him of the necessity of viewing these earrings, of coming up with a hundred reasons as to why she couldn’t go home without them – although she must know he’d say yes. Sasha had never been a greedy or demanding child, easily contented with small things. And if some of her wishes had been unfeasible – like a horse – it was all the more reason to indulge the harmless requests.
Ruby’s account was interrupted by the waiter arriving with their three crisply baked pizzas. Sasha was bringing her first forkful up to her mouth when her phone rang. Mitchell identified its distinctive ring tone, a clip from the Arctic Monkeys’ 505, but she appeared not to notice until Ruby nudged her. And when she answered, she paled as if she’d heard bad news.
‘Right now?’ she said. And then something about a plumber. She was mumbling, half turning aside.
His eyes met Ruby’s across the table. ‘Something up with the apartment?’ he said. ‘I thought you might be trying to let me down lightly. God, they’re villains, aren’t they, these short-let landlords. Take the money and run. At least you know where you are in a hotel.’
‘The apartment’s sound,’ said Ruby. ‘Not massive, but it’s okay.’ To Sasha, she said, ‘What was all that about?’
‘I don’t know. She says she can’t get into her flat. She can’t unlock the door.’
‘That’s nothing to do with us.’
‘I know! I told her we didn’t do anything. It wasn’t like we were supposed to hang around and wait for her to get back. She said we could go.’
‘D’you think something’s fallen down behind the door and blocked it?’
‘Even if it has, it’s not like we planned for it to happen.’
Mitchell had been sawing through his crust. He noticed that Sasha had
n’t picked up her fork again; her mozzarella was congealing. ‘What’s going on? If it’s not the place we’re renting, what apartment are you talking about?’
‘Oh…’ Sasha’s explanation came in a garbled rush. ‘You remember the Englishwoman who put me up last year? Mrs Raven? She lives nearby and because we were in the area anyway we called on her. We weren’t going to hang out for long, only she had this plumber due and he was late and she was busy and… oh heck… it doesn’t matter, it’s way too complicated. She’ll be here in a minute anyhow.’
‘She’ll be here in a minute,’ repeated Mitchell, a piece of anchovy fillet catching in his throat. He knew, from accessing her website, that Gina Stanhope was a photographer working in Rome; he’d worked out from what Sasha had told him that she and Mrs Raven were the same person. So how did he feel about this information? Curious probably. Twenty years, no, eighteen, was a long time. ‘What does she want you for?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sasha miserably. ‘Except that she’s locked out.’
She had hardly dented the cartwheel of her pizza. Most of the time she spent peering at the view behind him. He would not turn. You came across old girlfriends from time to time; it wasn’t a big deal. Generally the meeting would be uneventful, inauspicious: a brief embrace, an exchange of news and you moved on.
Gina, he suspected, would be different. She’d always been volatile and their relationship tempestuous – though with such long intermissions that every encounter had been like rain after a drought. Mobiles were scarce back then. If they were lucky they could both access a landline on the same continent; if not, they’d developed a convoluted method of passing on messages and arranging escapes. Theirs had been the mad passion experienced in youth – they’d met in their twenties and were completely taken up with each other – until real life and common sense had intervened.
Ruby spotted her first and elbowed Sasha. Mitchell laid down his cutlery, prepared to rise in greeting, to show irreproachable courtesy to this woman whose history his daughter had no inkling of.
At his back a whirlwind approached, slammed an enormous handbag on the table top, from which came the jingle of keys, and roared, ‘What I want to know is what the fuck were you two playing at?’
