The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  ‘Do you think he’ll like it?’

  ‘Kitten, he adores you, how could he not?’

  Her parents had rejoiced at her engagement – it meant hosting another of their famous ‘occasions’, for one thing – with her mother immediately swinging into action and procuring the services of Mr John Galano’s atelier. The stiff ivory wedding invitations had become the most sought-after accessory of the season; not making the cut as one of the 400 guests at Graystones on the afternoon of Thursday 16 August was akin to social exile for the Manhattan elite.

  Some eyebrows had been raised as to the speed of the engagement, yet more as to the relative poverty of the groom – the wealth of his family’s modest but rapidly expanding timber business in Vermont was as nothing compared to the colossal Valentine fortune – but that was only to be expected. They were bigots and snobs, stuck in the past. Her mother was right: she was a modern girl, marrying not for fortune or influence, but love, and these past seven weeks she had never known such happiness. Jack had showed her another, freer world beyond the strict confines of the Graystones compound and she loved nothing more than sitting on the rocks as he fly-fished for stripers, watching him skipper down Block Island Sound (Jack had promised to teach her how to swim so that she wouldn’t be so nervous around boats), bringing him luck and kissing the die on his blackjack nights.

  He was invigorating to be around, a breezy gust in the otherwise still air of her circle, charming her friends, who all agreed he was a dream and ‘the absolute spit’ of Tab Hunter. In fact, he had bowled over everyone apart from Winnie, her beloved governess – but she, by her own admission, didn’t believe anyone could ever be good enough for Laney, so that didn’t count.

  Every day, Laney gave thanks that their paths should have crossed. Her instincts had been correct – he had crashed the party, although he’d been cleverer than to scale the walls. His roommate at Brown, the son of a valued client of her father’s, had been invited but was struck down with a bout of gastroenteritis the morning of the party. In spite of the security at the gates and the patrol dogs, mere presentation of the stiff invitation had been enough to get in and Jack had spent the night glad-handing her father’s guests, waiting for the moment when she would make her appearance. Her reputation as a beauty had preceded her, he’d said, and he’d wanted to see with his own eyes the creature throwing his generation’s finest into raptures – even though he’d always gone for blondes; even though, as far as he was concerned, heiresses were more trouble than they were worth. A seduction had seemed like fun, he’d teased, but he hadn’t counted on losing his heart.

  He was bold and confrontational, unpredictable. A wild card. Unlike the acolytes in her parents’ circle, he was fearless. And when Laney’s furtive relationship with him had been discovered by her parents and he had been invited for lunch (with the express intention of intimidating him away), he had flirted with her mother, coolly thrashed her father at backgammon and then promptly asked for her hand. Most grown men fawned in her father’s company, but even George Valentine had to admit that at the tender age of twenty-one, Jack Montgomery was already not most men.

  The church bells still jangled in her ears, the memory fixing in her mind of the stretched faces in the congregation, so hazy behind her veil. Her dress was draped on the chair opposite, looking more like a storm-battered swan’s wing now that several feathers had detached from the skirt. The tulle was hanging limply (would the zibeline have been better after all?), the torn veil rolled up in a ball on the dressing table.

  She stretched in the bed, grateful to be out of the corset, her body soft and heavy in the drip-dry sheets, wondering when she would finally get to be alone with her new husband. She was excited and nervous at the same time. Whenever his hands had wandered before, in the back of his car or down at the lake house, she had had to move them away, even when she hadn’t wanted to, his urgency a breathless pleading in her ear. But now they were married, husband and wife, they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. She couldn’t quite believe he was putting off this moment longer than necessary; how many times had he begged her these past few weeks, reminding her they were engaged, ‘all but married anyway’? And now he was the one keeping her waiting, his craps game still in play on the other side of the door, his friends – so courteous earlier in their blazers and flannels – now growing rowdy and drunk, their jackets off, shirt-sleeves rolled up.

  She pulled the sheet tighter around her as a voice approached the dividing door, sounding close – too close. There was laughter, then some shouts. More laughter. And then the voice faded away again, silence dominating as the dice were thrown.

  Her eyes never left the door. It didn’t do to look too closely at the ‘hotel’ he had brought her to for the first night of their honeymoon. They were not two miles from home and she hadn’t been able to hide her surprise at the flickering road sign or the rattling windows, the plastic flowers in the vase at reception, but she didn’t think to complain; she didn’t want to. He was giving her what she’d told him she had always wanted – a real life in the real world, no longer kept behind the glass like a doll in a house. It was also his way of making a statement, a way of showing the world – and the press that had clamoured at the church steps – that he didn’t care about money, hers or anyone’s. They loved each other, plain and simple. He was no gold digger and she loved him for it. She didn’t care where they slept or how they lived. She was Mrs Jack Montgomery, sixteen years old and married to the handsomest man she had ever seen.

  Besides, it wasn’t the décor that had disconcerted her most, but the adjustment to getting ready for bed without Winnie to help her. Tonight had been the first time ever and though the tiny silk buttons on the dress had been tricky, as had the stays on the corset, she had managed it and lay here now, expectant in blush satin, her hair down and brushed to a midnight gleam.

  She changed her position, bending the right leg over the left to maximize the undulations of her still-developing curves, her newly dyed blue-black hair fanned over the pillows. She wondered whether the party was continuing without them at Graystones and whether everyone was still having a good time; whether anyone was wondering if she was. The send-off had been jubilant, rose petals showered on them like a scented rain as they ran, hand in hand, towards the new Bentley her father had presented to them as a wedding gift, her honeymoon trousseau already packed in the trunk. She closed her eyes and conjured visions of couples still twirling in their summer colours, straining to hear through the open windows the echoes of the big band sounds drifting down the water here to Newport and out to sea.

  Was it the hand that woke her first? Or his breath? Both were hot and hard against her skin as he grappled with the slippery nightgown that was now twisted around her, the sheet thrown to the floor, one knee between her legs.

  ‘Jack—?’

  She went to lift her head, to look over her shoulder, but instead she was pushed face-first into the pillow, the stale odour telling her too much in one breath about the hygiene of the motel, his hand pressing her cheek down to the mattress and keeping her there.

  ‘Quiet!’ His voice was a hiss, his breath rank with bourbon, the full length of his body pressed against hers, the full weight of it squeezing the air from her lungs as he fumbled with his fly, the cold leather of his shoes pressing against the bare soles of her feet, forcing them apart.

  She struggled, panicking, trying to breathe, trying to get out from under him, to get away. She freed her head from his grasp, lifting it up for air and glimpsing the room in snatched gasps – the pink fringed bedside lamp, the crack of light through the curtains, her forlorn dress ghostly on the chair, the wire hangers like silver ribs through the open door of the wardrobe. But though he was drunk, he was too strong and as his palm spread around the back of her head, pushing her down again, she was as pinned as an entomologist’s butterfly.

  ‘No—’

  She knew what was coming. Instinct and the brief talk from her mothe
r that morning – ‘Just try to relax and hold still’ – told her. Hot tears, with nowhere to go, puddled and pooled in her eyes as she felt him tear into her. Her face twisted and contorted with pain, her mouth open to scream, but any sound that came was muffled in the pillow as white hot flashes streaked behind her eyelids.

  This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They loved each other. They were married. She was his. What had she done wrong?

  He moved faster, her own blood a lubricant, abetting him. She stopped fighting – it only made it worse – and he grunted, sensing her surrender, pushing deeper, harder, faster. She willed herself to be still, to survive this.

  Three minutes was all it took. With a final guttural groan that boomed and swirled in her ear, he pulled out and collapsed on his back on the bed beside her. Silence blanketed the room, shame permeating her as surely as the blood staining the sheets. She didn’t stir, she couldn’t move at all through the shock and terror, forced instead to listen to the sound of his breathing become regular again, watching him through the blur of tears as though she was at the bottom of a pool, looking up to the sky. He stared unseeing at the ceiling, not noticing the spider cracks in the plaster, before rolling his head to the side and looking at her, the whites of his eyes pinked, his lips and cheeks ruby with drink, his blond hair like a stray shaft of sunlight on the pillow. Drowsily, with sleep already rolling up his body like a wave, he lifted his hand and dropped it heavily on her bare ass. He patted it.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Montgomery.’

  Chapter Eight

  Rome, July 2017

  Cloud pines dotted the sky, pigeons sporadically darting across her frame of vision. The grass felt cool beneath Cesca’s bare arms, the spongy mat sticky with sweat between her shoulder blades. A short distance away, she could hear the splash of oars cutting through the boating lake, the babble of tourists’ chatter as they exited the Villa Borghese and explored the park.

  Beside her, Alessandra began to snore.

  ‘Stop it,’ Cesca giggled, walloping her lightly on the stomach with her nearest arm.

  Alessandra cracked up, rolling onto her side and resting her head in one hand. ‘You know this bit bores me.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be centring yourself. Connect with your breath.’

  ‘I’d rather connect with that guy from Zizi the other night.’ Her voice was low, her laugh dirty. ‘You really missed a good time.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . I was trying to be a responsible adult for once.’

  ‘And look what happened there. You got fired. I hope you have learned your lesson.’ Alé grinned and collapsed onto her back, staring up at the sky, a red bra strap peeking out from beneath her khaki ribbed vest, the orange nail polish on her toes chipped and missing from some nails altogether. They always said theirs was a pop-up friendship, like one of those camping tents you could pack in a bag and throw open wherever you stopped. From the first time they’d met at Glastonbury, there had been an immediate recognition, an understanding between them. It had helped that they were both drunk at the time, but Alé was certain they were both old souls reconnecting from another life. Whatever, Cesca was just grateful they’d been in the queue for the toilets at the same time. It was Alessandra who had talked her into following her dream and coming out here when Cesca had tearily told her she’d quit her job and had no idea what her future looked like any more; Alé who had helped her with her Italian when her audio course had her speaking like a courtier; Alé who had opened the doors for her to this life in Rome, introducing her to her ‘brothers’ – the boys she’d befriended in childhood, Matteo and Guido – and helping her secure the apartment, Signora Dutti being a friend of her grandmother.

  Cesca closed her eyes again, her body heavy with fatigue after another night of broken sleep and an intense day’s work. She had left the palazzo at five, after eight hours of sorting through thousands of small black-and-white photographs. It had been a dizzying introduction to a life lived at the very highest level of privilege. She half felt she had experienced Elena’s childhood in real time – almost every moment had been captured because almost every moment had been special. How could it not be when ponies and rabbits and puppies were as plentiful as toys, and some of the finest real estate on the Eastern Seaboard was her playground?

  As Alberto brought through trays of tea and cakes at two-hourly intervals, she had begun by pulling out one or two images from different times in Elena’s childhood, starting with all the obvious baby and pram shots, through the toddler years and moving through childhood towards Elena’s adolescence; she had finished the day with Elena at fifteen or sixteen, which she considered to be pretty good going for one day’s work. She had then gone through them again, writing down the questions that each image posited – who’s that woman in almost all the photos? What was the name of that horse?

  Elena had told her the publishers wanted a 300-page book with a preliminary cut of 250 images which, given there had been over 1,000 photographs in the first box alone, meant they were going to need to be ruthless with the edits. Cesca could see why Elena had wanted someone objective working on the project. Whittling down a seventy-plus-year life to a set number of images, of moments, was harder than it looked. But Cesca was unfazed; as a barrister, she had had to work through boxes, several kilograms heavy, full of documents and evidence and testimonies, and cut through to the singular artery that defined every case. Because there always was one, and Elena’s life would be no different.

  ‘So how did today go with the devil woman?’ Alé asked with a dramatic tone.

  Cesca grinned. ‘I barely saw her, to be honest. I’ve had my nose in a box of photographs all day, trying to get up to speed. Honestly, her life is unbelievable. I swear, her boating pond had a model boat on it that you could race in the America’s Cup!’

  Alé tutted.

  ‘And they had peacocks! No scrawny pigeons for them.’

  ‘I guess that’s just how it is when you’re born a Valentine.’

  ‘Valentine?’ Cesca asked in surprise. The name had immediate resonance – like Oppenheimer or Rockefeller or Rothschild, the Valentines were wealthy beyond measure.

  ‘Sole surviving heir, my mother said,’ Alé remarked, looking surprised. ‘You didn’t know that?’

  ‘Only the name. I didn’t know she was one.’

  ‘Oh, so you are taking your research seriously then,’ Alé teased with a wry smile.

  ‘I’ll have you know Elena has specifically asked that I don’t do any background research to begin with. She wants me to hear her life story in her words, without prejudice.’

  Alé considered this for a moment. ‘I guess that is understandable. The tabloids love her. If she thought you believed everything they said about her, she could not act the principessa, could she?’

  Cesca made no comment. She couldn’t reconcile the frail, elegant lady she knew with the supposed notoriety of her public image – tabloid fodder, devil woman . . . What on earth had she done to warrant a reputation which seemed so at odds with the image she presented now?

  ‘Tell me, what is it like inside the palazzo?’ Alé asked, fidgety as usual and flipping over onto her stomach and assuming the plank position. She preferred their Monday evening HIIT classes to this yoga session in the park, but then, she didn’t need to work on her tan.

  Cesca gave a shudder. ‘Ugh. Not my gig at all – all those long galleries and empty rooms. Gold everywhere.’

  ‘What? You don’t like it? It’s one of the best addresses in the city.’

  ‘And I can see why, architecturally, but to live in? The whole thing’s like a mausoleum, not a home. I don’t understand why she wants to live there – and on her own too! I mean, the garden’s great and I appreciate the super-rich can’t be expected to live in a two-up, two-down like the rest of us—’

  ‘A two what?’ Alé puffed, her cheeks beginning to flush.

  ‘It’s just a term for an average house,’ Cesca said dism
issively. ‘Maybe this is what comes of all their jet-setting and living in hotels? That’s what they know – marble floors and hard, dainty perching chairs. No toast crumbs in the kitchen for them, no saggy Ikea sofas or dog hairs blowing into the corners.’

  ‘Is that what your home is like?’

  Cesca realized it was, although Slipper, their border terrier, was so old now he was practically as bald as her grandfather, so there were fewer dog hairs these days. ‘Pretty much, actually.’

  ‘Sounds nice. I bet you have carpets too, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’ She knew Alé was teasing her Britishness.

  Alé chuckled from under her mop of hair hanging forwards. ‘You’re so funny.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There was a beat of silence. ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘What? England?’

  With a pant of effort, Alé rolled onto her side, her hands resting on her ribcage as she looked across at her. ‘Home.’

  Cesca resolutely kept her eyes closed. ‘No. Because this is my home now.’

  ‘But your family . . . your career. You’ve turned your back on everything you knew.’

  ‘I haven’t turned my back on anything. My parents were out here last month.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Why do you never talk about it?’

  Cesca felt Alé’s hand on her arm.

  ‘I know something bad happened.’

  Cesca sat up, and in so doing dislodged Alé’s hand. She pulled her legs in to her chest, her arms flopping over her knees. She kept her eyes on a young woman pushing a pram, a toddler walking alongside and licking an ice cream. ‘Nothing bad happened, Alé. It was just a poor career choice. I’m not cut out for it. I don’t have the disposition. It takes a certain type to thrive in that environment. A perfectionist; a stickler for detail.’

  Alé arched an eyebrow. ‘You read the terms and conditions of everything you buy online.’