by Karen Swan
‘I’m a Cancer birth sign, darling. This is my element. Besides—’ She swept out her hand, indicating the green, ice-clear waters surrounding them. ‘How could anyone resist this? It’s heavenly.’
‘Well, I am glad you have come to visit at last and experience it for yourself. You perhaps thought I was making it up.’ He raised a dark eyebrow. She had turned down their invitations countless times, brushing them off with excuses of jaunts to Marrakech and Kenya instead.
Laney smiled, knowing exactly why she had repeatedly said no. Adolfo’s intentions towards her were perfectly clear – one indiscretion years earlier had left him wanting more – but she had simplified her life since losing her son, as though an ascetic life could strip back the pain as well as the fripperies. It didn’t seem to be working, but she was all out of other ideas. Steve had fought dirty and won, the judge’s summation a character assassination of her that was now intractable and faithfully reproduced in any article, interview or even photograph that featured her. She had become hunted, forced on the run from all those strangers who recognized her without knowing her, who judged her without understanding anything of her life.
But then, they never had. She was simply an image, no more than an idea. They neither knew nor cared that her heart was frozen, that the world had become perverse in its punishments – she was always lonely in a crowd, cold in the sun, alert in her sleep, nauseous in her starvation. Losing Stevie the first time had been like being stripped of her skin, her nervous system exposed to the elements and flayed with every touch, look or sound. But losing him the second time had left her as numb and unfeeling as if it had been pulled out of her altogether, like the bones of a fish, complete and picked clean.
Was that why she was here now? To feel something? ‘I would never doubt your judgement, Dolfy. You are a man of exceptional taste.’
‘I hope you will come back many times. The Serena is at your disposal whenever you might need it. Just say the word.’ His eyes locked on hers.
‘You’re too sweet, darling.’
‘Have you swum to the octopus cove yet?’
She shook her head, sipping on the cold drink.
‘Then this afternoon, I insist. We shall take the speedboat round. I’ll get Carlo to prepare the tanks.’
She looked at him. We? Was it to be just the two of them then?
He clicked his fingers for more drinks to be brought over, but Laney firmly held on to hers. ‘I shall have to be a good girl and have only one of these if we’re going to be diving,’ she said.
‘There’s lunch to get through first. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I’ll look after you. I am very experienced.’
Laney looked away, feeling the first rush of tequila hit her; she felt weak and yearned for lunch to be brought out – more fish, pasta . . . something to bolster her even though it would be as cardboard in her mouth; she sometimes thought she might one day float away like an untethered balloon, so unconnected was she to this life.
The distant note of a boat crossing the bay rose to her ear. Theirs was the only yacht moored in the deeper waters, although further in smaller vessels dotted the sea like landed clouds. She watched as it sped into focus, a small ensign on the back fluttering wildly in the breeze. Everyone seemed excited about the imminent arrival, for there was no doubt the boat was heading straight towards them.
‘Fresh meat for lunch?’ Laney asked with her usual wry drawl, an eyebrow arched as she watched the others begin to clamour towards the steps.
Adolfo lit a cigarette, one tanned bare foot resting against the table, close to hers. ‘An old family friend. Gianvito Damiani.’ Adolfo shrugged. ‘Prince Gianvito Damiani, actually.’
‘Should I curtsey?’
‘No. But he’d like it if you did. He’s a stickler for protocol, a Roman.’
‘I see.’ Laney’s eyes narrowed as she waited for a first glimpse of this guest already causing such a stir among their crowd. ‘Shall I like him?’
‘To look at, perhaps. He’s handsome, but dull. Too dull for you, Laney darling.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ she sighed, pretending to give a damn. ‘And I suppose you invited him to round up the numbers? I know I’m terribly inconvenient to have around without a plus-one. I must be throwing out Allegra’s table plans awfully.’
‘You know I would never stand between my wife and the perfect table plan,’ he grinned. ‘But I much prefer you that way.’
‘Single and alone?’
He looked at her wolfishly, one hand discreetly squeezing her upper thigh. ‘Single, but not alone, darling.’
She blinked, more than used to this game. Plenty of men wanted her as their mistress.
They watched as the boat – having cleaved a straight line through the water from shore – cut a wide sweeping arc suddenly, sending a plume of water high behind it and seemingly gliding on its side, perfectly balanced.
‘Wow!’ she heard Sylvia Ginsberger exclaim; it was her first time on a yacht, so she said ‘wow’ a lot. Sylvia’s husband Tony was something big in commodities, although they both hailed from small-town Minnesota – childhood sweethearts. Not that that slowed down Tony on the Manhattan club circuit, according to Allegra; she’d been very forthcoming with the salacious gossip when they’d been having their massages together earlier.
The driver cut the throttle and a moment later the tender moored alongside the Serena, pulling out of sight from where Laney was sitting. She didn’t crane her neck to see him; everyone else was doing more than enough gawping for her.
‘Shouldn’t you go to greet your guest?’ she prompted Adolfo, taking his cigarette from his fingers and dragging on it herself, feeling his eyes on her profile – the suck of her cheeks, the swell of her lips . . .
‘I’ll come back.’
She knew he would. He was going to keep coming back until she gave in. But would she? It was the easiest option, certainly.
She took another drag, and another, sinking into her own silence, receding from the clamour at the steps. The tobacco hits merged with the margarita already swirling in her bloodstream, the lack of food only making her more light-headed, so that it was several moments before she opened her eyes and saw Prince Gianvito Damiani standing there, staring down at her.
He was indeed handsome in a navy polo shirt and white shorts: strong-jawed with hooded, elongated brown eyes, a large, nobly broken nose and a wide mouth. He looked more Greek to her eye than Roman and she felt instantly, powerfully attracted to him.
‘Hello,’ she said simply, feeling herself wake up at last as she threw one arm lazily along the back of the banquette and looked up at him with interested eyes. ‘I’m Laney.’
Water broke around the prow as the small boat chugged into the bay, smooth rocks sitting far below the surface like dimpled glass. Silver fish darted past her dangling feet as she motioned for Adolfo to continue onwards.
‘Okay,’ she hailed, a few minutes later, as the water’s colour brightened above sand. The anchor splashed in and the chain was released, unspooling noisily.
Tucking in her legs, she stood up and walked – arms out-stretched – to the back of the boat, to where Adolfo and Allegra, Gianvito and the Ginsbergers were sitting. They were quite a crowd now thanks to Laney’s enthusiastic invitation to the others to join them and Adolfo was sporting a dark expression, his plans for a quiet seduction on hold.
The Ginsbergers didn’t dive so, in the interests of sociability, it had been agreed they would all snorkel instead. Laney wriggled out of her playsuit to reveal her now even leaner frame – the sudden excitement of Gianvito’s arrival had meant she’d lost her hitherto ravenous appetite for lunch – and pulled on her mask and snorkel.
She was the first in, executing a near-splashless dive and emerging a moment later with a beaming smile. ‘Come in everyone, the water’s lovely!’
Adolfo, Allegra and Tony dived in without hesitation, Sylvia preferring to lower herself slowly off the steps, where she bobbed in the water
like a buoyancy aid as she tried to prevent her hair from getting wet.
‘Prince?’ Laney asked, treading water and looking back up at the boat, waiting for him. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Please, call me Gianvito.’ His accent was gentle, hammered out by three years at Oxford and several in London. They had sat too far apart at lunch – Adolfo’s table plan getting in the way this time, she suspected – to be able to pass more than pleasantries, but she had made a point of calling him by his title every time she addressed him, for she could see that it embarrassed him. Several times now, he had asked her to call him ‘just Gianvito’.
‘But I don’t like calling you Gianvito,’ she said provocatively.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too . . . unwieldy.’
He stared down at her, seemingly unaware of how striking he looked in his white swimming shorts, his body finely muscled and tanned, his chest covered in a thick rug of hair. ‘Then call me Vito.’
She considered the idea. ‘Who else calls you Vito?’
‘Those closest to me.’
‘Are we going to be close then?’ she asked.
He stared at her and she could see he was wrong-footed by her American directness, her impudence concerning his rank. He seemed at a loss as to how to deal with her, his formal manners sliding off her as water on the proverbial duck.
He dived in, a perfect fluid motion that matched hers for precision, and surfaced half a metre away from her. Laney felt her heart quicken at his sudden proximity, excited by the athletic prowess which belied that polite reserve. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, faces dripping wet, bodies hidden yet close—
‘We should swim,’ he said.
Laney watched him go, his arms like circular saws as he swam a front crawl that ate up the distance between them and the others. She felt frustrated, as confused by him as he was by her. He felt the attraction between them too, she was certain, but he wasn’t like the other men she knew. Her wealth didn’t give her rank above his title and it was clear he was a product of upbringing rather than ambition.
They swam for most of the afternoon, the sun on their backs as they stared down through their masks at the underwater world. As Adolfo had promised, there were plenty of octopuses, as well as a swordfish, eel and several starfish.
Vito kept close but never too close, talking with Sylvia and Allegra, his eyes darting back to her whenever the group was distracted by something – which was a lot; Adolfo was showing off, free-diving ten, twelve metres to point out a tiny electric-blue fish or to pick up a shell for one of the ladies.
Laney held her fire; she could sense both men circling her, each aware of the other’s as-yet-unmade threat. When the group finally swam in to the beach, she made a point of lying alone in the shallows, waiting to see which would linger with her – to her disappointment Adolfo won that battle, pretending to collect dollar shells for her, but Allegra soon called him over again.
Laney walked by herself along the sand, heading towards the shadow of the domed cliffs. Cypress and olive trees dotted the landscape, not a building in sight of the little bay – another reason why Adolfo had tried to bring her here, no doubt.
She stepped into the shade of the cliff and sank onto the sand, feeling weary and too hot. The skin on her back felt tight. Their little boat (and on it, the water bottles) was bobbing on the sea farther out than she had realized. She shouldn’t have had so many margaritas at lunch; she should have stayed back for a sleep in her cabin. It had been a long day, an even longer year. A bee buzzed her and she lazily swatted it away. What was she doing anyway, toying with this man . . . ?
The buzzing suddenly clamoured, loud and insistent. What?
She turned, then jumped to her feet, frowning at what looked like a cloud of sand flies coming from a small cave in the cliff. Only . . . they were too large to be flies. Far too large.
One stung her. ‘Ow!’ She jumped and rubbed her arm, beginning to walk backwards, just as she was stung again, this time on her shoulder.
She screamed. ‘Oh my God!’
She began running, but was stung again on her thigh, the dark swarm now following her down the beach. From the corner of her eye, she could see the others looking over.
‘Bees!’ she screamed as loudly as she could. ‘Bees! Get in the water!’
Her words carried, for they all began running for the sea too, Tony Ginsberger grabbing his little wife’s hand and pulling her along behind him, Adolfo and Allegra long-leggedly leading the charge. Only Vito ran towards her.
The bees were swarming her now and stopping her from running, a black cloud stinging her over and over so that she couldn’t move, couldn’t see where to go. He reached her in seconds, grabbing her arm as she swatted wildly at the attacking mob and yanking her hard, so that her feet moved whether she could see or not.
Seven steps and she felt the water on her feet, Vito pulling her along so fast she could barely keep up, then his hands on her waist as he lifted and threw her into the deeper water.
She sank, ridded of the swarm instantaneously, the water cool and soothing as it wrapped around her. She blew out a little stream of bubbles and opened her eyes, looking up through the surface of the water just as Vito crashed in as if he was diving through a glass mirror. She saw him twist and turn, several livid red stings already visible on his chest and arms as he rid himself of their assailants.
When the water had settled, she could see that the sky above was now clear. Running out of breath, she burst upwards, gasping for air. A second later, Vito did the same.
‘Are you okay? Let me see,’ he demanded, unceremoniously taking her by the arms and inspecting her for stings.
‘Th-thank you,’ she stammered, her teeth chattering, even though she was so hot.
He looked at her, like a father to a child. ‘We need to get you back.’
Adolfo and the others – already on the boat and hauling up the anchor – turned on the engine and brought the boat round to them. Adolfo, in heroic mode now, reached over the side and, grabbing her by the arms, lifted her clear of the water. She flopped onto the small deck like a landed salmon, everyone fussing over her, Sylvia saying ‘wow’ every time they discovered another sting.
Vito climbed aboard without a word and Adolfo hit the throttle, the little boat cutting through the water, their wet hair slapping their skin, faces turned into the wind as they headed back to the safety of the Serena.
She stared at the tiny town of Casamicciola through the round portholes, her pillow wet, ears tuned in loneliness to the sound of everyone padding on deck above her head.
She wanted to sleep but she couldn’t drop off: her nervous system felt rewired, back on after all this time, her body still tingling from the 114 stings she had suffered. Everyone had been very sweet, of course. Adolfo had dispatched the tender to fetch the nearest doctor on the island, who had come to the boat and examined her, pulling out the many splinter-sized barbs still left in her skin, before administering painkillers, a powerful dose of antihistamines and a topical anaesthetic cream, and then ordering her to rest.
She closed her eyes, feeling sore, feeling humiliated. She wanted to go home – only, she had no idea where that might be. Not Graystones – she hadn’t been back there in over nineteen years – not Newport or Malibu or New York. Since losing Stevie, she had lived in a succession of hotels, moving from one city, one country, to the next, meeting up with acquaintances in a dizzying whirl of parties and balls and discos where she could hide behind a pretty dress and a martini.
The knock on the door was so soft, she didn’t hear it at first – but he came in anyway. The mattress sank beneath his weight as he sat beside her, looking down with that clear gaze of his.
She went to move, to sit up, but he put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. ‘I have come to say goodbye.’
Laney stared at him, dressed in his navy top and white shorts, wondering why those words should hurt so much. ‘Hello and goodbye in one day,’
she said, her voice quiet. ‘Funny, I thought we’d have longer.’
He looked at her, as though there was something he wished to say, then down at his own hands. Her gaze followed his, as if she could find answers there. She saw his hands were marked with stings too.
She sat up, taking his hands in hers and examining them. On the fleshy side of one, she could see the barb still caught in the skin.
‘Did the doctor see you too?’ she asked, frowning, inspecting his stings even more closely.
‘It is fine.’
‘No, it’s not. Look, the stinger’s still in there. You have to get it out.’
He looked at his own hand curiously but, before he could stop her, Laney brought his hand to her mouth and sucked on it. The taste of his skin was salty, slightly tangy.
‘There. See?’ she asked, taking the barb from her tongue and showing it to him. But he wasn’t interested in the barb. He was staring at her with an expression of open, unadulterated longing. She felt the breath leave her body – no man had ever looked at her like that before – as in the next instant he swept her into him and kissed her.
What he wouldn’t – or couldn’t – say out loud, was said in the kiss instead. When they finally pulled apart, she knew the world had changed again.
‘Come home with me,’ he said.
She smiled. Home. With Vito. ‘Yes.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rome, July 2017
For the rest of the week, Cesca ate lunch on the steps outside her apartment, tanning her legs and feeding the sparrows. For the rest of the week, she worked late, hunched over the open boxes and sorting through the thousands of photographs she found in each one, transcribing interviews and beginning a timeline of the major events of Elena’s life, which would serve to help with the chapters and the flow of the book, looking up through the windows whenever she heard a shout outside. But, for the rest of the week, she didn’t see him.
