by Karen Swan
‘No. I’m sorry. It’s . . . been a long day. I must be more tired than I realized.’ She smiled, placing her knife and fork together and giving up the pretence of having any appetite.
‘Lighting all those candles, no doubt,’ Aurelio said wryly, spearing his baccalà. ‘I thought the place was ablaze when I got to the piazza.’
‘It’s atmospheric,’ Vito said loyally. ‘Elena wanted to create a festive setting that could be enjoyed by people on the other side of the walls as well.’
‘Did she now?’
‘Vito told me how much your mother strove to make this a family home,’ she said, ignoring the undertone in his voice. ‘I’ve heard all sorts of stories about how you two and Christina would tear about the place, playing football in the galleries.’
‘Christina?’ Aurelio looked at his brother. ‘How is she? Still married to that boring old toad?’
‘Some of us happen to like Sigmundo,’ Vito said stiffly.
‘Well, some of us don’t,’ Aurelio said crisply, putting a slice of the cod in his mouth and chewing it. ‘Has Christina been a good friend to you, Elena?’
‘The best. She’s been incredibly welcoming.’
Aurelio stared at her, his eyes openly roaming her face as she lied. ‘Uh huh,’ he muttered, keeping his opinion as to whether or not he believed her a secret.
‘So . . . Kenya,’ Vito said after a growing pause. ‘Good trip?’
Aurelio chuckled and reached for his glass of white burgundy, understanding perfectly his brother’s nuanced dig. According to Maria, Aurelio had been forced to leave the country in rather a hurry, after the irate husband of his current lover had tried to kill him. With a rifle. ‘Very, thank you. Interesting people, the Masai. You should visit some time.’
‘Well, if I ever get the time, I will.’
‘Oh, come. You must get time off for good behaviour, surely, brother?’ Aurelio taunted, refusing to satisfy their curiosity with details of his life-saving surgery. ‘How did you come to meet your new bride here?’
Vito sighed. ‘Ischia. I paid a visit to the Santis.’
Aurelio spluttered on his drink. ‘Christ, don’t tell me they’re still limping along? What’s her name? The model.’
‘Allegra. And I wouldn’t call it limping, by any means,’ Vito said, his eyes flitting only briefly in Elena’s direction. ‘They’ve got a new yacht, the Serena. Life seems very rosy for them, in fact.’
Aurelio seemed unconvinced. He looked across at Elena, a glimmer of hostility beginning to shine from his eyes. ‘And you were on this yacht too, Elena?’
‘Yes. I know them from New York. We share a lot of mutual acquaintances.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ he muttered, just below his breath. ‘So, you met on the yacht and what – your eyes met over the poached lobster?’
Vito chuckled. ‘Nothing so humdrum. I had to save Elena from a swarm of killer bees to get her to even notice me.’
‘Darling, I had noticed you,’ Elena protested.
‘Being pursued by more than just the bees, was she?’ Aurelio asked, arching an eyebrow to his brother, and Elena had a sudden flash of the connection between them. Their twin-ness. They seemed to understand more than needed to be said – like icebergs, most of what went on was hidden beneath the surface.
‘You could say that,’ Vito said shortly. ‘But, luckily, the bees played right into my hands and she was obliged to marry me out of sheer gratitude for saving her life.’
‘It was love at first sight and you know it,’ Elena laughed, holding her husband’s gaze.
Aurelio said nothing, reaching out of his chair slightly to grab the wine bottle and refresh everyone’s glasses, especially his own.
‘So what do you think of the palace? Daunted by it?’
‘Not really.’ Elena shrugged as lightly as she could.
‘Elena’s a Valentine. She grew up in a house this size.’
‘Not as old, though,’ Elena added lightly, looking for self-deprecation as she always did whenever her inheritance came into the frame.
‘Ah, a Valentine. So then it really is a love match. You didn’t marry him for his money after all.’ Aurelio’s voice was pickled with pique.
‘Aurelio. That’s out of order,’ Vito said sharply.
‘Is it? I think it’s perfectly fair. It’s always been the risk. We both know we’re targets for a certain type.’
‘Well, Elena isn’t one of them. If anything, people could accuse me of marrying her for her money.’
‘Now, wouldn’t that be a thing?’ Aurelio grinned, pushing his plate away and sitting back in the chair. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it’s a true love story. Welcome to the family, sister dearest.’
The words fell from his lips like a taunt, his eyes steady, looking for her reaction.
‘Thank you,’ she replied in a quiet voice.
Maria came in to clear the plates, the three of them sitting in silence as she did so. Elena kept the smile fixed on her face, her eyes on the table, aware that Vito was beginning to glare at his brother.
Aurelio clapped his hands as Maria left the room. ‘Well, you know – I’m sure – that it is tradition to open a present on Christmas Eve?’ He was directing the question at her, forcing – daring – her to look at him.
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘You don’t do that in America?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, let me just—’
He left the table – Vito took the opportunity to shoot her an encouraging smile – and returned a moment later with a gift in each hand. Elena took hers.
‘Thank you.’
‘You must open it now. I insist. Both of you.’
He sat down again and watched as she tugged on the ribbon. She lifted the lid to find a card on the top nestled in tissue paper: For darling Elena, with love always, Vito.
‘It’s from Vito?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘I assumed it was from—’
‘Me?’ Aurelio finished for her. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t been able to get round to presents yet. Besides, I needed to meet you first. I couldn’t very well buy for my new sister, without ever having met her.’
Elena looked away, unable to hold his gaze, which seemed to be deliberately pushing her. She opened the tissue and lifted out a silver musical carousel.
‘Oh Vito! It’s beautiful.’
‘It plays “Mockingbird” – you said that your parents always used to sing it to you. So if you ever get home-sick . . .’
‘Darling, I love it. How thoughtful,’ she said warmly, determined to exclude Aurelio from the moment and blank out his biting cynicism.
‘Now open yours, brother,’ Aurelio said as she carefully replaced the carousel in the box and set it on the floor.
She looked up. And gasped. ‘Wait. No!—’ she cried, as she saw the wrapping paper already peeled open.
But it was too late. Parting the many layers of blush-pink tissue paper, Vito pulled out a black lace negligee so skimpy, most of it appeared to be missing. Both brothers’ jaws dropped open.
‘That was supposed to be given privately,’ Elena stammered, feeling her cheeks burn as she looked over at Vito, pleading with him to understand that it had not been intended for public display. Aurelio didn’t move, his eyes fixed upon her as Vito hurriedly replaced it, trying to hide it below the tissue again.
‘For God’s sake, Aurelio,’ Vito snapped. ‘Why did you have to interfere?’
‘How was I supposed to know?’
‘You should have just left it. Everything was arranged.’
‘Well, I can see that, now,’ he drawled, a white heat beginning to emanate from him.
Maria came back in with the dolci, the three of them sitting in silence again, waiting until she left the room.
‘So, is this just a flying visit or are you back . . . for good?’ Elena asked, trying to keep her tone light as she dug a spoon into the struffoli.
‘Why? Would I be in the way if
I were?’
‘Aurelio. That is enough,’ Vito snapped. ‘Elena is merely being polite. Besides, it’s not unreasonable to know what your plans are.’
‘Isn’t this place big enough for the three of us then?’ There was a silence before he suddenly laughed. ‘Brother, relax. The answer is, I don’t know. I thought I might stay for a while but, if things are . . . busy here, or something comes up . . .’ He shrugged.
Elena stared at him. He was a nomad, as rootless as a leaf that travelled wherever the wind blew it, and she didn’t know which alarmed her more: the thought of him staying here. Or the thought of him leaving.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rome, August 2017
The colours were kaleidoscopic – not just the jewels, but the women’s dresses: red chiffon and midnight silk, peacock velvet and primrose satin. In the company of Elena in Armani minimalism, Cesca had feared her outfit would be de trop but, to her amazement, she simply fitted in. Seemingly it was normal to these people to wear couture and house-price jewels on a Tuesday night.
Flashbulbs popped as they walked the short distance between the car and the boutique, glimpsing the Spanish Steps at the end of the street, the security staff waving them past the red ropes without asking for either their names or invitations. Even without partnering one of the most high-profile socialites in the city, Cesca suspected her necklace did all the talking necessary to get into something like this.
Champagne flutes were placed in their hands and Cesca followed as Elena made a stately procession through the centre of the room, people swooping to kiss her and talk quickly in low voices as they passed.
Cesca didn’t listen to their pleasantries. At almost a head taller than most of them, she had a good view of the room and scanned it with interest – noting Carla Bruni, Carine Roitfeld, Monica Bellucci . . . God, was that Sophia Loren? – not expecting in the least to recognize anyone not from a magazine.
But she did.
Nico Cantarelli was standing in a small group by a ceiling-suspended glass cabinet. Were it not for his mop of hair – still unruly – and his somewhat disapproving expression, she wouldn’t have recognized him, for he was wearing an unbelievably well-cut dinner suit. (All the men were; perhaps it was an Italian citizenship requirement?) He looked more like a screen actor than a . . . speleologist, was it?
She turned away quickly, not wanting him to see her. She didn’t recall much about Friday night – in fact, she wasn’t 100 per cent sure she’d actually seen him, so it could have been a dream – but she had a bad feeling that something had happened, and it was strong enough that she had hidden from him since then. Arriving early on Monday morning, pleading distraction from the workers’ noise outside, she had hurriedly relocated from her ‘office’ in the west wing to the library on the second floor of the central north wing. There were almost a thousand rooms in the palace. Unless he was going to spend the four hours it took to stride through each and every one looking for her – which, she knew, he wasn’t – then she was safe.
But not here.
What was he doing here? By day, he looked like any other construction worker! Why was he here looking hand-some and holding a champagne glass the correct way? And, more to the point, who was the brunette beside him?
She snuck another glance over – and found herself staring straight at him. His expression changed as he saw her face.
She quickly turned back to Elena again, closing her eyes and berating herself. Why had she done that? Why? Why?
‘Are you okay, Francesca?’ Elena asked, looking concerned.
Cesca opened her eyes again. ‘Oh yes. Fine, thank you.’
‘You look pale.’
‘Maybe just a little hot,’ she faltered.
‘Viscontessa. Signorina Hackett.’
He was here and as his presence settled over her like a warm coat, she felt that strange, new tug towards him that she couldn’t comprehend. She couldn’t understand why this was happening, although she’d seen it happen to other people. As a barrister, she had come across enough people – victims – women who had fallen for the wrong men, bad boys who treated them mean and kept them keen, throwing out just enough affection or attention to keep them hanging like a dog waiting for scraps. My God, she thought to herself in horror. Was this what was happening to her? A pizza slice and a smile and that was it?
‘Signor Cantarelli,’ Elena greeted him brightly, allowing two light kisses on her cheeks as though they were warm acquaintances and he was not, in fact, the man currently infuriating her by making bigger the already enormous hole in her exquisite garden. ‘Is your mother here?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s in Tuscany for the week. I’ve come in her place.’
‘That is very good of you.’
‘Francesca,’ he said, turning his attention – those direct eyes – on her. Cesca copied her boss, allowing two light kisses on her cheeks as though they were warm acquaintances and he was not, in fact, the reason she had spent the last few days hiding out in a 1,000-room palace.
‘What do you think of our Cinderella?’ Elena asked, one eyebrow arched lightly. ‘Quite the belle of the ball, wouldn’t you agree?’
Nico’s eyes travelled over her. ‘I did not believe it could be Francesca at first,’ he said. ‘But, of course, the hair – who else could it be? No one else in Rome has hair that—’
Cesca tensed, waiting for the word ‘bright’.
‘—Colour,’ he said, watching her.
‘And do you like the dress?’ Elena asked.
Cesca inwardly cringed. Every question enabled Nico to look at her – examine her, almost – when all she wanted to do was hide from him. What had she done last Friday? Why couldn’t she remember and yet it rustled her peace of mind like a foraging beast?
‘It’s Valentino,’ Elena continued. ‘The atelier very kindly loaned it to us for the night. I remembered seeing it at the couture shows the other week and, luckily, this beautiful creature is a sample size. I think she looks exquisite, don’t you? So lovely to see her in something new, and that fits.’
‘Yes,’ Nico agreed, nodding with Elena before looking back at her. ‘I do not understand your clothes.’
‘Well, I don’t understand . . . yours,’ she shot back, faltering as she took in the impeccable cut of his suit. He should change jobs. He needed to find a reason to look like that every day.
He watched her, seeing how she squirmed. ‘You look very beautiful, is what I meant. Everyone is looking at you.’
‘Yes, well, maybe I don’t want everyone looking at me,’ she mumbled, bending her head down and tucking her hair behind her ear.
There was a short pause. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I can see Paolo Bulgari over there and I really must speak to him.’ Elena glided away, disappearing into the crowd.
Cesca looked after her, in panic. How could she leave her alone? With him.
‘Are you enjoying the party?’ he asked after a moment.
‘It’s fine.’ Cesca looked out at the sea of famous faces. Why had she let Elena talk her into this? She would far rather have been sitting on her steps, eating pizza and drinking a beer with Guido. ‘How come you’re here?’
He blinked, looking offended. ‘Because I was invited.’
Vaguely, Cesca remembered him saying he’d grown up in one of the city’s smartest districts. It was just so incongruous seeing him here, looking like that, when she was accustomed to seeing him dangling from ropes, covered in mud and dust and looking more like a builder.
‘Cesca, about the other night—’
Oh God, here it was. She half turned away. ‘Look, I’d had too much to drink. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in some way.’
‘No, you didn’t—’
‘I was just blowing off some steam.’
‘It wasn’t that. It was something you said.’
It came to her! Annoying. She’d told him he was annoying. It was the last thing she remembered doing as Matteo had practically carried h
er out. God, she’d been so rude.
‘I’m so sorry. You should never pay any attention to what I say after I’ve had tequila. I’ll try to convince you I’m the Pope.’
‘No—’
A woman came over – the brunette she’d seen with him earlier – and rested one hand lightly on his shoulder. He turned.
‘Oh. Isabella, this is Francesca. We . . . work in the same building.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Cesca said, feeling nothing of the sort. Isabella’s was the kind of smouldering Italian beauty that left her Celtic looks seeming wan and insipid by comparison.
‘What a beautiful necklace,’ Isabella smiled, looking rather radiant in a diamond collar of her own. ‘I’ve been admiring it.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not mine. I’ve just borrowed it for the evening.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Isabella laughed delicately. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ She looked at Cantarelli. ‘I just need the keys,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Sure,’ he replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and fishing for them.
Cesca felt her stomach clench as she stood witness to the low-key intimacy, trying to catch sight of Isabella’s left hand for signs of an engagement or wedding ring. But from where she was standing, she couldn’t get a clear view, not without moving and pointedly staring.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I should catch up with Elena. She may be feeling tired,’ she said quietly.
‘But—’ Cantarelli began.
‘It was good seeing you,’ she said quickly. ‘Lovely to meet you, Isabella.’
‘And you,’ Isabella nodded, looking surprised as Cesca hurried away.
She could feel their – his? – eyes on her back as she slipped past the other guests, her heart banging loudly against her ribs, neck craned as she looked for Elena. She wanted to leave; ordinarily she would, but the necklace kept her here like a prisoner. She couldn’t just leave with four million dollars hanging around her neck.
She found her boss standing in a small, select group in the next gallery beside some brightly coloured fine jewels. A grouping of narrow sofas were clustered on the lacquered parquet floors, and the walls were hung with several large black-and-white portraits of some of the most beautiful and recognizable women in the world – including Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra and, next to her, Elena, in what appeared to be a white lynx fur coat and diamonds. It was a striking image, cementing Elena’s reputation as a top-flight socialite, and Cesca wondered whether they should request permission to reproduce the image in the book.
