by Karen Swan
‘Ah, here she is, the very same. Francesca, do come over and meet Signor Bulgari. I’ve just been explaining what marvellous work you’ve been doing,’ Elena said with the same bright tone she’d used to greet Nico.
‘Piacere,’ Paolo Bulgari said, kissing the back of her hand lightly. ‘You look stunning, Signorina. I’m very glad your necklace is by our own craftsmen. All eyes are upon you tonight. We shall boast about you for weeks.’
‘Thank you, but I can’t take the credit for any of it. Everything you see is down to the Principessa’s generosity and wonderful eye.’
‘We were just saying how excited we are about the existence of this book, for it shall surely prove – inadvertently – to be a most wonderful showcase for Bulgari too.’
‘I know. Just this afternoon I was lucky enough to visit the Principessa’s collection. I’m still dazzled, even now,’ Cesca said brightly, playing the game.
‘We are very lucky; the Principessa is one of our most devoted clients.’
‘Well, me and Elizabeth. What was it her husband said?’
Signor Bulgari looked at Cesca, already in on the joke, and Cesca suspected they had repeated these words many times before. ‘Richard Burton said, “The only word Elizabeth knows in Italian is Bulgari.”’
They all laughed, Cesca too, but hers was hollow, her eyes flitting around the gallery and looking for Nico, but he was still in the next room. With Isabella.
‘Well, if there was only one Italian word to know . . .’ Cesca smiled. ‘Your creations really are incredible.’ She pointed to a glittering sky-blue sapphire ring. ‘I mean, that colour. It’s just sensational.’
‘Yes. That is known as a Vivid Blue Diamond. One of the crowns of our jewels,’ he quipped.
‘That’s a diamond?’
‘Indeed. The Vivid Blue is one of the most coveted colours, but incredibly rare to find these days, especially in a size such as this. It’s almost impossible now to get anything over ten carats.’ He looked at Elena. ‘You still, to my mind, possess the most beautiful of them all. The Bulgari Blue.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Cesca saw Nico enter the room. Isabella was with him, talking to him, but his eyes found hers again as though he’d been looking for her, too. Following her.
‘I’d love to hear about it,’ Cesca said quickly, giving their host her full attention.
‘Well, quite simply, the Bulgari Blue is one of the most famous diamonds in the world. The GIA graded it a Fancy Vivid, which is the highest of all honours. Only one in ten million qualify for the grading.’
‘The GIA?’ Cesca queried, sensing Nico drawing closer as he and Isabella admired more of the displays, stopping to chat and shake hands with people intermittently.
‘The Gemological Institute of America. The Principessa’s ring is actually made of two diamonds – one flawless, colourless diamond at 9.87 carats and the blue at 10.95. Your husband bought it for you to celebrate the happy occasion of the birth of your son, I believe.’
‘That’s right,’ Elena sighed. ‘I was so lucky to have married such a romantic man. He was so sweet with those little gestures.’
Sweet? Little gestures? Cesca doubted there had been anything little at all about that gesture. Forget a house-worth of jewels, that one ring sounded akin to a yacht’s worth.
Nico was across the room from her now. She knew if she were to look straight ahead, their eyes would meet.
‘Do you wear it often?’ she asked, determinedly turning away to Elena at her side, trying to look engrossed in the small talk. ‘Perhaps you should have worn it tonight.’
‘Gracious, no,’ Elena replied. ‘I would have had to bring the entire Swiss Guard with me. No, sadly I have to keep it in a safe in Switzerland. That one really is too precious to risk.’
Cesca thought back to the safe – vault – in the palace, with its reinforced triple-layered steel walls, 14-ton doors, humidity controls and weight-sensitive pressure pads in the floor. It was fireproof and, with its direct line to the carabinieri and two-way CCTV, Elena had said it could also double as a panic room; not that it had been, nor ever would be, needed as such. But if that wasn’t enough security for one little (admittedly priceless) ring, she didn’t know what was.
‘Oh.’ Elena fluttered suddenly, as though her muscles had been tweaked or weakened.
‘Elena? Are you okay?’ Cesca asked, reaching forward to offer a hand. Elena looked as though she was about to slip to the floor.
‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Just a little tired, perhaps. I ought not to have flown to London and back in a day yesterday, but I did so want to see the Lesedi La Rona before it goes to auction.’ Elena straightened, expertly deflecting the attention away from herself. ‘What are your thoughts on it, Paolo?’
Cesca had read about it – the world’s second-largest uncut diamond in history, about to go to auction at Sotheby’s.
‘Well, we have seen it, of course,’ he said with discreet understatement. ‘It is magnifico.’
‘Shall you bid?’ Elena enquired.
He smiled. ‘If you tell me there is something special you would like us to create for you, then most certainly.’
Elena laughed. ‘Oh, you are wicked. Sadly, I’m afraid my fancy diamond-buying days are over. A woman should only be bought such things by a man who loves her.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Darling Vito.’
Signor Bulgari patted her hand affectionately. ‘We too miss him. He was a splendid man.’
‘The very best.’
Elena paled again, her body seeming to tremor, and Cesca reached out once more. ‘Should we get you home?’ she asked quietly.
‘You may be right,’ Elena agreed. ‘Paolo, do you mind terribly if we make an early exit?’
‘On the contrary, it was an honour to see you here tonight, Principessa. Let us have lunch together soon.’
‘Yes, let’s.’
Signor Bulgari turned to Cesca. ‘And it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady. I wish you could have stayed longer so that we might have enjoyed the sight of such riches against such beauty.’
Cesca demurred. ‘Oh, I think I’ve worn them long enough. It’s almost midnight for this Cinderella – time to get back to my pumpkin and ashes.’
With Elena leaning her arm lightly on Cesca’s, they walked slowly through the crowd, Elena nodding her goodbyes regally.
‘We’ll see you tomorrow, Signor Cantarelli,’ Elena said as they passed by Nico and Isabella, her tone a little less warm than before.
‘You shall, Signora,’ he replied, but his eyes were on Cesca – and from the way they searched hers, she knew she was going to need more than a thousand rooms if she wanted to hide from this man.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rome, New Year’s Eve, 1980
The room was alive, pulsing with energy. Vibrant. Exotic. Teasing. Men in white tie and women in extravagant, daring dresses that had seemingly been hanging ready for just such a night as this. From behind her feathered mask, Elena watched from the sides. This was her greatest triumph – a ball that would be talked about for generations to come. Even those not invited were muscling in on the event, as crowds gathered outside, people stopping to admire the procession of guests making their way up the steps, others craning to snatch glimpses of the ball within as dancers and revellers whirled past the windows. Christina was vanquished once and for all. Aurelio’s return had quickened Rome’s blood, the women – the wives – sweeping aside their queen’s diktats to shun Elena’s occasions for a night of flirting, of being held in his arms, if only for a while, on the dance floor.
There had been less than a week’s planning for it, Aurelio carelessly dropping the suggestion at breakfast on Christmas morning – he was the kind of man who assumed such things could be thrown together in under a week – but such was his draw, the city made it possible. Prior commitments were revised, apologies to jilted hosts submitted and the RSVPs rushed in like the floodwaters of the Tiber.
; Vito had been reluctant, of course. It was hasty, rash; these things needed to be organized. But the pulse in the palace was up, everyone could feel it; the staff too, all of them rushing to polish the mirrors, buff the gold, scour the steps and dust the marble busts, for the mania had been exactly the thing – the only thing – to make this familial arrangement work. No sooner had the words dropped from Aurelio’s mouth than she knew he had given her the means for them all to remain within the palace walls and not have war – or something worse – break out.
She had never worked so hard – up with the sun and in bed after the moon – overseeing every last detail so that Vito couldn’t keep track of her, much less his brother. Every day, she walked miles as she swept through the corridors issuing commands to Maria – move those chairs, lower that chandelier, roll back the rugs – so that every night she fell alone into her bed and into dreamless sleeps, out of reach of her husband’s arms and his brother’s shadow.
It had worked for a week. But what now?
She watched Christina dance, taking perhaps the most joy in that. She had had no choice but to accept. Everyone was here and she knew as well as Elena that her absence would have raised too many direct questions, and theirs wasn’t a war that could be waged in the open air.
‘See how she bends at your knee,’ a voice murmured in her ear, the scent of leather and cinnamon drifting over her like a mist.
Elena straightened, holding the mask even closer to her face as she turned. Those hooded, elongated eyes she knew so well blinked back at her from behind black velvet. It was no disguise. She would have known him anywhere. In any lifetime.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she demurred.
‘Of course you don’t. She’s been nothing but a charm since you got here, opening doors, taking you under her wing.’
Elena didn’t reply. How did he know? Christina hadn’t been in the palace since he’d arrived. Unless . . . he’d heard the things Christina was saying about her . . . ?
‘Bravo, sister. She is vanquished.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘It’s what you are, though.’
She felt her heart thrash, like a trapped bird caught in a cage. ‘I am your brother’s wife,’ she said carefully. Determinedly.
He stared at her, his expression hardening before he looked away suddenly, standing beside her in a frigid silence as they watched the party swing. ‘Where is Vito anyway? I haven’t seen him all night.’
‘Glad-handing, I expect. He’s always the consummate host.’
Did he hear the edge of bitterness in her voice? From the corner of her eye, she saw him look back at her sharply. ‘Has he danced with you?’
‘Not yet.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m fine with it . . . We don’t go in for public displays.’
‘No. You like to keep things private, don’t you?’ he said, harking back to the embarrassment of Christmas Eve.
‘Stop it,’ she hissed, feeling her throat constrict. She had yet to wear the negligee. Her intended plan of nightly seductions to fall pregnant with immediate effect had yet to materialize. Tonight, perhaps? She couldn’t keep putting Vito off, even though the thought of putting it on, when Aurelio was in his rooms across the courtyard, the lights on . . .
‘Well, it’s quite the success,’ he said eventually, backing off. ‘Your legacy. They’ll be talking about it for years. Far better than Capote’s in New York.’
‘The Black and White Ball? I was there.’ She turned her head to him, feeling her breath catch, her heart on hold. Nothing was safe. She could scarcely bring herself to ask the question. ‘Were you?’
‘Yes.’ She saw the flare of his nostrils, the pulse in his jaw, the intense blaze behind those chocolate-brown irises. ‘It’s a wonder we didn’t meet then.’
His voice was cruelly sardonic, the thought haunting. What if they had met that night, fourteen years earlier? Before Vito. Steve. Just before she had married Leo. What if he had been the brother she’d met first? How very different might her life have been? ‘Yes,’ she said, looking away quickly, aiming for the same bored carelessness. ‘A wonder.’
He reached for her hand suddenly. ‘Elena—’
‘Aurelio!’ A woman in a dramatically feathered red mask sashayed up to them, her bosom all but on display in a deeply corseted dress. Elena inclined her head in greeting, as Aurelio dropped her hand.
‘Aurelio, dance with me,’ she said brightly, coquettishly holding out a hand.
‘That wouldn’t be a good idea. We have already danced, Signora Bertorelli . . . What would your husband say?’
The woman’s hand dropped, the mask – though obscuring her identity effectively – still not large enough to hide her dismay as she gathered her skirts and hurried away with a sob.
‘You bastard,’ Elena said under her breath. ‘There was no reason to humiliate her like that.’
She heard his intake of breath and glanced to find him looking at her with glittering eyes. ‘On the contrary, I’d argue she’s the one doing the humiliating. I’m single. She’s not. Her husband would have me duelling in the courtyard by dawn.’
‘Well, I doubt he’d be the only one. You’ve certainly cut a swathe through their wives tonight.’
She couldn’t keep the edge from her voice. Since the very first dance, he had flirted with every woman in the palace, making them laugh and tremble with an intensity that bordered on savagery. Was it any wonder they were all lining up for more?
‘I’m surprised you noticed.’
‘I didn’t,’ she replied with deliberate lightness. ‘I over-heard some of the ladies in the powder room. You’re the talk of the town.’
He stared at her with a look that threw heat on her cheeks, but she refused to meet his eyes. ‘Well, I guess you’d know all about that.’
She gasped and whirled to face him. ‘What did you say?’
In one fluid movement, he had grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her round to the back of the column, into a deep, shadowy niche. The music fell away, silence wrapping around them, fastening them to one another. His eyes were only inches from hers, their faces obscured, but the truth, somehow, plainly written. Time slowed, worlds clashed.
‘He’s my husband, Aurelio,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I love him.’
‘I know,’ he said, his gaze on her mouth. ‘So do I.’
*
She sat at the table in the courtyard in the shade of the orange tree, the blanket wrapped tightly around her, deep moons cradled beneath her eyes. She hadn’t slept, lying on top of the sheets all night, locking the door to Vito and keeping him out as she turned over the options in her mind. But, really, there was only one.
A movement behind the glass caught her eye and she saw Vito – already dressed – behind the run of windows, striding through the galleries and assessing the morning-after detritus of the night before. The party had continued until three, the legend already begun: Aurelio had been right – they would talk about this ball for years. Christina couldn’t reach her now.
Christina. How long ago it seemed now, when she had been her biggest concern.
She watched as Vito picked up a sequinned mask that had been left on the immobile face of a bust of Nero. She could see him tutting: glittery fragments peppered the marble and his long, elegant hands brushed them away.
He was a good man. Steadfast and honourable. Loyal and principled.
He deserved better.
She looked away, back at the garden, the grass hard and tipped white with frost, the topiaries silhouetted and emerging from the mists. A loud caw sent her gaze up to the rooks nesting in the cloud pines on the distant boundaries. The birds were free. They could fly away, just leave.
Couldn’t she? She could go anywhere. She had the means. She had the houses.
A plane crossed the sky, its vapour trail slicing through the last of the bruised night clouds. She could go anywhere. Begin again and pick up the life she’d left before she’d steppe
d onto that boat. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t done it before. Another call – to Mr Charles’s successor – and a plane ticket; that was how it usually went. Where this time? Paris? Berlin? St Moritz? London?
But she thought of Vito and of what she would say; she thought of the expression on his face as she told him . . . he wouldn’t understand because how could he, when the truth wasn’t an option?
Somewhere inside the palace a door slammed and a sudden shout made her look up. Vito was on the top floor of the west wing, wrestling open a window.
‘I cannot believe it!’ he shouted, with an anger she’d never glimpsed in him before, his face red even from this distance. ‘He’s done it again!’
Elena straightened up, the blanket falling off her shoulders. ‘Done what, Vito? Whatever is the matter?’
But dismay was already arrowing through her. Because she knew.
‘He’s gone.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rome, August 2017
There was something faintly ridiculous about walking through a marble gallery with a mug of tea. It was the kind of space that called for last night’s Krug and Jimmy Choos, not English Breakfast and yellow Converse with a hole in the left sole under the big toe. Nonetheless, here she was, back to her usual self: Cinderella back in her second-hand rags, last night but a dream. Albeit a bad one. The open windows allowed the breeze in and she shivered slightly as it blew on her skin, pushing her hair off her neck and moulding her long floaty patchwork 1970s ‘Holly Hobbie’ dress to her frame. She had bought it only the other weekend from her favourite vintage boutique off the Piazza Navona, Alé urging her to get it on account of the ‘sexy’ straps which criss-crossed at the back.
