The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve just spent the past day and a half reading up everything I possibly can on her and, let me tell you, there’s a reason why she was the tabloids’ favourite. Throughout her entire childhood, any time she appeared in public she was on the front page with the headline: “The luckiest little girl in America.” Then she was voted Best Dressed Woman in 1970, 1971 and 1973.’

  ‘What happened to 1972?’ Guido asked wryly.

  ‘Bad hair days?’ Alé grinned. ‘Can happen to the best of us.’

  ‘Then in 1980 she did a Grace Kelly and became a bona fide princess. I swear, there’s scarcely been a month in her life when she hasn’t featured in one headline or another.’

  ‘What’s so bad about that?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s all fine. That’s the good stuff, the fluff. But you don’t even want to know what else has been written about her.’

  ‘Oh, I think we do,’ Alé breathed, looking excited.

  ‘Listen, you know you can’t believe half of what’s in the papers,’ Guido said. ‘I bet most of it is hype or myth, rumour, tittle-tattle or downright perjurous slurs. She’s far more likely to be telling you the truth than they are.’

  ‘Oh, you think? Then why did she forget to mention having a child with her third husband, then?’

  ‘What?’ Matteo asked with a shocked laugh.

  ‘Yes. Not a word about it. Nothing. Zip. Great biography this is turning out to be.’

  ‘But she can’t just ignore something like that!’ Alé said, indignant. ‘If nothing else, it’s a matter of public record.’

  ‘Exactly. But she had a baby with her third husband and hasn’t mentioned it to me, not once. I only know about it because I happened to see a photo of him in her private sitting room when she left me in there. She had very conveniently turned the photo away from me, so that I wouldn’t see it.’

  ‘But why? Why would she do something like that?’ Alé asked, looking appalled.

  Cesca’s expression changed. ‘Well, having done my research, I imagine it’s because she lost custody of him when he was four. The court awarded full custody to the father.’

  ‘Seriously? Why? Why would they take a child away from its mother?’

  ‘According to the judge’s summation, she was an “unreliable witness whose erratic behaviour could only be considered a danger to the child”. He also went on to call her an alcoholic and “drug-addicted dilettante”.’

  ‘A “drug-addicted dilettante”?’ Matteo said, delighted by the description. ‘Your viscontessa has gone up in my estimation!’

  But Cesca wasn’t smiling. ‘Don’t . . .’ She swallowed. ‘The little boy died when he was six. He drowned in a pool at the father’s house in Bel Air when there was a party going on. Drugs paraphernalia was found; it looks like the father wasn’t whiter-than-white either.’

  There was an appalled silence.

  ‘Shit,’ Guido muttered.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Alé frowned, her hands pressed to her mouth.

  ‘Elena hadn’t seen him for over two years by then. She was denied access. The custody battle was pretty nasty.’

  ‘Damn, that’s fucked up,’ Matteo said, shaking his head.

  ‘And she never mentioned any of this?’ Guido asked, disbelieving.

  ‘Nope. Although I guess I can kind of see why,’ Cesca admitted. ‘It must have been so incredibly painful.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Alé whispered. ‘I mean, how do you get over something like that?’

  They were all quiet for a moment, passing round the balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

  ‘Has she kept anything else from you?’ Alé asked.

  ‘Yes – every time I fact-check something it’s different. Honestly, it’s like stepping into an alternative reality to hers. I mean, I’m supposed to be writing the only authorized record of the life of one of the most recognized women of the twentieth century. If this book is to have any credibility, her life needs to be seen and judged in its totality. I can’t believe she doesn’t realize that to do anything less would make her a laughing stock. The public are not stupid. Patronize them at your cost.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Alé asked.

  Cesca shrugged. ‘I’ll have to confront her about it. I can’t unknow what I’ve read.’ She wrinkled her nose, baffled by something. ‘Frankly, I just don’t get why she’s tried to hide it from me. She must surely have known that I would come across this stuff. It’s all out there, just waiting for anyone who’s interested to have a look.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Guido agreed. ‘And especially given your past career, she must know that you, more than anyone, are trained in knowing how to separate the truth from the lies. After all, you’re vastly overqualified for this project; she must realize how lucky she is even to have you doing it for her.’

  Cesca shrugged.

  ‘How do you think she’ll take it? We already know she doesn’t like to be challenged,’ Matteo said.

  ‘Well, she either wants to write a book about her life or she doesn’t,’ Cesca sighed. ‘But there’s no point in only doing half a job.’

  ‘I don’t envy you that conversation,’ Alé said, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of the time on Matteo’s watch. ‘Shoot. Come on, guys, eat faster or we’ll be late.’ She looked at Cesca. ‘I wish you were coming with us tonight.’

  ‘Oh, I’m rather glad I’m not, actually,’ Cesca admitted. ‘I need a quiet night in to let this settle in my mind.’

  She stared past the terrace to the church towers and domes reaching into the blushing sky, clay peg-tiled roofs and tiny terraces cluttered with washing lines, bikes and geraniums spreading all the way back to the horizon. But she didn’t see any of it – because something wasn’t smelling right about this.

  Guido had been right. Elena must have known she would find all this out about her past. Unless Cesca was negligent in her professional duties, she couldn’t fail to. She was troubled, too – now she knew the truth – as to why Elena had even pursued the project in the first place. Elena was a fully paid-up member of the Nobiltà nera, for whom discretion was the better part of valour, so why would she embark on a course of action that guaranteed exactly the opposite? Why, when she was now a princess and highly regarded philanthropist, did she actively want to rake up a past littered with failed marriages and hard-partying antics, a dead child and even the hushed whisper of murder?

  Cesca couldn’t understand it. This book would be akin to social suicide. It was almost as though Elena was dousing herself in gasoline – and simply waiting for Cesca to strike a match.

  Cesca sat on the small square at the top of her steps, legs outstretched and the last of the wine in her hand as she caught the final rays from the fast-melting sun, which was oozing from the sky. The others had gone on to the Cold-play concert, which – when they’d booked, five months earlier – she couldn’t make, having been scheduled to lead a night tour.

  Not that she minded. She wasn’t in the mood to spend her night waving her arms in the air with 60,000 strangers. Her brain was overloaded with truths and counter-truths and she felt distracted by the new facts thrown up by her research. The more she uncovered, the more shaky Elena’s own account of her life seemed to become – not just historically, but now, too; the memory of that magnificent ring in Nico’s palm yesterday morning still lingered. Something wasn’t right. The way Elena had suddenly become furtive about it, taking the meeting privately once Nico had unwrapped it . . . Didn’t she trust Cesca? But then, if so, why had she invited her into her private vault? Let her wear a priceless necklace from her own collection? No, it couldn’t be a trust issue.

  The image of the ring shimmered in her mind. She’d never seen anything like it – not even at the Bulgari store at the party the other week. How could something like that have been lost in a disused tunnel and not even be known to be lost?

  She tilted her head back against the wall, feeling the gentle heat on her pale throat and
listening to the soundtrack of the square: the rattle of the metal shutters as the bakery closed for another day; the low murmur of conversation building up as the osteria’s first sittings began to arrive; scooters zipping past and parking outside the pizzeria.

  And voices. Close by.

  In fact – below.

  Signora Dutti was standing at her door, talking animatedly to someone.

  ‘. . . Sì, sì. It is Maria. Maria Dutti.’

  ‘Thank you, Signora Dutti. You have been very helpful. I apologize for interrupting you at the weekend—’

  Cesca’s eyes opened at the voice and she scrabbled forwards on her hands and knees to look through the railings. She saw the top of a curly, dark-haired dusty head, powerful climber’s shoulders, hobnailed boots.

  Nico?

  ‘It makes no difference to me,’ Signora Dutti said, with an almost-girlish, dismissive laugh. ‘Saturday. Thursday. They are all the same to me.’

  ‘—We will be in touch if we have any further questions.’

  He stepped back, nodding adieu and reflexively glancing up.

  Their eyes met in mutual astonishment. Cesca blinked back at him, open-mouthed, embarrassed to have been caught prying.

  He looked away immediately. ‘Buona notte, Signora.’ He turned and began to walk in the direction of the north-west corner of the square, between the bakery and Franco’s.

  ‘Nico?’ The word was out before she could stop herself. Sheer curiosity impelled her to make him stay. (Was it only curiosity . . . ?)

  He stopped and turned around. ‘What?’ His manner was cold and closed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, a half-laugh in her voice that he should be coming out of her elderly landlady’s apartment at 9 p.m. on a Saturday evening.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sank back onto her heels, the smile slipping from her face as she took in the outright hostility on his. They were no longer friends – or whatever it was that they had been, or might have been. Her poor behaviour at the osteria had well and truly slammed the door shut on that. ‘Sorry.’

  Inexplicably, she felt tears spring to her eyes as he turned around and walked away again. It seemed they were destined to be at loggerheads with one another, never quite falling into step. But he’d gone only ten paces before he stopped suddenly and dropped his head, his hands on his hips. She watched, feeling frozen herself as she sensed conflict in his pose. Then he wheeled around again and marched back, somehow looking furious and helpless at once as he stood there, staring up at her – just staring, unwilling or unable to say what was running through his head and behind his eyes.

  Cesca felt her stomach drop and she got to her feet, swallowing nervously as he bounded up the steps to her left. She turned to face him as, suddenly, he was there – as though he always should have been, as though he always was going to be – standing just a metre from her, his eyes burning.

  ‘Would you . . . like a glass of wine?’ she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t dare ask what he did want then. She didn’t have time, for in the next moment he had stepped forward and breached the gap between them, his hands clasping her face and kissing her. Her hands covered his, her body arching towards him. She could taste the dust on his lips, feel his hunger for her.

  He pulled back and stared down at her, seeing his own urgency reflected in her eyes and then his mouth was on hers again. And as they stumbled, locked together, through the open door of the apartment, they didn’t notice the shocked expression of Signora Dutti, sweeping brush in hand, downstairs; nor did they see the movement behind the glass of the ice-blue palace opposite, where all the window shutters were closed . . . apart from one.

  She looked down at their long bodies intertwined on the sheets, hers vanilla, his mocha. Nico was dozing, one hand clasped behind his head, the other wrapped round her waist. Her head was on his chest, one hand gently ruffling the hair that tapered down to his navel. She wanted to sleep too but she couldn’t. What had just happened?

  She felt ecstatically happy, but more than a little flummoxed. The way they’d left things at the osteria the other night . . . and then the way he’d glowered at her in Elena’s room afterwards. She thought he hated her. She thought he thought she was ridiculous. He thought she was a killer.

  She flinched at the memory of it and his hand automatically tightened its grip on her, as though she was a toddler about to fall out of bed. She sank into him again, lifting her head to look at him better; it felt like such a luxury to get to rest her eyes on him for once, without having to look away for fear of his scorn or rejection.

  ‘What?’ His voice was heavy, drowsy with sleep, but a small smile curved on his lips, his stubble thick on his cheeks.

  ‘What just happened here?’ she whispered, twirling a curl of chest hair around her right index finger. ‘I had no idea you liked me like that.’

  ‘Then you are blind.’

  Cesca smiled. True to form, then? Even post-coital, he was as direct as a line.

  His hand tightened again, squeezing her to him gently, and she felt her heart leap at the subtle gesture.

  ‘It’s lucky for you you’re as handsome as you are or I would have been entirely successful in managing to hate you,’ she murmured. ‘I was quite determined, you know.’

  He opened one eye and stared at her with it. ‘I know.’

  ‘In fact, it’s only because you look so good in a suit. I mean, like, so good. I think it’s an Italian thing.’

  ‘You look really good naked.’ His hand reached down and clasped her buttock, before gently smacking it and making her jump.

  ‘Ow!’ she laughed, squirming against him.

  ‘Hmm,’ he grinned, smacking her again, making her writhe.

  She chuckled, kissing his chest above his heart, before laying her head down again.

  ‘I’m so glad Isabella is your sister,’ she sighed. ‘I felt sick when I saw her. She’s so gorgeous and the complete opposite of me. I knew I couldn’t compare to her.’

  ‘No.’ And when he felt her stiffen, he added. ‘I mean, you are not like anyone else, Cesca. There is no one like you.’ He kissed the top of her head tenderly. ‘Besides, I am very glad that Matteo is a . . . what did you say? Terrible tart.’

  ‘I told you. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘He likes you.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘Trust me. Men know. It’s an instinct.’

  She felt butterflies in her stomach. ‘Were you wildly jealous?’ When he didn’t reply, she looked up at him, resting her chin on his chest. ‘Were you?’

  His eyes burned again. ‘You know I was.’

  She sighed, gratified, staring at him with coquettish eyes, marvelling that he was here. ‘So what was the deal earlier? Are you cheating on Signora Dutti with me?’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘Oh, I see. This was just your way of getting me to talk.’

  ‘On the contrary, you jumped me. I thought this was your way to stop me talking,’ she replied with an arch tone.

  He laughed again, the sound magnificent against her ear, and she watched him, revelling in his beauty. He met her gaze, the look in his eyes soft and indulgent for once. ‘One of the tunnels leads out to her apartment,’ he said, smoothing her hair back from her face, his eyes falling to her temples, cheeks, freckles . . .

  ‘You didn’t find the crown jewels down there, did you?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ he grinned. ‘Although next time I’ll know better than to hand the goods over. I’ll just pack my bag and head for the border.’

  ‘Throwing me over your shoulder first, I hope.’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes danced.

  ‘So the ring was definitely Elena’s?’

  ‘Who else’s? It is a very famous piece, called the Bulgari Blue.’

  ‘The Bul . . . ?’ Cesca frowned, pushing herself up on one elbow. She had heard that name be
fore. ‘But it can’t be.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Cesca thought back. ‘Because she said it was in a safe in Switzerland. She was talking about it with Signor Bulgari himself at the party the other week. I was standing right there.’

  ‘Well, unless it’s a fake, there’s no question it’s the Blue.’ Nico’s eyes flashed. ‘But she told me it had been lost many years before.’

  Cesca was quiet. ‘Why would she lie about it to the head of Bulgari? You can’t forget losing something like that and think you’ve stored it in a foreign bank vault instead.’ She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps she didn’t want to admit it was lost? Insurance . . . ?’

  He watched her. ‘Still the barrister.’ Cesca stiffened but he caught her head with his hands, making her look at him. ‘It is not a bad thing, Cesca. Why do you act as if it is a dirty word?’

  She just blinked, her heart rate accelerating – there was so much she wanted to say, but couldn’t. After a minute, seeing she wouldn’t break her silence, he curled up and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

  With determination, she changed the subject. ‘So two of the tunnels lead under the little square to the osteria and this building, and the third . . . ?’ she asked.

  He arched an eyebrow, not fooled for a moment by her desire to switch subjects, but indulging her anyway. ‘And the third one leads to the water garden at the south-east aspect of the garden.’

  ‘A water garden?’ she smiled. ‘I’d love to see that.’

  ‘You were supposed to. There was wine chilling, olives . . .’

  She heard the wry note in his voice and thought back to Wednesday evening. He’d been so edgy, and she’d taken it as disinterest – but was it nerves? He’d been so adamant they could only follow one route, but if he had set up a picnic for them . . . ‘Oh, God. It was supposed to be a date?’

  ‘A first step, at least. I wasn’t sure whether you felt the same. But instead—’

  ‘I made a detour,’ she cringed, remembering how she’d refused to listen, and then the angry way they’d parted. ‘I really messed up,’ she whispered.