The Italian Girl

by Lucinda Riley

  Another burst of applause followed his short speech, then he was surrounded by people clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. Rosanna stood alone, unsure what to do. A waitress offered her a glass of Prosecco. She took a sip and spluttered helplessly as the bubbles fizzed in the back of her throat.

  ‘Piccolina, oh Rosanna, you were . . . magnificent!’ Luca was by her side. ‘You will be such a star one day – I have always known it.’

  ‘Where’s Papa? did he enjoy it? Was he angry that we didn’t tell him about the singing lessons?’ asked Rosanna anxiously.

  ‘When Signor Vincenzi announced that you’d been coming to him for five years, his face looked like thunder. But now he’s heard you sing, well . . .’ Luca chuckled. ‘He’s boasting to everybody that you’re his daughter.’

  She looked out onto the terrace and saw Marco talking to several people. She realised he was smiling for the first time since her mamma had died.

  ‘Rosanna, I have someone I want you to meet.’ Luigi appeared by her side, accompanied by an elegantly dressed middle-aged man. ‘This is Signor Paolo de Vito, artistic director of La Scala, Milan.’

  ‘Signorina Menici, it’s delightful to meet you. Luigi has told me much about you. And having heard you sing, I have to say he was not exaggerating. Your performance tonight was breathtaking. As always, Luigi has done a wonderful job. He has a nose for special talent.’

  Luigi shrugged modestly. ‘I can only work with the tools I am given.’

  ‘I think too, my friend, you have a little genius of your own. Would you not agree, Signorina Menici?’ Paolo smiled down at her.

  ‘Luigi has been wonderful to me,’ Rosanna replied shyly.

  ‘And he tells me your papa is here?’ continued Paolo.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Rosanna.

  ‘Well, if you would excuse me, I wish to speak to him. Will you introduce us, Luigi?’

  Luca and Rosanna watched nervously from the other side of the terrace as Luigi introduced Paolo de Vito to Marco. The three men sat down and Luigi signalled to a waitress to bring more Prosecco.

  Rosanna turned away. ‘I cannot bear to look,’ she said. ‘What do you think they’re talking about?’

  ‘You know what they’ll be saying. After your performance tonight, there’s no need for false modesty.’ Luca turned his attention to a heavily bejewelled lady and her husband who had come up to congratulate Rosanna on her performance.

  Eventually, Luigi stood up and beckoned to Rosanna and Luca to join them.

  ‘Rosanna, bravissima!’ Marco stood up and kissed his daughter on both cheeks. ‘Why did you not tell me you were having singing lessons all this time? If I had known, I would of course have helped. You are a bad girl, eh?’ Her papa smiled. ‘Well, what’s done is done. Signor de Vito has been telling me he thinks you will one day be a big star. He wants you to go to a music school in Milan. He’s sure they will offer you a scholarship.’

  Paolo shrugged. ‘As a director of the school and La Scala, I can take what you might call an executive decision.’

  ‘And what do you say, Papa?’ asked Luca anxiously.

  ‘Well, it’s all well and good to have such a talent, but I could not let my daughter go alone to such a big city. Who knows what would become of her?’ Marco sighed.

  Rosanna felt the adrenaline of the evening leave her. She’d been right. In the end, it had all been for nothing. Papa was going to say no.

  ‘So,’ Marco continued, ‘Signor Vincenzi suggested that someone should accompany you. And of course, I think to myself, who? Who could I trust to take care of my daughter and keep her safe? And then it came to me. Luca, my son, who has paid all these years to help you.’

  ‘You . . . you mean, you’ll let me go to Milan if Luca accompanies me?’ Rosanna gazed up at her papa in amazement.

  Marco nodded. ‘Yes. It seems like the perfect solution.’

  ‘But what about you, Papa? We couldn’t leave you alone.’ Luca was staring at his father as though he had lost his mind.

  ‘But I won’t be alone, Luca. Carlotta and Ella are home now. And my daughter insists that she will not return to her husband. So, she can look after her old papa and help in the café. And I will find a replacement for you, Luca. You were a bad cook anyway,’ joked Marco. ‘And as these two gentlemen have said’ – he nodded in the direction of Luigi and Paolo – ‘we must try to do everything we can to give your precious gift to the world, Rosanna. So, there we are. Are you happy?’

  ‘Oh Papa! I . . . of course I am! Thank you, thank you!’ Rosanna hugged him tightly, still unable to believe the longed-for future was hers to grasp.

  ‘And what about you, Luca? Will accompanying Rosanna to Milan suit you?’ asked Luigi.

  Luca’s eyes shone. ‘I can’t think of anything that would please me more.’

  ‘Good, good, so that is settled,’ said Paolo. ‘Forgive me, but I must leave now. I have a post-performance supper with the director of the Teatro di San Carlo in the city.’ He stood up and turned to Rosanna. ‘I’ll speak to my colleagues about you on my return to Milan. If all goes well, then in the next few days you will receive a letter formally confirming you have been granted a scholarship. The term begins in September. I look forward very much to welcoming you to the school and after that, perhaps, La Scala itself. Goodnight, Rosanna.’ He took her hand in his and kissed it.

  ‘I can’t ever thank you enough, Signor de Vito,’ she replied, her voice thick with emotion.

  Paolo smiled at her, then walked inside the house with Luigi to the front door. ‘You handled that very well, Paolo. I’ll always be grateful to you,’ said Luigi.

  ‘I’ve dealt with difficult parents many times.’ Paolo grinned suddenly. ‘You know, Marco even told me that Rosanna had inherited her voice from him! And I must thank you, Luigi, for entrusting Rosanna to me. I’ll do my best to see that her talent is nurtured.’

  ‘I know you will, Paolo. All I ask for is a ticket to her debut at La Scala.’

  ‘Of course. Ciao, Luigi.’

  Luigi shut the door and was immediately waylaid by the mother of one of his students. Eventually, he made his way back to the terrace and sought out Luca.

  ‘I have something for you, young man.’ Luigi pressed a thick brown envelope into Luca’s hands. ‘This is for you and Rosanna, to help you with your expenses in Milan. You’ve been an exceptional brother to Rosanna. And I think, out of your kindness, you too have won your freedom, yes?’ There was a look of surprise on Luca’s face as Luigi patted his shoulder and went to join his other guests.

  When the Menici family arrived home in the taxi Luigi had insisted he pay for, Luca went up to his bedroom and shut the door. He opened the envelope and emptied hundreds of lire notes onto his bed. There was also a letter in the envelope, which he unfolded and read.

  I kept your money from the first day Rosanna gave it to me. I wanted to teach her for free but I understand pride. I also thought it might help in the future. I’m sure you will use it wisely. Kind Regards, Luigi Vincenzi.

  Luca lay back on his bed, his heart bursting with gratitude at such unexpected kindness.

  7

  Carlotta sat motionless in a chair in the sitting room as her father explained that Rosanna had won a scholarship to a music school in Milan and that Luca was to accompany her.

  ‘It’s all worked out perfectly,’ smiled Marco. ‘Antonia’s gone, but you, my favourite daughter, are back to take her place. As you’ve told me so many times that you won’t return to Giulio, you can live here with Ella and help me in the café as your mamma would want you to.’

  Marco waited for his daughter’s reaction. Carlotta stared off into the distance as if she hadn’t heard.

  ‘It is a good plan, yes? For all of us,’ Marco encouraged.

  Eventually, Carlotta nodded. She had lost a considerable amount of weight and her brown eyes looked huge in her drawn face. ‘Yes, Papa. I will stay here and take care of you. As you say, it’s my duty. Excuse me,
I think I will take a walk.’

  Marco watched as Carlotta stood up and left the room. Soon, he hoped, his child would be back to her old self. They would laugh together and he would be for Ella the papa she’d recently lost. Pouring himself a brandy, Marco decided that, under the dreadful circumstances, things had at least worked out better than he had could have ever expected.

  Rosanna was searching through a drawer for a clean white blouse when her sister came into the bedroom.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Rosanna looked at her sister apprehensively. She knew Papa had told Carlotta of her move to Milan and was not sure what the reaction would be.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why did you not tell us of your secret, Rosanna?’ Carlotta asked.

  ‘Because . . . I didn’t think anyone would approve.’

  Carlotta sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her. Rosanna moved towards her nervously.

  ‘You think I’m jealous, don’t you, Rosanna? Because you and Luca are soon to be leaving for a new life in Milan, while I stay here and take Mamma’s place?’

  ‘Carlotta, Luca and I will come home every holiday and help you, I promise,’ Rosanna reassured her.

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, but I think, once you’re away from here, you will forget your old life.’

  ‘No, Carlotta! I’ll never forget you and Papa and everyone here in the Piedigrotta,’ Rosanna replied defensively.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Carlotta said gently. She reached for Rosanna’s hand. ‘I can’t deny I felt at first a little envy when Papa told me, but I’m pleased for you, really. You’ve been given a chance, and I hope,’ she sighed, ‘that you’re wiser than your big sister and don’t mess it up.’

  ‘Carlotta, please don’t say that. You’re still young too. And you might get back with Giulio.’

  ‘No, Rosanna, I won’t,’ Carlotta said firmly. ‘And I can never marry again as he will never divorce me. You know how such a thing would cause a scandal here. So, what I’m trying to tell you is that it takes one moment of stupidity to ruin your life forever. And I don’t want to see you suffer the same as I have because of it.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t,’ replied Rosanna, still not sure what mistake it was that her sister had made. ‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’

  ‘You’re a sensible girl, Rosanna, but when it comes to men’ – Carlotta smiled wryly and shook her head – ‘all women can be stupid.’

  ‘I’m not interested in men, only in singing. Please tell me, what is it that’s happened between you and Giulio?’

  ‘I can’t tell you now, but maybe some day I will. All I know is that I’ve paid the price for my stupidity and will continue to do so for the rest of my life,’ Carlotta replied sadly.

  ‘And now, on top of everything, you’ll have to stay here and care for Papa!’ said Rosanna, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. ‘If I wasn’t going to Milan, then—’

  Carlotta put a finger to her sister’s lips. ‘Don’t think like that. For now, Ella and I need Papa as much as he needs us. Things have worked out well, really.’

  ‘You really don’t mind us going to Milan and leaving you here?’

  ‘No. I’m very happy for you, truly. Just promise to take care of Luca for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rosanna agreed.

  ‘We’re so lucky to have a brother like him. And it’s good that he’s going with you. You’ve given him his freedom too and that’s a wonderful thing. He deserves it.’ Carlotta stood up, kissed the top of her sister’s head affectionately and left the bedroom.

  Rosanna took off her T-shirt and put on her white choir blouse. She was confused by Carlotta’s reaction. She’d expected tears, tantrums and jealousy from her fiery sister, not an almost saintly acceptance of her lot, and she felt unsettled by Carlotta’s uncharacteristic resignation to her situation. And she couldn’t help feeling terrible that, through winning freedom for herself and Luca, the two of them seemed to have sentenced their beautiful sister to a life of unhappiness.

  Roberto Rossini waited until he was fully awake before he opened his eyes to the blinding light of a hot August morning in Milan.

  Roberto turned over and saw Tamara’s pretty face, still in peaceful repose. Tamara was accommodating and they’d had an enjoyable three weeks. But now it must end, as she was becoming far too possessive and had started talking of their future together. The moment women did this, he knew it was time to move on.

  He put his hands behind his head and lay watching the clear blue sky beyond the window, thinking of the day ahead. He had a singing lesson this afternoon, then tonight there was a benefit performance at La Scala for a children’s charity – he couldn’t remember which, but everyone who was anyone in Milan would be there.

  Roberto sighed. He’d been singing professionally for the past five years, and, although he was now a soloist with La Scala, he always sang minor roles. There were other opera companies in Europe he had appeared with who had offered him larger parts in their forthcoming seasons, but he wanted more than anything to succeed at La Scala. Caruso, his hero, from his home town of Naples, had made his name there. And it was also in Milan’s magnificent opera house that Callas and di Stephano had given some of their finest performances.

  Roberto was becoming impatient for the glory he knew his voice and his charisma deserved. Although thirty-four was hardly old for an opera singer, he had only a few more years before his still handsome young features and taut body moved into middle age, and the moment for true greatness at the height of all his powers had passed.

  But how could he achieve his goal in time? Roberto knew he had the qualities that, once he’d been given the opportunity, would separate him from the rest. His voice was strong, distinctive and growing richer as he matured. He’d been told often that he possessed great stage presence and knew how to pour emotion into the characters he portrayed. So why hadn’t he yet been given the chance to shine in a leading role at La Scala?

  When he’d joined the company five years ago, he’d presumed that it would be only a matter of time before he was promoted and given all the great tenor parts he so yearned to make his own. But, since then, roles he was right for in every way had gone to others. Singers who Roberto hardly rated were rising above and beyond him.

  Roberto turned away from the sun and groaned. He had to accept that, for all his talent, he had something of a public relations problem with those who employed him. When he’d been at the music school, he’d done himself few favours by sending a stream of distraught female students in the direction of their tutors. His reputation as a Casanova had not endeared him to anyone, and Paolo de Vito, not only a director of the school but also artistic director at La Scala, had heard of his antics.

  Last year he’d had an affair with a guest soprano, who’d gone running to Paolo when Roberto had unceremoniously dumped her. He’d had a major dressing-down for that, Paolo pointing out that it wasn’t good for La Scala’s reputation to have an up-and-coming young soprano swearing never to return.

  After the great soprano debacle, a chastened Roberto had apologised to Paolo and promised it wouldn’t happen again. He’d desperately tried to discipline himself for the rest of the season, his ambition to succeed at La Scala and to appease Paolo subduing his more hedonistic tendencies.

  Roberto had often wondered whether it was purely a clash of personalities, or something deeper. Paolo was a well-known homosexual and Roberto was sure his handsome good looks and success with women were not qualities that would naturally endear him to the maestro, however well he behaved. And he had behaved . . . at least, until Tamara had arrived, fresh from Russia. She’d been impossible to refuse.

  Roberto rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. The season at La Scala finished in September. Then he was off to sing in Paris for a couple of months. He would return to Milan in November for the final year of his contract and, if he didn’t get the roles he wanted in the new season, he’
d vowed to give up and go abroad permanently. Until then, he’d have to sit it out.

  That evening, Roberto sang to an audience worth several billion lire.

  Afterwards, there was a reception in the foyer of La Scala to which the entire opera company was invited. As Roberto sipped a glass of champagne, he decided he’d leave as soon as possible. This kind of event bored him: there were too many over-made-up wives glittering with the fruits of their ageing husbands’ wealth.

  He watched morosely as the young Spanish tenor, who had given, in his opinion, such a mediocre Otello, was fêted by the Italian Prime Minister and other well-known dignitaries.

  ‘Good evening. I enjoyed your performance tonight.’ Roberto heard a female voice behind him and turned without enthusiasm, prepared for a tedious five minutes of being polite.

  ‘Donatella Bianchi. I am pleased to meet you,’ ventured the woman.

  Roberto shook her outstretched hand. Donatella Bianchi had a head of the most glorious curly, ebony-coloured hair, green eyes that sparkled brighter than the priceless emeralds around her throat, and the most sensational cleavage. Although certainly past forty, she oozed sex appeal. Her long, perfectly manicured fingernails lingered on Roberto’s palm for a little longer than necessary.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you too.’ Roberto gave her a genuine smile.

  ‘I’ve seen you perform many times before. My husband is a very generous patron of the company. And I think you are a very talented . . . performer.’

  ‘You’re most kind.’ The conversation was outwardly formal, but the eye contact between them was electric.

  Donatella reached into her Gucci evening bag and drew out a card. ‘Give me a call tomorrow morning, Roberto Rossini. We need to discuss your future. Ciao.’

  Roberto slipped the card into his pocket as he watched her make her way through the crowd and slip her arm round the considerable waist of a short, balding Italian.

  Minutes later, Roberto left. As he walked across the Piazza della Scala, he pondered whether he would give Signora Bianchi a call. Older paramours were not usually his thing, but Donatella was obviously no ordinary woman.