The Italian Girl

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Of course, but it won’t be the same.’

  ‘You’ll be so wrapped up in your new life at La Scala that you’ll hardly notice I’ve gone, piccolina.’

  ‘I understand that you must go and find your own way, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still need you.’ Determined not to cry, Rosanna added brightly, ‘I wonder what Papa will say?’

  ‘Oh, I think he’ll enjoy being able to brag about his son the priest and his daughter the opera singer, so he’ll be happy enough.’ Luca reached for her hands. ‘Rosanna, you know I still love you? That you are the most precious person in my life?’

  ‘Yes, Luca.’

  ‘But I think it’s right for me to go now. You too must learn some independence.’

  Rosanna nodded sadly. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. It’s time for me to grow up.’

  The two months in Naples passed quickly. The café was busy and Rosanna was unable to spend as much time as she would have liked with Luca. As her brother had predicted, when he heard the news, Marco boasted to anyone and everyone that his son was to become a priest. It was this news, rather than his daughter’s joining La Scala, that was cause for celebration. Rosanna accepted his apparent lack of interest in her career; it only served to demonstrate how far she’d come from the safe but narrow world of the Piedigrotta. And she didn’t expect Papa to understand.

  Before she returned to Milan, knowing it might be a while before she could visit Naples again, Rosanna went to see Luigi Vincenzi. They sat outside on his beautiful terrace, shaded from the fierce August sun and enjoying glasses of chilled white wine. She felt guilty that she now felt more at home here with Luigi than she did in her father’s café.

  ‘You think I’m right to follow Paolo’s plans?’ she asked him as he topped up her glass.

  ‘Oh yes. Going abroad and singing the big roles sounds very glamorous, but Paolo is wise to give you the time you need.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel as though I’ve been practising forever,’ sighed Rosanna. ‘It’s nearly ten years since I began my lessons with you.’

  ‘And you will continue practising, Rosanna, until the day you die,’ reiterated Luigi. ‘That’s part of your job and how you will continue to improve. Look at it this way: it would be much more profitable for Paolo to immediately put you into a leading role at La Scala. He knows what a big star you’ll be and the attention you’ll command. But instead, he and Riccardo Beroli wish to nurture you, give you as much time as you need to build up your confidence and your repertoire.

  You think other sopranos get this kind of special treatment from the artistic director of one of the greatest opera houses in the world?’

  Rosanna could see the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’m being impatient and selfish.’

  ‘All part of the artistic temperament, which will flourish along with your voice,’ Luigi chuckled. ‘You’re exactly where you should be, Rosanna. Trust me, and trust Paolo and Riccardo. We’re all on your side.’

  Half an hour later, Luigi saw her to the front door. ‘You must send my best wishes to your brother. I hope all goes well for him in his chosen path.’

  ‘I will,’ Rosanna nodded. She reached up and kissed Luigi affectionately on both cheeks. ‘Thank you, Luigi. Maybe I will see you in Milan on my first opening night?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ He returned the kisses. ‘Ciao, Rosanna. Keep practising.’

  ‘I will.’ She smiled and waved as she made her way down the drive.

  Four days after their return to Milan, Rosanna accompanied Luca to the Stazione Centrale, where he would embark on his journey to Bergamo. As her brother boarded the train, Rosanna gave him one last hug.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Luca.’

  ‘And I of you, piccolina. One word before I go – you have a great gift, Rosanna, and as with all blessings, there will be a high price to pay. Trust nobody but yourself,’ he entreated her.

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’

  ‘Abi will look after you. And you must look after her too.’

  ‘Of course. I think she’s more upset about you going than anyone.’

  ‘Yes, we had grown close.’ Luca’s reply was deliberately light in order to mask his true feelings.

  ‘You will write to both of us, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try, but forgive me if you don’t hear from me for a while. They have strict rules for novices. Ciao, bella.’ Luca kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And may God bless you and protect you while I’m gone.’

  ‘Ciao, Luca.’

  Rosanna waited until the train had disappeared from view before she stopped waving. As she walked slowly back along the platform and out onto the busy Milan streets, Rosanna felt bereft. Luca had always been there. Now he was gone and she had to face her future alone.

  15

  Roberto was woken by the telephone. Cursing, he reached for the receiver.

  ‘Pronto.’

  ‘Caro, it’s Donatella.’

  ‘Why do you call me at this time? You know I arrived back late last night,’ he replied irritably.

  ‘My apologies, but you’ve been away for six weeks. I wanted to hear your voice and make sure you were home safely. Don’t be angry with me, caro,’ she pleaded.

  Roberto relented. ‘Of course I’m not angry. I’m tired, that’s all.’

  ‘How was London?’

  ‘It rained all the time. And in August too. I caught a bad cold.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ she soothed. ‘But never mind. I read the reviews for Turandot. They were simply stunning.’

  ‘They were quite good, yes,’ he conceded modestly.

  ‘Shall I come and see you this afternoon? We have some catching up to do.’

  ‘No, this afternoon isn’t possible. I have a meeting with Paolo de Vito about the forthcoming season.’

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘Okay. Tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t wait. I’ll be with you at three. Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao.’ Roberto put the receiver down and lay back with a sigh, his relief at returning to Milan after the greyness of London ebbing away.

  In the past three years, Donatella had changed. In the beginning, the relationship had been based on a strong mutual attraction, and the looming presence of Donatella’s husband had stopped things being taken to a more serious level. But slowly, as Roberto’s fame had increased, so had Donatella’s possessiveness. It had been so gradual that he’d hardly noticed, but in the past year, words of love had begun to creep into her vocabulary. She’d become angry if she saw newspaper reports or magazine photographs of Roberto with other women. She constantly accused him of having affairs, and on occasion she had been correct. But while Donatella was still rich and influential, she was not his keeper. He may have been nothing when he met her, but now he was an international star and nobody, nobody, could tell him what to do.

  But then, no other woman excited him sexually quite the way she did. The physical spark that had first ignited the relationship was still there and he found her maddeningly hard to resist.

  Roberto pondered his dilemma as he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stepped under the jet. He wondered whether Donatella had seen the newspaper photographs of him and Rosalind Shannon, a young soprano at Covent Garden. London’s dreary weather had been considerably brightened by her warming his bed on more than one occasion. Of course she’d been upset when he’d left London yesterday, but he’d promised the usual things and that had seemed to pacify her. Roberto doubted he’d bother contacting her again. It had been fun while it lasted, but . . .

  He towelled himself dry and slipped into a pair of casual Armani trousers and a silk shirt. He went to the kitchen to make his special honey-based drink, which soothed and protected the vocal cords. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he couldn’t help smiling as he surveyed what his success had brought him. Others might claim material possessions were unimportant, an addendum to their fame. Robert
o disagreed. He loved being rich.

  His new apartment was just off the Via Manzoni, a mere stone’s throw from La Scala, and it suited his needs well. It was small enough to be manageable. He didn’t like the thought of an army of maids stumbling upon him in flagrante. But it was smart enough to reinforce his status as one of the world’s greatest living tenors.

  He’d come a long way, and he liked to think he’d done it all by himself.

  If Donatella wanted part of him, then she’d have to learn to play by the rules. Otherwise, it would be goodbye.

  The following afternoon, Donatella slipped into her new Ferrari. She checked her make-up in the mirror, then started the engine and roared out of the palazzo drive, eager to be in Roberto’s arms once more. She could hardly believe how much she’d missed him.

  She’d grown weary of their part-time relationship, of being forced to keep their affair secret when she wanted to shout to the world that she was the woman in the great Roberto Rossini’s life.

  She’d spent most of the summer with her husband in a villa in Cap Ferrat. As she’d lain by the pool soaking up the sun, she’d studied her husband: short, balding, coarse-featured and with a paunch that grew larger in proportion to the years. She could hardly bear for him to touch her anymore. Previously, the sacrifice had been worth it. His wealth, power and position had given her the things she’d always craved.

  But since then, a man had come into her life who made her feel young again, who was just as successful as her husband, but, more importantly, who was a man she loved and desired. As Donatella had swum slowly up and down the villa’s spectacular pool overlooking the Mediterranean, she’d convinced herself that the only reason Roberto had never said he loved her was because he knew it was hopeless. After all, she reasoned, she was a married woman who had no intention of leaving her husband and she’d made that clear from the beginning.

  But . . . what if she was single?

  By the time Donatella had arrived home from France, she’d made up her mind. She would divorce Giovanni and, after an appropriately seemly interval, marry Roberto. In the meantime, having announced the separation from Giovanni, she’d be free to travel the world with her younger lover. No longer could she stomach reading about his dalliances in newspapers. She wanted him all to herself.

  After all, his success was due to her.

  ‘Caro, oh, how I have missed you.’

  Roberto groaned as her snakelike tongue worked its way down his belly. She flicked her tongue backwards and forwards on the most sensitive part of him.

  ‘Say you love me,’ she demanded, as the sensation suddenly stopped.

  ‘I adore you,’ he whispered, lost in the moment and his own needs.

  As Donatella’s mouth encircled him, she smiled inwardly.

  It was all she needed to hear.

  Rosanna and Abi took their places on the stage of La Scala with the rest of the company. After three weeks in the rehearsal room, it was the first run-through in the theatre itself.

  ‘It’s huge,’ whispered Rosanna nervously, gazing up from the stage into the vast space of the empty auditorium.

  ‘I feel like a speck,’ replied Abi, equally nervously.

  Rosanna was staring at the great chandelier, suspended 550 feet above them, daydreaming of one day making her debut below it, when Riccardo Beroli clapped his hands and brought her back down to earth.

  ‘So, we will run through Act One.’

  As the chorus took their opening places on the complicated set, Rosanna watched Anna Dupré enter from the wings, deep in conversation with Paolo de Vito. She was playing Adina in Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore, the opera that would open the season. Rosanna had been given the role of Giannetta and had one short aria with the ladies’ chorus. She’d waited day after day for Roberto Rossini, who was playing Nemorino, to appear. Even though they’d been rehearsing for the past month, he was yet to attend.

  ‘Okay, we sing!’ Riccardo signalled for the pianist to begin.

  Six gruelling hours later, Abi and Rosanna left the theatre.

  ‘God! I for one need a drink,’ Abi announced as the two of them linked arms and headed off in the direction of a café just off the Piazza della Scala.

  They sat at a table by the window. Abi ordered a glass of wine and Rosanna a mineral water.

  ‘That was exhausting,’ exhaled Rosanna. ‘It’s all the hanging around while they get the lighting right.’

  ‘Yes, and you didn’t notice the stars having to do that, did you? Anna Dupré was only here for an hour this morning, and, of course, the great Signor Rossini didn’t bother to appear at all,’ sniffed Abi.

  ‘I heard Paolo tell Anna that Roberto was in Barcelona for a concert last night.’

  ‘Someone told me he’s had a couple of private rehearsals and will apparently only appear for the dress runs. He obviously doesn’t wish to associate with us mere mortals.’

  ‘Don’t be so judgemental, Abi, you don’t even know him.’ Rosanna sprang immediately to Roberto’s defence.

  ‘No, I don’t, but even you know the stories of his bad behaviour are legend at La Scala. Apparently, he actually had one of the chorus in between “The Toreador Song” and “The Smugglers’ Chorus” during last season’s Carmen. And still had enough breath to sing the finale!’

  ‘You are terrible, Abi.’ Rosanna had to chuckle. ‘I’m sure it’s all exaggerated.’

  ‘Probably, but a night of Roberto Rossini, however much of a Lothario he is, might be worth it. I’ve heard he’s brilliant in the sack.’ Abi sipped her wine and rather enjoyed Rosanna’s shocked expression. ‘Besides, I really am going to have to give up all hope of Luca reciprocating my feelings now he’s in a seminary, so surely I deserve some comfort for me and my broken heart?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really didn’t realise you were serious about him.’

  ‘Oh, I was.’ Abi was solemn for a moment. ‘I lost and God won,’ she murmured. ‘Anyway, no use crying over spilt milk, as we say in England. By the way, did you see the tenor sitting next to me on the steps?’

  ‘You mean, the one who looked a little like Luca?’

  ‘I suppose he did a bit,’ Abi acknowledged with a blush. ‘I think he’ll be my first target. Cheers.’ She raised her glass and drained the remnants of her wine.

  A week later, in their heavy costumes, Rosanna and Abi made their way towards the wings for the dress rehearsal. Rosanna could hear the discordant sound of the orchestra tuning up and saw that there were still a couple of carpenters banging nails into a flat on the vast stage.

  Paolo gathered the chorus and cast together on the stage.

  ‘Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I hope to run straight through with no pauses. We’ll get through as much as we can. Right, opening positions, everyone.’ Paolo nodded to Riccardo, who went to take his position in the orchestra pit.

  The chorus had sung only a couple of words before ‘Stop!’ was shouted from the stalls. A wait of twenty minutes followed while something unseen was adjusted to Paolo’s satisfaction. Finally they began again.

  Four hours later, Rosanna and Abi were sitting in the stalls drinking coffee out of plastic cups and waiting for Paolo to continue with the rest of Act one.

  ‘Well, well, well, look who’s decided to grace us with his presence.’ Abi nudged her.

  Rosanna looked up and caught her breath as she saw Roberto Rossini speaking to Paolo on the stage.

  ‘God, he really is attractive, isn’t he? Whoops, I’ve got to go. The chorus are on again.’

  Rosanna watched as Abi made her way back to the stage. The chorus sang the last two bars before departing into the wings, then the lights dimmed and Roberto made his entrance.

  He stood bathed in the white glow of the spotlight. As he began to sing ‘Una furtiva lagrima’, Rosanna sat transfixed.

  Two days later, Rosanna stood in the wings, ready to walk on stage and sing her own solo in front of the expectant first-night audience. Although she knew it backwards, a
nd it was not vocally demanding, adrenaline was rushing through her system. She swallowed and concentrated on her breathing to try and calm her nerves. A huge surge of applause came from the audience as Roberto finished singing and strolled off stage towards her. She thought he was going to walk straight past her, but instead he stopped in front of her. He was breathing heavily and she could see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘In bocca al lupo, Miss Menici,’ he whispered.

  ‘Crepi il lupo,’ she returned shyly.

  He leant towards her and kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘You will make a perfect debut. Now go.’

  Rosanna heard her cue and, with no more time for thought, stepped out onto the stage.

  Ten minutes later, she was back in the dressing room she shared with another soloist. Her nerves had left her the minute she’d begun to sing, the years of training allowing her to enjoy the atmosphere of her very first opening night. The applause had been warm and she knew she had sung well. And what was more, Roberto had noticed her. She put her fingers to her forehead, tracing the spot where he had kissed her.

  An hour later, the company were assembled on stage taking the thunderous applause of the audience. Roberto and Anna took five curtain calls. Eventually, they made their way back to their dressing rooms. Smiling at her reflection in the mirror as she marked to memory this very special moment, Rosanna changed into a dress and went along the corridor to see Abi in the dressing room she shared with other members of the chorus.

  ‘Rosanna, bravissima!’ Abi kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You sang beautifully. All the chorus thought so. There, you’ve made your first appearance on the stage at La Scala. You might get a review in the paper tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Who knows? But honestly, darling, I still can’t believe you haven’t bought anything new to wear to the party!’ exclaimed Abi. ‘That old black dress of yours is ready for the bin,’ she said, taking her own new red cocktail dress off its hanger.

  Rosanna ignored Abi’s comment. She had little interest in clothes. She pulled her dress straight as Abi wriggled into hers, then brushed her blonde hair and expertly touched up her make-up. ‘You look lovely, Abi,’ she said admiringly.