Carlotta went up to her bedroom, drew out a sheet of notepaper and a pen, and began to write.
Two weeks later, the subjects of so much high emotion were on their way in a taxi to Marylebone Register office. Roberto clasped his bride’s hand tightly in his.
The taxi stopped in front of the steps and Roberto climbed out. Having told no one but Chris of the engagement, he had arranged the marriage ceremony for nine thirty in the morning, thinking it less likely they would be spotted. Their final performance at Covent Garden had been last night. In three hours the two of them would be on a plane heading for Paris and after that . . . he would whisk his new wife away for three whole weeks to a secret place where they could remain undiscovered by the paparazzi. He was not ready to share her with the world yet.
‘The coast is clear.’ Roberto helped Rosanna out of the taxi and they hurried up the steps.
Chris Hughes was waiting inside. He smiled at them.
‘Rosanna, you look beautiful.’ He kissed her on both cheeks, then shook Roberto warmly by the hand. ‘I’ve brought my secretary, Liza, to be your other witness. She’s just gone to the ladies’ room.’
‘Good, good,’ Roberto nodded. ‘You understand, we just want a few weeks’ peace before the newspapers hear of our marriage.’
‘Sure. Ah, here she comes.’ Chris indicated a thin young woman who was walking down the steps towards them.
‘Thank you for coming, Liza.’ Roberto shook the girl’s hand. ‘You’re sworn to secrecy, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Liza nodded tremulously. ‘I think it’s very romantic.’
‘Right, let’s get on with it. You’ve got a plane to catch and so do I,’ said Chris briskly.
‘Good morning. Would you like to come through?’ The registrar appeared from the office.
The four of them followed him into an adjacent room that contained a desk at one end with three rows of chairs in front of it. The registrar indicated that the witnesses should sit down, then beckoned the bride and groom forward.
As Rosanna stood in front of the desk next to Roberto, she felt sad that none of her family and friends were here to share this special moment with her. But Roberto had been insistent about marrying before they left London.
‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a proper ceremony later, cara, and invite all our friends and family, but I don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind. Or for others to change it for you,’ he had added darkly.
Luca, Papa, Carlotta, Abi, Paolo, Luigi . . . Rosanna thought of them all as she listened to the words that would legally tie her to Roberto for the rest of her life. She knew they’d all be terribly hurt that she hadn’t told them, but it couldn’t be helped.
Rosanna repeated her vows after the registrar, while Roberto smiled encouragement at her.
Then he slipped the wedding ring onto her finger.
‘And that concludes the ceremony,’ beamed the registrar. ‘You are now Mr and Mrs Roberto Rossini. May I be the first to congratulate you.’
‘Thank you.’ Roberto shook the registrar’s hand. ‘I trust I can count on your discretion?’
‘Of course. If I had a pound for every clandestine marriage I’ve conducted, I’d be a rich man. My lips are sealed. Now, at the risk of sounding like a stickler for tradition, I do think you should kiss the bride,’ the registrar encouraged.
‘Of course. How could I forget.’ Roberto leant across to Rosanna and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
‘If you and your witnesses would like to sign the register, that will be everything,’ said the registrar.
Ten minutes later, Roberto and Rosanna climbed into a taxi that Chris had hailed for them.
‘Have a great honeymoon, guys,’ he said, closing the door.
‘We will, Chris. You know where we’ll be, but only contact us if it’s really urgent,’ called Roberto through the open window.
‘Sure. But you’d better let me know how, when and where you want the world to discover your happy news. Prepare yourselves for a storm of media interest, especially from the direction of Milan.’ Chris raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘See you when you get back to London.’
He waved as the taxi drew away.
‘Well, Signora Rossini, we’ve done it.’ Roberto smiled at his new wife.
‘Yes, I’ve married an old man.’ Her fingers twined themselves round his.
‘Well, I’m going to show you just how young you make me feel when we reach Paris.’ He kissed her gently on the forehead.
‘Will it be the first time you’ve made love to a married woman?’ asked Rosanna, enjoying his caresses.
‘Of course,’ murmured Roberto. ‘Of course.’
When they arrived in Paris, a limousine drove them to the Ritz hotel.
‘Welcome, welcome, monsieur et madame. Please follow me. Your suite has been prepared.’ The manager ushered them swiftly into the lift.
Rosanna drew in her breath as she followed the manager into the suite. The sitting room was elegant and ornately furnished, with heavy gold damask curtains framing the floor-length windows which looked out over the Place Vendôme.
‘This is the beginning of the most wonderful honeymoon, Signora Rossini,’ Roberto said as he took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and popped the cork.
Rosanna accepted the glass he handed to her.
‘Principessa, I want to tell you that you have made me the happiest man in the world. To us.’
‘To us.’ Their glasses touched and, leading her into the bedroom then cupping her face in his hands, he began to kiss her. ‘Ti amo, I love you, cara.’
His hands began to undo the buttons of her blouse. He slid it from her shoulders and let his fingertips glide across the smooth contours of her breasts, barely touching the skin. They fell back onto the bed, locked in an embrace.
Later as they lay naked, their legs entwined on the rumpled sheets, Roberto gently brushed a lock of Rosanna’s hair out of her eye. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him.
‘I’m hungry,’ she announced.
‘Then I shall call down and ask them to deliver us our wedding feast. Maybe some foie gras and some tender filets mignon, yes?’
‘I think I would like pasta,’ Rosanna shrugged.
Roberto rolled his eyes. ‘Pasta! You are in the Ritz in Paris, the culinary capital of the world, and you want pasta?’
‘Yes. A big plate of pasta and a salad. And you, you should watch your waistline.’ Rosanna put her arms around Roberto’s torso. ‘I don’t want a husband with middle-age spread,’ she teased.
Roberto pulled in his stomach, a wounded expression on his face. ‘You think I am fat?’
‘No, but like any man of your age, I think you must be careful.’
‘I am married for only a few hours and already my wife puts me on a diet! Well, tonight we feast; tomorrow – maybe – I fast.’ Roberto went over to the telephone and dialled room service while Rosanna slipped into the bathroom to shower.
After they’d eaten, they climbed between the soft linen sheets and lay together, staring at the beautiful mural on the ceiling. Roberto’s hand lazily caressed her naked body.
‘Cara, I know I say it often, but you have reformed me. Before you and I first made love, I used to think sex and love were two different things. I finally understand now why it’s possible to be monogamous. Once you’ve experienced what we have, then you need never seek pleasure from another.’
‘I thank God you feel that way,’ Rosanna murmured, ‘and I pray that you always will.’
‘Principessa, you do understand that many people will tell you what you have done is stupid?’
‘Yes, I know, Roberto.’
‘That they will say a leopard can never change his spots? That it cannot last?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, Rosanna, whatever you might hear in the future about me, please, I ask this of you: remember this moment, remember me looking down at you and telling
you how much I love you, how much I need you. You have lodged in my heart and will be there until the day I die. Tell me you will not let anything break us apart.’
‘As long as you can look me in the eye as you are doing now and never lie to me, then we’ll be together always.’ Rosanna settled herself for sleep in his arms. ‘Caro, when we come back from our honeymoon, can we visit Naples before we go back to London?’ she asked drowsily. ‘I feel very bad not telling my family about our marriage. Maybe if we went to visit them together, they might forgive us. We could go to Milan too, and see Paolo.’
‘I . . . yes, if we have time.’
‘Can we see a little of Paris tomorrow?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never been here before.’
‘Yes, if we can take care to disguise ourselves from the scum of the paparazzi.’ His face hardened for a moment, before adding gently, ‘Then I will whisk you away to a place where no one can find us. Sleep well, amore mio.’
Roberto leant across the bed and switched off the light. He was tired, but sleep would not come. Eventually, hearing Rosanna’s steady breathing, he got out of bed and went to the window. He opened it and let the cool night air into the muggy room. Paris was still wide awake, even at two in the morning.
As long as you never lie to me . . .
Roberto felt unsettled, uncertain. Every time Rosanna talked about returning to Italy, his heart rate tripled.
And there was another thought nagging at the back of his head, something else he knew he should tell her lest she discover it for herself. One hot summer evening, long ago in Naples . . . Roberto shook his head. She’d hate him for that, much more than she’d hated him for what he had done to Abi.
Roberto could only pray that his previous stupidity would not ruin his future with the woman he loved.
The following afternoon, as the two of them strolled hand in hand in the Tuileries Garden, an eagle-eyed young photographer spotted Roberto, despite his hat and dark glasses. Standing behind a bush, he adjusted the powerful telephoto lens of his camera and zoomed in, just as Rosanna threw her arms around Roberto’s shoulders and kissed him. The shutter clicked twelve times before their lips parted. The photographer followed them at a safe distance as they walked, darting behind the greenery after each shot. Neither of them noticed a thing, despite Roberto’s warning to Rosanna the previous night.
Later, as he watched the pictures developing at the lab in the offices of his newspaper, the young photographer couldn’t believe his luck when he spotted the two rings on the third finger of Rosanna Menici’s left hand. Hurriedly checking the picture library, he saw that three weeks ago in London Rosanna’s finger had been bare. He ran down the corridor with the barely dry photographs and knocked frantically on the news editor’s door.
Twenty minutes later, a journalist was despatched to London to discover the truth.
24
Donatella stared at the headline in utter disbelief.
‘No! No!’ she moaned.
She reread the article and then howled in anger. She examined Rosanna’s face, trying to find fault with it. Her rage heightened when she could not. Rosanna was beautiful, and by all accounts hugely talented. More to the point, she was so young. Donatella hated her for it.
The affair must have started before the two of them left Milan. That explained the sale of the apartment and his refusal to take her telephone calls. Oh yes, while Donatella was telling him of her plans to move in with him, Roberto had been organising his future with Rosanna.
Torn between fury and devastation, Donatella spent the day getting slowly drunk. By the time Giovanni arrived home, she’d fallen asleep on the sofa.
He picked up the newspaper lying on the floor beside his wife, stared at the photograph and read the passage underneath.
Roberto Rossini was indeed a very sensible man.
On arrival at the seminary, Carlotta was ushered into a small room, the whitewashed walls bare apart from a crucifix. The one small window had bars across it, like a prison cell. Even though the day was warm outside, the room was chilly and smelt of damp. Carlotta shivered and sat down on one of the spartan wooden chairs. Five minutes later, the door opened.
‘Luca, oh Luca!’ Carlotta stood up and fell into her brother’s arms, weeping.
He stroked her hair. ‘Come now, don’t cry. Whatever is it?’
Carlotta pulled away and tried to gather herself together. She smiled weakly and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for coming here to the seminary, but I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘You told Don Giuseppe it was an emergency,’ Luca said tensely. ‘Carlotta, we don’t have long. Tell me, please, what is it?’
‘You received my letter?’
‘Yes. And I wrote back to tell you not to worry. Roberto is not the marrying kind. It’s bad luck for Rosanna that she’s allowed herself to become involved with him, but . . .’ Luca stopped in mid-sentence as he stared at the newspaper that Carlotta thrust in front of his face.
‘You were wrong, Luca.’ She sat down abruptly. ‘What am I to do? I should have told Roberto about Ella long ago, then this terrible situation would not be happening. Oh, mamma mia, what have I done, what have I done?’ She began to sob.
‘Carlotta, you did what you thought was best for your child and your family. You could not have foreseen that this was going to happen.’ Luca, usually so sure about what God would wish, found at this moment that he didn’t know. He tried to think rationally. ‘If you tell Rosanna, it may destroy her marriage before it has begun. If you don’t, then we both must keep the secret for the rest of our lives.’
‘But can we do that? She’s our sister. Oh, it’s impossible!’ Carlotta hung her head. ‘Haven’t I been punished enough for my mistake? And now this?’
‘Carlotta, Carlotta.’ Luca went to comfort her. ‘Please try to believe that God has a reason for everything.’
‘I try, Luca, I try every day as I work in the café. The only thing I live for is Ella, but when I think that all she might have in the future is the same existence as mine, I sometimes wonder whether it’s worth going on. The guilt is so heavy in my heart. I’ve deceived Ella, Papa and now Rosanna.’
There was a tap on the door. ‘I’ll be out in a few minutes,’ Luca called. He clasped his sister’s hands in his. ‘Carlotta, I have to go. I think maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems. After all, we are the only two who know of this. There’s no other way Rosanna can find out. Sometimes it’s best to keep the secrets of the past. And our sister will have enough to cope with: she has married a . . . very difficult man. God forgive me, but the marriage may not even last. Remember, if Rosanna knows, then Roberto, Papa and, most importantly, Ella must know too.’
‘You’re saying I should do or say nothing?’
‘Yes, I think that’s for the best. But in the end, it’s for you to decide.’
There was another tap on the door.
‘I must go.’ Luca kissed Carlotta warmly on both cheeks. ‘Try not to fret. Send my love to Papa and Ella. How are they?’
‘Both well.’ Carlotta nodded. ‘We all miss you – and Rosanna.’
‘I know. And you must take care of yourself. You look very thin – too thin. May God go with you, Carlotta. Ciao, cara.’
Luca watched from a window as Carlotta was let out of the front gates of the seminary. Her shoulders were hunched, her despair obvious. He’d been so sure when they were younger that it would be Rosanna who would always need his protection. It seemed now it was Carlotta.
After twenty-four hours in Paris, Rosanna and Roberto boarded a plane headed for Corsica. When the flight touched down at Ajaccio airport, Roberto hired a car. As they drove out of the town, they met little traffic, apart from the odd farmer driving a donkey with his children perilously balanced on the cart behind. The late afternoon sun was beginning its descent towards the sea and Rosanna rolled down the car window as they drove along the winding coast road. Around each rocky headland, a new view of the Mediterranean emerged below them, w
ith secret coves and beaches nestling beneath the cliffs. As they climbed higher, olive trees clung to the hillside and clumps of rosemary and wild mint by the roadside filled the warm air with their heady fragrance.
‘It’s beautiful here, Roberto,’ she enthused. ‘The sea is a wonderful blue.’
‘Yes, it’s like the coast of Italy used to be before the tourists arrived. Completely unspoilt. That is why I love it. I come here when I need some peace and quiet.’
‘Where are we headed for?’ asked Rosanna.
‘Wait and see,’ he smiled. ‘I want to surprise you.’
Two hours later, Roberto drove through a cluster of whitewashed houses set high on a hillside. He turned right down a steep road lined with pine trees. They travelled along the road for a few minutes, before turning down a steeper, narrower track. At the end of it was a pretty stone villa with a terracotta roof and trumpet vines, laden with vibrant orange flowers, clambering up the walls.
‘We have arrived, principessa. This is Villa Rodolpho, without doubt my favourite place in the world.’
Roberto jumped out of the car as an old lady emerged from the villa. She waddled over to Roberto, arms outstretched, and held him in a tight bear hug, showering him with endearments.
‘Nana, this is my new wife, Rosanna.’
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Signora Rossini,’ said the woman, a smile lighting up her wrinkled, nut-brown face.
‘Nana looks after the villa while I am away and after me when I’m here. She lives down there with her good husband, Jacques.’ Roberto pointed to a white cottage some distance away. He put his arm around Rosanna’s shoulder. ‘You see the path going down the hill?’
‘Yes.’
‘It takes us to our own private beach. Come.’ Roberto led her towards the villa. ‘Do you like it?’
Rosanna stopped as they approached the entrance and watched the sun dip beneath the skyline. She took a deep breath, smelling the pine resin and the salty, iodine tang of the sea. ‘I think it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’
The Italian Girl Page 21
