Taking a deep breath, she pressed a golden buzzer. It took a couple of minutes before she heard an elderly woman’s voice croak a response.
‘Signora Taccani? It’s Rosanna Montella.’
There was no reply.
‘Corrado invited me. For tea!’
Still, she didn’t speak but, after what seemed an age, she buzzed Rosanna in.
Her palms were beginning to sweat and she fiddled anxiously with her hair which, she was sure, was sticking out, giving her the appearance of a Gorgon, and she suddenly regretted her choice of outfit, believing it to be slutty rather than sophisticated, and the shoes, which she’d thought so beautiful just moments before, now looked wildly inappropriate.
Narrow stairs led up to the Taccani’s and, reaching apartment number five, Rosanna knocked on the cracked white door and waited.
‘Corrrrraaaddoo!’ a voice called from behind the door. Rosanna waited. And waited. She was just about to raise her fist and bang with the whole weight of her body behind it when the door swung open and Corrado beamed a smile at her, pushing a hand through newly-washed hair.
‘I thought you were ignoring me!’ she complained.
‘Mama doesn’t like answering the door.’
‘But she knew it would be me!’ she pointed out, baffled.
Corrado gave an apologetic shrug. ‘She doesn’t like people,’ he said.
Rosanna’s eyebrows rose. Well, she supposed that made sense as most people didn’t like her either.
‘Well, can I come in or can’t I?’ she asked.
She stepped inside and Corrado gave her a smile which began in his eyes. They were the first things she’d noticed about Corrado. Well, actually, if she was absolutely honest, it was his arms she’d noticed first: his big strong labourer’s arms, tanned by a thousand hours of sunshine. She’d imagined what it would feel like to circle his wrists with her fingers and to have his arms wrapped right around her waist and, when she’d found out, she hadn’t been disappointed. But, back to his eyes. He had the largest, darkest eyes she’d ever seen. They were like autumn conkers and were far too pretty for a man to own. They held a brightness in them, despite being so dark, and yet were lazy too - as if they couldn’t be bothered to focus on anything for long.
What she soon became aware of was that he couldn’t possibly have inherited his eyes from his mother. Hers were like tiny, shrivelled raisins, barely daring to peep out of her face and yet seeming to miss nothing.
Corrado ushered her into the living room. It was small and dark but she was instantly aware of how clean it was. Every surface shone. It was the kind of room you dared not breathe in let alone sit down in, but Corrado motioned to a two-seater sofa by the window and, carefully inspecting her skirt, Rosanna sat down.
She instantly felt guilty as she thought about the state of Sandro’s studio. There was a tarantula-like ball of hair at the bottom of the bath, bits of dried tomato on the kitchen tiles which Elena called her spaghetti western shoot-out, and a snow-like layer of dust on the plants. She’d have to have a major housecleaning session before he came back. Looking around the Taccani apartment, it was clear to her that dust never even got a chance to land, and dirt was a foreign species.
‘Rosanna?’
‘What?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just a little overcome by all the dirt in here. Doesn’t your mama ever clean this place?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I was joking.’
Corrado raised dark eyebrows at her in bemusement. He was always a little slow on the uptake.
‘Mama’s been baking. Would you like some crostata?’ he asked, sitting down on the sofa next to her and taking her hand in his.
Rosanna hesitated before answering. Wouldn’t that make a lot of crumbs? But she nodded, knowing she couldn’t win either way. She actually didn’t like apricots, unlike most Venetians, but it wouldn’t endear her to either of them if she turned Irma’s baking down.
Corrado took Rosanna’s hand to his lips and kissed it. It felt deliciously warm and she could feel spirals of desire shooting through her body. It felt ages since she’d last been kissed.
‘Corrraaaadooo!’ a voice called from the kitchen breaking their spell. Rosanna watched as he jumped to attention, dropping her hand as if it had suddenly caught fire.
‘Coming, Mama.’
She bit her lip. She obviously wasn’t the top woman in this particular household. Getting up from the sofa, she walked over to a dark wooden table where she had noticed a shoal of silver photo frames. There were no less than three baby photos - all of Corrado. He was an only child and, from the other photos showing his passage through childhood right up until adulthood, the collection had more of a shrine-like feel to it.
Rosanna had a sudden vision of Irma Taccani, duster in hand, polishing each silver frame with the utmost care. She picked one up: a sweet school portrait with Corrado wearing a smart navy tie. She held it towards the window as if she half-expected to see a great lipstick mark on it.
‘What are you doing?’
A blunt voice startled Rosanna and she dropped the frame which crashed to the floor.
‘I - I was- ’
‘Mio Dio!’
‘I didn’t mean to-’
‘Mama!’ Corrado interrupted. ‘It was an accident.’
Irma stared at Rosanna, her raisin-like eyes shooting her down with disdain.
‘I’m ever so sorry,’ Rosanna said at last, daring to examine the frame as she placed it back in line on the table. Nothing was broken, thank god, but it didn’t stop her from feeling stupid.
‘Doesn’t Rosanna look lovely, Mama?’ Corrado said, as he led Rosanna back to the relative safety of the sofa and sat down next to her, holding her hand so that she couldn’t do anymore damage.
Irma’s tiny eyes squinted until they almost completely disappeared in her sallow face.
‘Red,’ she said, and that was all, but the word came out of her mouth as if it were a curse.
‘Burgundy,’ Corrado corrected.
The raisin slits opened a fraction and she eyeballed her potential daughter-in-law but there was no changing her mind. She thought she was a slut and that was that. Rosanna should have worn blue, like the Madonna, and then La Stronza might have been happier.
‘We don’t normally have tea,’ she said, sitting on a chair opposite the sofa.
‘Oh?’
‘Too early. It’s too English. I do not like to eat before eight in the evening.’
‘But,’ Corrado interrupted, ‘it’s nice to do things the English way for a change.’
‘Pah!’ Irma spat. ‘Who wants to be Engleesh?’
‘I’m not really English, you know,’ Rosanna said in her defence. ‘My father was English but we never really knew him.’
‘I thought you were schooled in England?’ Irma asked suspiciously.
‘But that doesn’t make me English. I don’t live there anymore, do I?’
Irma frowned at her as if she was answering her back.
‘I’m as Italian as you,’ she dared.
Irma just shook her head and then disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a large plate of crostata. Rosanna winced.
Irma placed the plate on a small table in front of the sofa. Cut into neat slices, the apricot glowed like some form of alien ectoplasm. Rosanna could only thank her lucky stars that Irma was a little on the mean side and had cut a particularly small slice for her.
‘That looks wonderful, Mama,’ Corrado said, his voice fuelled with admiration. ‘Mama is such a good cook,’ he added.
‘You cook?’ she asked Rosanna sharply.
She tried not to gag on her mouthful of crostata. ‘Not really,’ she said, trying not to wince after her first mouthful of the vile apricot tart.
‘What?’
‘Of course she does, Mama! She just doesn’t admit to it.’
‘Every woman should cook.’
‘Rosanna works hard too,’ Corrado said, and she was impressed that he would defend her in front of his mother in that way.
‘I’ve heard,’ Irma said, her raisin eyes looking unimpressed.
Rosanna wondered how much Corrado had told his mother about her job and whether she knew that it involved her taking her clothes off but Irma didn’t elaborate and Rosanna was grateful for it.
They ate in silence for a few moments. It was the most nerve-wracking few moments of her life. Part of her was aware of Irma’s stare, another part was terrified of making crumbs on the immaculate sofa and carpet, and another part of her wracked her brains for something intelligent and unincriminating to say.
‘This is nice,’ Corrado said at last, and all Rosanna could do was nod, casting a quick look at her watch to see how long she had to put up with this before making her excuses and escaping for home.
Chapter 23
Elena couldn’t get Mark’s wounded expression out of her mind. Why did she keep shutting him out when he so desperately wanted to help her? He was the only one of her fiancés to have questioned her like that - the only one to realise that she wasn’t being completely honest. But did he really want to help her? If she told him the truth, would he really understand? Somehow, she didn’t think he would. Some people thought they could handle the truth - and would bug and bother until it was exhumed but, once in possession of it, would turn and flee faster than an athlete on steroids. It was like licking somebody else’s wounds - it just wasn’t natural. People’s pasts, she’d always believed, should be left well and truly alone.
When Elena got back to Sandro’s, it was late afternoon and Rosanna was out. Even with her mind in a maelstrom, she spared a thought for her sister and hoped she was coping with the pint-sized ogre that was Irma Taccani.
The apartment seemed so quiet with just her there. Of course, peace and quiet was part of the reason why she’d come to Venice but, now she had it, she felt restless and anxious.
She took her coat off and put the kettle on before bolting upstairs. When she reached the bedroom, she found herself standing in the middle of the room wondering what she’d come up for with such urgency. It wasn’t like her to be forgetful. She looked around, trying to jog her memory but she just drew blanks. She thought about retracing her steps to the kitchen to see if she could pick up her train of thought, and she was just about to head back down when something caught her eye.
Gleaming gold in the dim light of the bedroom, the mask stared at her, empty-eyed, from the dressing table.
‘Hello,’ she laughed, not feeling quite so alone anymore.
Rosanna had stared at her in astonishment when she’d taken it out of the box and placed it there.
‘What did you buy that for?’ she’d asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she’d replied, not wanting to try and explain that she’d felt as if she hadn’t had a choice in the matter.
She thought it looked really at home on the dressing table, gazing blindly out at the room, its gently curving shape filling the space beside Rosanna’s jewellery box perfectly.
She picked it up and, just like the night before in the calle, her hands seemed to glow with gold. She pulled her fingers along the smooth, cool black ribbons and toyed with the idea of putting it on. If only, she thought, I could wear the mask - hiding behind it so that nobody could see me. She smiled to herself. She was turning into a child again - running away from her fears and responsibilities. Yet, that was what she wished to do more than anything else in the world at that moment.
Elena held the mask up and smiled at it. ‘I wish you could make me invisible,’ she whispered, as if to a trusted friend.
The hollowed out eyes seemed to speak to her. Put me on, they dared. Make me yours. I will not disappoint you. Put me on. You know you want to.
And she did. She really did! Her heart was racing like a child’s at a fairground. She felt a flow of excitement travelling through her body and couldn’t stop herself from grinning widely.
Peeping around the door to double-check that there was nobody in the flat, she slipped the mask over her face and tied the black ribbons behind her head. She’d expected it to feel cold but it was pleasantly warm against her skin and fitted snugly around her eyes and over her nose. She was just about to take a look in the mirror when she suddenly felt nauseous. Her skin was burning up and her vision was beginning to blur and she had the startling sensation of pins and needles in her eyeballs. Something very strange was happening. She felt peculiar - as if she were dissolving. Her mouth felt dry and her heart was hammering loudly.
‘Rosanna?’ Elena called out in a hoarse whisper. She felt so helpless and vulnerable and sincerely hoped that her sister might have returned home early from her afternoon visit. But there was no reply. Elena was alone.
She didn’t think things could get any weirder so, when the jolt came, she cried out loud. Her body felt as if it had been electrocuted and she was so shocked that, after the initial scream, she found she couldn’t speak at all.
What was happening to her? Her hands flew up to behind her head to try and rid herself of the mask but she couldn’t feel her hands at all. Her mind must be playing tricks on her, she reasoned, or she must surely be asleep and having some sort of weird nightmare.
Wake up! Wake up! She told herself and then she heard a thud - she’d landed on the floor. Had she fainted? She still felt dizzy but not enough to faint, surely? Her eyes closed and she groaned as she slowly felt the tingling sensation leave her body.
And then - bliss! She felt unusually warm and relaxed, like those blissfully gentle moments before sinking into sleep. She could feel her heart rate slowly returning to something approaching normality. Letting out a deep breath, she opened her eyes.
Nothing. Elena panicked, shut them and opened them again, her vision flooding with the bedroom. For a few seconds, she just sat there, listening to herself breathing. Everything was okay. She’d just had some sort of funny turn, she assured herself. Maybe she was overdoing things and this was her body’s way of telling her that she needed to slow down. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Something, she thought, was missing …
HER!
She was missing!
‘WHAT THE HELL?’
Well, at least her voice was still working, and she could still see. So what was going on? She tried to pinch herself with her unseen arms. ‘Ouch!’ She was still there, then, and not asleep. But maybe it would have been better if she was asleep, she thought. At least she could explain things then. But she was very much awake - awake and - invisible!
That was it! She was invisible!
She shook her non-existent head. Surely that wasn’t possible? Surely the notion of invisibility only lived in fiction? Yet, here she was, standing in the middle of Sandro’s apartment with nothing to show but her confusion!
This wasn’t a trick, and it wasn’t very likely that this was her body’s response to stress, was it? It was the mask.
Her hands flew up to the ribbons tied around her head. She could still feel them and, loosening the little knot she’d made, she felt the mask slipping away from her face. She waited. Slowly, very slowly, the tingling sensation returned and she saw her body floating back into existence, appearing like a hazy mirage before settling into its usual solid self.
Oh my God! Mio Dio!
She looked at the golden mask in her hands, her eyes wide with wonder. What had she got hold of here? She was holding a little piece of magic - a miracle - something that wasn’t meant to exist.
Elena turned it around, expecting to see some sort of explanation or warning: a sticker, maybe, saying something like: wearing this mask can seriously injure your appearance, but there was nothing.
She took a deep breath. Even though she’d experienced the most horrendous reaction when she’d put the mask on she wanted, more than anything, to try it on again - just to check - just to make sure she hadn’t imagined it all. Placing it against he
r face, she carefully tied the black ribbons behind her head once more and waited.
She felt only a slow dissolving-like feeling this time which was a great relief. Perhaps the powerful reaction only came the first time. She had obviously lost her mask-wearing virginity.
Giggling, she walked across the room. She could still hear her feet on the floorboards and she obviously still took up physical space because she had to open the door in order to go down the stairs.
‘Rosanna?’ she checked to see that she still had the apartment to herself. The coast was clear so she walked down the stairs on invisible legs, grinning with an invisible mouth. She knew exactly where she was heading: there was a large, full-length mirror in the bathroom downstairs and she intended to get a good look at herself - if that made sense.
Walking into the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror. It was true - she could see absolutely nothing. But she still wasn’t completely convinced. She walked across and placed her hands on the mirror’s wooden frame and, still, she could see nothing, even though the feel of the wood was very real underneath her fingertips.
‘Mio Dio!’ she whispered. She wasn’t there at all! She was just air and space; she was a big fat nothing! And then, something dreadful occurred to her: maybe she’d died! Maybe she was able to turn invisible because she wasn’t really there anyway? But her senses were still present: she could speak, see and hear. She picked up a bar of Sandro’s primrose soap and sniffed. Yes. Her nose was still intact too. What about taste?
She ran through to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of apricot juice and drank, the liquid heaven filling her with relief. But were her senses only apparent to herself? There was nobody there to ask which meant one thing: she’d have to leave the apartment if she was to find out the truth.
Grabbing her coat, which instantly turned invisible the moment it was on, she left the apartment. It was a strange feeling to open the door into a world in which she was invisible. She was lucky that there was nobody around to see her or, rather, not see her, but observe the door opening and closing for no apparent reason.
Irresistible You Page 11
