More Than You Know (60 page)

“Ask her where she last saw her,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

More incomprehensible Italian. Eliza swallowed.

“It was in La Rinascente. Anna-Maria just turned away for a moment and Emmie was gone.”

They went back to La Rinascente, all of them. To the children’s clothes department, Eliza sobbing, and terrified. The willful, manipulative Emmie had been entirely replaced in her head by a small, frightened child in danger. She kept thinking of the Gypsies, with their angry curses; suppose they had taken Emmie? She had been fascinated by them; she would have gone …

“Was here,” Anna-Maria said, indicating a line of smocked, embroidered dresses. “I look away for one minute—and gone.”

“You should have held her hand,” said Eliza. “You should have kept holding her hand.”

“She would not. She pull away. All the time.”

She mustn’t get angry with Anna-Maria. She mustn’t. It wouldn’t help.

Mariella, who had vanished, returned looking smug.

“That is done. The announcement—any moment. They say they will find her in no time. They say go to the toy department.”

They went to the toy department; it was thronged with overdressed children and fur-coated mamas and
nonnas
, laughing, shouting in Italian. She began to feel hysterical. Why couldn’t they speak English, for God’s sake? If Emmie asked for help, no one would understand her. She’d be frightened, lost, crying … anyone could take her …

Mariella took her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Eliza! Be calm. We will not find Emmie this way. She is a clever child. We must think. What did she want this afternoon?”

“Just … just to come with us. And get … get—”

“Oh, yes. The shoes. There she might be, I think. Come,
cara
, courage.”

She held out her hand. The fur-coated women looked at Eliza with a mixture of disdain and sympathy. As long as she lived, Eliza thought, she would never again let Emmie out of her sight. And never, ever buy a fur coat. How she hated fur coats. If she never found Emmie, she would have to kill herself; she would climb up to the top of the Duomo and throw herself off it; it would be the only thing she could possibly do … 
“Here. Here we are.
Bambini
. And … there, now. What did I say? There she is, your clever little daughter. A fashion-editor-to-be.”

And there indeed she was, a security guard at her side, sitting and smiling, not in the least upset, on a tall chair, rather like a throne, surrounded with patent-leather shoes of every shape and color. An amused shop assistant, clearly expecting that any moment a fur-coated someone would come and claim her, was helping her to try them on.

“Emmie,” shouted Eliza across the room, “oh, Emmie, Emmie, I’ve been looking for you everywhere; where have you been, oh, my darling, darling …”

Emmie heard her name, turned round, proffering two small feet, one in black patent, one in red.

“Which do you think?” she said.

Later, much later, when they were safely home with both pairs of shoes, the red and the black, bought by Mariella against Eliza’s express instructions—“She deserves them,
cara
; she is so clever, finding them; you should be proud”—Emmie was put to bed early as a punishment, told there would be no story that night, no more outings to Milan, and no Christmas presents for her on Christmas day.

“What do you think Daddy will say when he hears what you did, that you ran away from Anna-Maria like that?” asked Eliza.

“I don’t know,” said Emmie. “Perhaps Daddy will be cross with you instead. For not staying with me.”

And she smiled very sweetly at her mother, put her thumb in her mouth, and turned away from her.

The next day was beautiful. Eliza spent it with Emmie, roaming the grounds of the villa, playing hide-and-seek, eating a rather chilly picnic by the lake, as Emmie wanted (and then warming up in the house afterwards with hot chocolate, brought them by a remorseful and forgiving Anna-Maria), helping Emmie do a picture in crayons of the back of the house with the miniature maze to show Matt, and finally watching the sun go down on the mountains.

Mariella was in Milan, putting the final touches to arrangements for a dinner party for forty she and Giovanni were giving the following week.

That night, Eliza rang Matt; he sounded as he always did on such occasions: irritably surprised.

“I’m fine; no need to worry about me. I’m working my arse off as usual, hardly left the office—”

“I hope you’re eating something,” said Eliza carefully.

“Yes, yes, course I am; having dinner with Scarlett tomorrow. You having a nice time, then?” he asked, clearly with an effort. “How’s Emmie?”

“Emmie’s fine. Do you want to speak to her?”

“Yeah, put her on.”

She did so rather nervously, fearing Emmie might go into an elaborate description of her adventure of the day before; she’d decided the only thing was to let her tell Matt about it and then correct her version if necessary, rather than the other way round. But Emmie didn’t mention it at all, merely talked about the day they had spent at the villa—“It’s like a palace, Daddy”—and the new shoes Mariella had bought her.

“I’m being very good,” she finished. “See you soon, Daddy. I miss you.”

Maybe she really did think she’d been very naughty and she didn’t want Matt to know about it; that would be the best outcome. It was an increasingly familiar scenario. God, she was clever, Eliza thought, watching her in rather alarmed admiration.

“OK, then,” she said, when she got the phone back, “I’d better go; this is costing a fortune. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Teatime, you said? I can’t meet you; sorry—got a meeting.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“But it’ll be good to have you back,” he added, clearly catching the edge in her voice. “Bye till then.”

“Bye, Matt. I miss you.”

“Bye, again.”

“Was that your husband you’re missing?” asked Mariella.

“Yes,” said Eliza, holding back a sigh. “I think he’s missing me too.”

“He didn’t say so?”

“No. He’s not romantic. Not like Giovanni. Words aren’t his thing.”

“Well,” said Mariella, “words are not everything.”

Thursday dawned very still and misty.

“I hope the
nebbia
does not come,” said Mariella.

“What’s that?”

“The fog. It is very, very disagreeable. It paralyses the city. You can’t get out; you can’t get in.”

“Oh,” said Eliza, “and does it often come?”

“In December, yes. We are in the middle of a big bowl, you see, with the Alps on either side, and if the wind is in the wrong direction, it settles upon us. In fact, I think perhaps we should leave a little early. We do not want to miss the opera.”

They left at four in the big Lancia. Mariella had arranged for them to change at the Hotel Grande Mizzoni.

“It is only a tiny room—all the big ones and the suites have, of course, gone—but at least we will have some privacy.”

Emmie had been left in the care of Anna-Maria and, in case of trouble, Bruno, Giovanni’s valet, whom she adored. She was very good when Eliza said good-bye to her, and was clearly far more interested in the supper she was to eat with Bruno in the kitchen than in her mother’s departure.

Milan was indeed blanketed in fog: not the dark smoke of London, but a swirling grey haze, the Christmas lights and street lamps and the golden Madonna at the top of the gingerbread Duomo all but swallowed by it. Paolo, the chauffeur, dropped them outside the hotel, said he would pick them up at six.

The Hotel Grande was a study in ostentation: mirrors, arches, marble statues, gilt; the tiny room described by Mariella was about the size of a large flat. Eliza was ready long before Mariella, who had imported her hairdresser and a makeup artist; she and Giovanni sat and had a glass of champagne.

“You look most beautiful,” he said, smiling at her, “and in a very special way. I am proud to be with you.”

Eliza tried to remember when she had last felt so much appreciated.

Mariella appeared, unbelievably lovely in cream brocaded silk, her cloud of dark hair piled high and studded with jewels, her great eyes shining beneath what Eliza reckoned was at least a double row of eyelashes; she heard Giovanni actually catch his breath before rising and kissing her hand.

La Scala was floodlit, a golden glow of splendour, shining through the mist; waves of limousines came and paused and went again, discharging their dazzling cargoes. The opera started at seven, but first Milan had to meet, kiss, flirt, flaunt itself.

Eliza followed Mariella and Giovanni up the wide winding staircase. She lost them in the huge crush of people, all so wonderful-looking, the men, the dashingly romantic-looking Italian men, in dinner jackets, the women in brilliant colors, their hair piled high. And their jewellery: stunningly bold and beautiful, great ropes of pearls, sculptured twists of gold and emerald, jet and ivory set in silver, and diamond earrings, bracelets, watches. She wanted to stand still just to gaze at them, but was borne majestically upwards to the great Arturo Toscanini foyer, where the scene was quadrupled in the huge, gilt-studded mirrors.

She was enchanted, drunk by it, and when she reached the bar she felt no longer nervous about meeting Jeremy; he had become merely an adjunct to this evening of visual feasting.

Which was just as well, as he wasn’t there.

“Last saw him dashing into the Hotel Grande to change,” said Timothy Fordyce, shaking her hand. “He’ll make it. He’s never late.”

“But always very, very near it,” said Eliza, laughing.

“I’d forgotten you knew him,” Fordyce said. “Now, Eliza, this is my wife, Janey.”

Janey Fordyce was rather understated in a little black dress, but she was sparkly and pretty, her looks English rose, with blond hair and large blue eyes.

“How do you do, Eliza. I’ve heard lots about you—of course.”

“We never stop talking about her; that’s why,” said Mariella. “Eliza, champagne?”

People came and went, flowed towards them and retreated, all charming, all stylish, all clearly very, very rich. There was much gossip about Callas, who had been replaced by Jackie Kennedy in the life of her lover, Aristotle Onassis.

“They say her voice is not what it was,” said Giovanni, “but I think it is still incredible. I heard her sing
Tosca
not so very long ago; it was an amazing experience.”

The first warning bell went and then the second. Still no Jeremy.

“We shall have to go,” said Giovanni. “We will tell them to show him up to the box.”

The view of La Scala from the box made Eliza feel quite literally dizzy. And awed.

“Oh, my God,” she said, “it is so amazing. It’s all boxes, no seats …”

“Nearly all,” said Giovanni. “There are the stalls, as you see, and the
loggione
above.” He waved his hand towards them, the equivalent, Eliza presumed, of the gods. The boxes were on three sides of the theatre, stacked in great golden and red tiers, the stage directly ahead.

They settled, Mariella insisting she sit in the very front; still no Jeremy.

“Very naughty,” said Timothy Fordyce. “I’m so sorry, Giovanni.”

“It is OK. I hope they will allow him in; they may not now.”

The opera was, of course, beautiful. Eliza was not very musically literate, but the searing heartbreak of the story and the soaring beauty of the music found her oddly tearful. She sang, flirted, laughed with Violetta, felt herself in love with Alfredo; and then as Violetta sang alone in her parlour, musing upon a possible romance with Alfredo, something most unfortunate happened. Eliza started to cough. It was quite a genteel cough, and the first time it was all right; Mariella smiled at her sympathetically, touched her hand, no one else took any notice. But then … again. Louder. Not only did their party hear it, Mariella frowning slightly; she saw someone in the adjacent box glance along. And then, at a particularly poignant moment in the aria, a third cough rose in her chest; there was only one thing to do. She stood up, holding her breath, her hand over her mouth, and almost burst out of the box and then ran down the stairs out into the ground-floor foyer, where she coughed loudly, uninhibitedly, almost joyfully, her eyes watering, fighting for breath. One of the uniformed lackeys came forward, inquired whether she was all right; she managed to smile at him, nod, and make her way slowly to the ladies’ room, where a kindly attendant fetched her water, stroked her back, and handed her a towel.