The Italian Girl (27 page)

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, with 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.’

‘You must look inside before you say that. It’s homely, but not luxurious.’ He ushered her through the front door into a spacious tiled entrance hall and flicked a switch to illuminate their surroundings.

‘See, here is the bedroom,’ said Roberto, indicating a whitewashed room to their right, where Rosanna caught a glimpse of a large bed made up with a cheerful patchwork counterpane. ‘And this is the kitchen.’ He led her across the hall and held open the door while Rosanna peered in for just long enough to note the cosy wood-burning stove and the long scrubbed table with its mismatched chairs. Then they climbed a set of narrow wooden stairs to the upper floor. ‘And this is the sitting room. The view from here is magnificent.’

Rosanna stood at the top of the stairs. The pine floor was strewn with brightly coloured kilims. There was a battered leather sofa covered with cushions and a bookcase full of novels. In one corner stood an old piano and glass doors led onto a terrace that overlooked the rugged coastline. Roberto threw them open and drew her to his side as they stepped out into the balmy evening air. The view was, as he had promised, quite magical. The last apricot rays of the sunset were reflected in the sea and the first stars were emerging on the fast-darkening horizon.

‘Who owns this villa?’ she asked.

‘I do. I bought it three years ago. We can come here and live in complete seclusion. No one will ever find us. Jacques and Nana fetch anything I need from the village at the top of the hill.’

‘It’s wonderful, Roberto.’ Rosanna sank with a sigh into the comfortable sofa.

‘Ah,
principessa
, you must be exhausted. I shall bring you a glass of wine, then you can shower. We’ll eat by candlelight on the terrace.’

Later that night Rosanna lay in bed, her head reeling from the events of the past week. She glanced at Roberto and pondered how strange it was that, having spent so many years chasing the limelight, the minute one became famous, one spent one’s life searching for privacy.

Rosanna and Roberto enjoyed three perfect weeks at Villa Rodolpho. They woke late, swam, read and made love. They ate fresh fish on the gorgeous terrace overlooking the sea and drank the tart local wine.

‘I hope I shall lose this tan in time for the opening of
La Bohème
in a few weeks’ time. I’m meant to be dying of consumption,’ commented Rosanna one night as they stood on the terrace after dinner, admiring the moonlit landscape below them.

Roberto took a deep breath. ‘
Cara
, we must talk about the future.’

‘Oh Roberto, do we have to? Can’t we just stay here and—’

‘No, you know we can’t.’

‘But what is there to talk about? On Sunday we fly to Naples to see Papa and announce our news. Then we go to London.’

‘I think everyone will know by now.’

‘Do you?’

‘Rosanna, listen. I didn’t want to tell you this before, but . . . I cannot go to Naples with you and I won’t be going to Milan to play Rodolpho.’

Rosanna stared at him. ‘What? I don’t understand. I . . .’

‘You have asked me never to lie and I won’t. But I’m warning you, the truth will be difficult for you to hear.’

‘But . . .’ Fear grew in her eyes.

‘Sit down and I will tell you,
cara
. I beg you not to despise me when you have heard.’

Rosanna took a seat as he asked, her eyes full of trepidation. Roberto sat down opposite her.

‘Six years ago, when I was an unimportant soloist at La Scala, I began an affair with a very rich married woman. The affair continued whenever I was in Milan. Then, this summer, the lady announced she wished to live with me. She’d not asked my opinion on this, but had decided she was in love with me and was going to divorce her husband. I was shocked and horrified. Believe me, Rosanna, I never loved her. Three weeks before we left for London, I had a visit from her husband. He’s a very rich and powerful man in Milan. I thought he was going to kill me there and then, but instead he advised me it would be in my best interests to stay away from Italy for a long time. He indicated that there would be very unpleasant consequences for me if I decided to return. And that,
cara
, is why I cannot return with you to Italy.’ Roberto put his head in his hands. ‘I’m so ashamed, Rosanna, so ashamed.’

They sat in silence for a long time. Eventually, she spoke. ‘So that is why you were unable to attend your mamma’s funeral?’

‘Yes. Because of my stupid behaviour, I could not. And now the dream we have both shared, to sing Rodolpho and Mimi at La Scala, cannot be. I would give anything to make it different. I know I should be punished, but you should not.’

‘And you’ve known you wouldn’t be returning to Milan ever since we arrived in London?’ Rosanna spoke in a quiet, strangled voice.

‘Yes
. Cara
, I wanted to tell you, but I knew how much it would upset you.’

‘You should have told me sooner, Roberto. You promised you would never lie. This . . . woman, what was her name?’