‘Caterina,’ he said, and his voice was so low and quiet that she thought he might be in some kind of shock himself. He came down the stairs, reluctantly.
‘May I get you a drink?’ Cate smiled her warmest at him; she wasn’t quite sure of her role yet: servant or friend?
‘Yes,’ he said with tired irony, ‘you may.’
She poured him a glass of red wine without thinking, but she knew what he drank. She knew what all of them drank, and what they ate too, for that matter. Tina ate no fat, leaving it delicately on the edge of the plate: Michelle ate everything that was put in front of her, with a kind of desperate haste.
‘You look different, Caterina,’ said Fairhead. He meant she wasn’t wearing the small white apron she put over her clothes for work; it was unusual for him to make any kind of personal remark, however
politely. It was as though he had unwound a small fraction. ‘Are you off duty?’
In the dark Cate blushed uncomfortably. ‘I – have been promoted, for the time being. I’m sort of the new intern.’
‘Yes,’ said Fairhead sadly. ‘You know, I’d hardly noticed she’d gone? And it’s weeks now, isn’t it? Since she left.’
‘Ten days,’ said Cate. ‘But perhaps it’s just as well, she’s not here. All this – ’ and she gestured around to indicate what they were all feeling. Each in their own way.
‘Yes, I see,’ said the Englishman. ‘Yes – they were close, weren’t they?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Cate. ‘I think Beth wanted someone to be close to, but maybe the
Dottoressa
wasn’t the right person.’
‘No,’ Fairhead said, and he looked at her with his sad eyes. ‘You’re very perceptive, Caterina.’
‘And you too,’ said Cate, wanting to cheer him up. ‘The novelist? Always noticing?’
He laughed unhappily. ‘Well, once upon a time,’ he said.
And Cate remembered the shame with which he’d admitted at his presentation that he was reading from a book he’d written more than a decade ago. He’d stood in the library while the others gathered to listen, Michelle squatted against the wall to ease her back pain, Loni standing in the gallery with Orfeo, the guest of honour as he often was at these things. He’d sounded as though reading caused him pain, but he’d done it without complaint. Cate had been oddly affected, and when she had gone to the smaller library the next day to borrow the book, she had half expected that someone else would have got there before her. No one had, though: poor Alec Fairhead.
‘At times like this – you try to remember,’ she said, changing the subject, or so she thought. ‘When someone dies? You try to bring the face up in front of you, or remember the last thing they said to you, or, or – I don’t know.’ She faltered, suddenly becoming aware that Per had moved closer – or had he been there all along, staying silent? – and was staring at her. Fairhead’s expression had grown dark.
The Englishman shrugged eventually. ‘I suppose so,’ he said slowly.
Per was still staring. ‘That’s it,’ he said, his voice oddly stilted. ‘I can’t remember what happened last night, you’re right.’ And the whisky glass in his hand shook. Alec Fairhead put a hand on his arm.
‘Steady,’ he said to Per, then apologetically, to Cate, ‘we’re all upset.’
Who was the last one to see her? Luca, maybe; she sometimes called in on him to give him instructions for the following day. Although after yesterday – perhaps not. Everyone had been on edge, Luca more than most: he’d joined them for the
antipasto
then excused himself, saying he had work to do. He’d given her a sideways look as he went too, Cate had seen it; after the bawling-out Loni had given him earlier, in full earshot, that hadn’t been surprising.
And for a second, it occurred to Cate that Loni’s death might not be terrible news for Luca.
She smiled at Alec absently, trying to think. Tina had left the dinner table early too, that much Cate remembered. Practically ran out of the room after something Loni had said, not even directly to Tina. What had they been talking about? Some gallery in New York, some show Loni had reviewed. Tina was like that, prone to flight. Which left who, at the table with Loni?
Cate frowned. ‘It’s so hard, isn’t it?’ she said, half to herself. ‘You try and remember how they were, when you last saw them – you try to – I suppose you try to bring them back, in a way.’
She looked at Alec Fairhead but she thought she’d said the wrong thing. He seemed distinctly uncomfortable, and when he changed the subject it was a relief. ‘And will Luca be joining us?’
‘Well,’ said Cate gently, ‘Luca’s very busy, with – ah – with all this, that’s why I’m here.’
‘It’s clever of Luca,’ said Fairhead. ‘I’m sure you’ll be a marvellous intern.’ His eyes were sad but he was trying to sound bright. She did like the English, sometimes. They always seemed to think it was their duty not to bother you with their feelings.
‘Thanks,’ she said. She saw that he had finished his glass of wine already and she refilled it.
‘What’s the book?’ she said, pointing at the volume he’d taken from the shelves.
He looked down as though unaware he had it in his hand. ‘Oh,’ he said slowly. ‘A history of the family. The Orfeo. Upstarts apparently; they’ve only had the castle since the seventeenth century, a gift from some duke, an attempt to buy the favour of a daughter of the family.’ He looked up into the cavernous recesses of the ceiling. ‘Not much of a love-gift, really. More like a prison.’ He clapped the book shut. ‘And she turned out to be a bad lot.’
Per made a low sound that might have been a kind of agreement, and walked away from them to refill his whisky glass, leaving them as unceremoniously as he had joined them.
‘A bad lot?’ said Cate, valiantly trying to keep up the conversation.
Alec Fairhead smiled unhappily, ‘No good,’ he said. ‘Unfaithful, or something,’ and the small talk seemed ridiculous, suddenly.
Impulsively Cate blurted it out. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘It must be – awful for you, I mean, even if you don’t – didn’t know her very well. There was a special sort of relationship; this is a very particular place.’
She didn’t know how to phrase it; she had seen Dottoressa Meadows mixing with them at the
aperitivo
hour, all graciousness, her hand resting gently on this shoulder or another. Presiding queenlike at dinner, eyes glittering, her smile charming them, each in turn, around the table. And tonight they would all have to sit there and eat, perhaps Cate too, and Loni Meadows’s place would be empty.
‘Yes,’ said Alec Fairhead, and turning he seemed to look straight through her, in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise, before he looked away. When she spoke her voice faltered. ‘You didn’t know her, did you? I mean, before?’
He turned back, and the look he gave her was calculating now, as though he was wondering if he could trust her or perhaps, a look she was used to after ten years and more of service, debating if she was worth talking to at all.
‘Ours is a small world,’ he said, his face pale. ‘We pick up a – a placement here and there. You’d be surprised how many times our paths cross.’ And in the slight pause before he went on, Cate reflected
that this was not what she’d call a straight answer. ‘Yes, I knew her,’ he said. ‘A long time ago, though. Ancient history.’
Cate stared at him, trying to make sense of this. How could she have missed it? She’d have sworn neither he nor Loni had ever said a thing about knowing each other before. She’d never understand the English.
He seemed to be gauging her reaction and for a moment Cate thought he was about to say something else when the creak and groan of the old lift set up. It was beyond a joke, thought Cate; it was dangerous, the mechanism must be a hundred years old.
‘I hope they service that lift,’ said Fairhead, and she looked at him, startled at the echo of her thoughts. He almost smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to lose Tiziano.’
But before Tiziano could appear, Michelle was in the doorway, her tanned, lined face framed by the untidy grey hair. She walked to the table then stood there fidgeting before suddenly pouring herself a tall glass, draining it, then pouring another.
‘Jesus,’ she said, and Cate could have sworn her hands were shaking as she poured. ‘This is a mess, isn’t it? Isn’t it.’ She looked around the room. ‘What happens now?’ She looked at Cate. ‘Poor bitch,’ she said roughly and for a moment Cate thought she was talking about her, only then she realized she meant Loni Meadows. Was this how Michelle expressed grief?
We have to make them feel safe, Luca had said. ‘It’s very sad, yes,’ said Cate carefully. ‘But you mustn’t worry. We’ll continue to do our best for you.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alec Fairhead turning away; he stood at the window, his back to them.
Tiziano wheeled in with a flourish. ‘Evening,’ he said cheerfully. Cate poured him water; Tiziano didn’t drink at all. He had once told her that it was horrible, being drunk in a wheelchair. ‘I used to do it, at the start,’ he’d said, and the sudden cold distance in his eye had unnerved her, he was always so cheerful. ‘You think you can do anything, just for a bit, then you remember that you can’t,’ he’d said. Now, she crouched beside him. She saw Per turn to watch them.
‘This is awful,’ she said in a quiet voice, in Italian.
‘It is,’ he agreed. Then in polite English, ‘But I hear it means we’ll be seeing a bit more of you, Cate. Every cloud has a silver lining, a nice English phrase.’
‘A nice phrase for a cloudy country,’ she said. ‘Did Luca tell you? About my new – position?’
‘Ginevra,’ he said. ‘She thinks you’ll get ideas.’ But he smiled again, to reassure her that he was joking. Ginevra; Cate really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Ginevra.
Michelle was staring at Alec Fairhead’s back, as if planning something; to harass him into conversation, or shove him out of the window. Cate guessed he’d rather go out of the window; at the best of times Michelle could be hard work. Something about the Englishman’s politeness seemed to provoke her particularly, as if she suspected him of making fun of her.
‘Michelle thinks she was drunk,’ said Tiziano softly, looking sideways at Cate. ‘Loni was driving the Monster drunk, lost control, came off the road and ended up in the river.’
‘Did they say that? The police?’
He shrugged. ‘The police haven’t talked to us.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder if they will?’
Cate stared at him. He smiled. ‘No. I think it’s her own theory.’
Tiziano and Michelle got along fine, thick as thieves some days. She’d written a little libretto for some music of his and he’d played it back to her one evening at the grand piano next door while she sang in her cigarette-roughened voice. You could see that evening that when she was young she’d have been pretty, maybe even beautiful. Her body had thickened; Cate had seen her out running, with her face set, in an attempt to stave it off. But she had surprisingly delicate calves and ankles, and under the features coarsened by age and a bit too much booze, her eyes were very clear, her mouth soft and sensuous. Not this evening, though; this evening her eyes were small and vindictive in the pouchy face, her mouth set. Michelle was prone to rage.
‘People make up stories, don’t they?’ Tiziano said thoughtfully. ‘When things happen. Ask your friend the novelist.’
And they were both looking at Alec Fairhead’s back, still turned on the room, when Tina appeared in the door like a ghost, willowy and pale and anxious. Fairhead turned as if he’d heard her come in, only Cate couldn’t imagine he had; Tina moved like a ghost too. She looked so lost and frightened that Cate got to her feet, only Fairhead was there before her, a hand tentatively on the girl’s shoulder. Girl – she was close to thirty. ‘Are you all right?’ she heard him whisper gently. Tina looked at him with swimming eyes as if she didn’t know him. Looked down at his hand.
Not wanting to spy, Cate turned away quickly, gazing down at Tiziano, and her thoughts reverted to what he’d just said. ‘What do you think?’ she said, ‘About her being drunk?’
‘She wasn’t a drinker, is what I think,’ said Tiziano, staring straight ahead, and he was right. ‘Loni Meadows was a control freak, didn’t you see her at dinner every night? She wouldn’t refuse the wine, but she would only ever sip. Never refilled her glass herself, like a drinker would. No drink, no drugs, is my theory, though she’d act all tipsy if required.’ He reflected. ‘And snort a line to show willing, only she’d never get addicted. A charmed life – until now.’ Cate frowned.
He looked up. ‘Do I sound like I didn’t like her?’ Cate met his gaze, saying nothing. ‘Well, maybe I didn’t,’ he said meditatively. ‘She had her favourites, and then there was the rest of us. I don’t imagine I’m the only one.’
The gong sounded from the foot of the stairs.
No sign of Luca. It was going to be a long night.
A
S SANDRO LET HIMSELF into the building in which Luisa and he had spent their entire married life, he fumbled with the lock, his hands stupidly clumsy. He realized that he was nervous. Once inside he pressed the illuminated button of the timed stair light and just stood there a moment, gazing around himself in search of reassurance. There was the scuffed and cracking plaster – eighteen years since it was last refurbished. There were the electricity meters, the postboxes, a bicycle. He didn’t know whose bicycle it was.
He inserted a tiny key into the postbox marked Cellini/Venturelli. Not all women used their unmarried names, although most did; Luisa had proudly used his name for the first fifteen years of their marriage, then started using hers again, around the time her mother died. She said it was her last link with her parents, and Sandro had been fine with it. He knew how close Luisa had been to her mother.
The postbox was empty, but then he had expected it to be. Luisa generally collected the post these days; that was fine with him too. She had her private correspondence, he had his. They would never open each other’s letters, would they? Had it been since the testing
had started, the letters from the hospital with their shiny cellophane windows? She always wanted to open those on her own; sometimes she showed them to him, sometimes she didn’t.
Suddenly Sandro was overcome by a desire not only to rip open those horrible letters but to take Luisa’s strong pale face between his hands and hold it up close to his own and make her tell him everything. Not just the test results, not just Frollini, but did she love him? Had he been a disappointment to her? No more politeness, no more respectful silence. I love you. I want to know. Why couldn’t he just say that?
Was she really going to New York on Monday morning? On the stairs he paused at the thought and leaned heavily against the cold wall. All that way, over a wide dark ocean, to a place where terrorists flew planes into tall buildings. It frightened him: Luisa so far out of sight; Luisa in a foreign hotel room, a place where he couldn’t turn over at night and put his face against her shoulder.
He barely paused at the door before pushing it open; the thought that he might press his ear against it first entered his head only briefly. The hall was dark, and it was only just warm inside; he knew straight away that she wasn’t there.
One thing Sandro had always known was how to be a man; how to be silent in the face of fear, how to keep going when things grew dark and uncertain. Being a man, he had to admit, was not always the right approach, but it was something, and now it appeared to have deserted him. All around him the apartment told him that he was alone, that he could no longer rely on the Luisa he had married to stand beside him.
He knew that he should put down his bag and go into the kitchen and set a pan to boil for a bowl of pasta. He could call Luisa on her mobile and ask where she was, when she’d be home; he could even ask her to come back because he needed to talk to her; that was what Giuli would say. Call her, idiot. But what remained of the man inside him, it appeared, would not allow Sandro to do that.
And so when, a good ten minutes later, Luisa’s key turned in the lock he was still standing there in the hall in his coat, bag in hand,
drained of any kind of volition. Was it just tiredness? He’d been up very early. That, anyway, was the face he presented to Luisa.
She was alone; there was that, at least. What had he expected? Of course she was alone.
‘What are you standing there like that for?’ Luisa said, frowning, hanging up her coat. She had make-up on; it looked better on her than it had on Giuli. Dark eyes, strong mouth; she’d always had good skin.
‘Sorry,
cara
,’ he said, fumbling with his own coat. ‘Worn out; maybe I’m coming down with something. Just got back.’ Luisa eyed him narrowly, and he regretted the suggestion he might be under the weather. She’d think it was a bid to keep her at home. ‘I was going to put on some pasta,’ he said.
With a tut Luisa bustled past him, and he smelled a gust of her scent. Like a Pavlov’s dog, he felt himself submit to her presence.
‘I’ve already eaten,’ she said in exasperation, turning the tap to fill a saucepan, her gloves still on. ‘I thought you were coming later?’
‘Yeah, well,’ he said, ‘Giuli – well, I got Giuli to take over.’ He wasn’t going to say it had been Giuli’s idea; he wished it hadn’t been, now. ‘I’ll do that, you sit down.’ Gently he edged her away from the sink, set the pan on the stove. He wasn’t hungry at all; he could see that this new situation required a new approach from him, and this was all he could think of.
‘I wanted to see you.’ He hesitated, thinking of what he really wanted to say, and not saying it. ‘You’re going away. It’s so – so sudden.’
Luisa subsided into her chair, pulling off her gloves. ‘And I’m at work all tomorrow,’ she said warily. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Sure,’ said Sandro, keeping his voice even. ‘If you don’t think it’ll wear you out.’ In frustration he turned away from her and took a garlic clove from a small terracotta dish, peeled it, chopped it, crushed it. Set the frying pan on with oil, pressed a fistful of spaghetti down in the boiling water. Even Sandro knew how to make
spaghetti all’olio aglio e peperoncino
; even the most old-fashioned of men had that in their repertoire along with
pasta pomodoro.
‘There’s always Sunday,’ she said vaguely, sounding distracted. Turning to observe her, he saw she was looking for something in her handbag, a half-smile on her face.
And before he could stop himself, Sandro found himself saying, ‘Giuli saw you having lunch with Frollini.’ And heard the accusation in his voice. Luisa looked up at him, startled.
‘She saw me?’ she said. If she hadn’t been his wife he might have had a better idea of whether the confused expression she offered to him held a trace of guilt, but as it was, he had no idea.
‘In Rivoire,’ he said shortly, turning back to tip some chilli into the frying garlic. The room filled with the sweet, spicy scent. He turned the gas off carefully, not wanting to burn it. ‘Any parsley?’ he said. Luisa reached into the fridge and gave him a handful of sprigs.
‘Well, yes,’ she said, her face hidden again, back down into the depths of her handbag. ‘It was quiet,’ she said, ‘and we had the trip to discuss.’ She looked up at him. ‘He’s a busy man; we had to make time.’
Sandro didn’t believe in coincidence. ‘Looking for something in there?’ he asked. He wanted his voice to be easy and kind, but all he could hear was petulance. He turned to the stove, took the pan, drained the pasta, tossed it sizzling into the oil and garlic and chilli, set it on the table, took out a bowl and a fork and a napkin, poured himself a glass of last night’s Morellino. Touched none of the food, but drank the wine.
‘Just my mobile,’ said Luisa. ‘I must have left it in the shop.’ She settled the bag in her lap, both hands on top of it and either accidentally or deliberately shielding its contents from him, and finally she met Sandro’s gaze.
‘What’s going on, Sandro?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is something the matter?’
And now his opportunity presented itself so baldly, Sandro wasn’t ready.
His mobile rang in the hiatus, and he took it out, stared at the screen; Luca Gallo, it said. Damn the man; he let it ring a few times, then pressed reject.
‘The Bellagamba case,’ he blurted, not having the faintest idea what he was going to say next. ‘It’s a worry. The girl’s in bad company.’
Luisa stared him down, not buying it. ‘And you’re the man to sort her out?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Sandro. On an empty stomach, the wine was not helping matters one bit.
‘I mean,’ said Luisa, hands still resting on top of her bag, ‘that you’re behaving like an idiot. If there’s something the matter, then tell me, don’t just sit there getting drunk and making snide remarks.’
‘All right,’ said Sandro, setting the glass down harder than he’d intended to and slopping wine on the tablecloth. ‘Are you really going to New York with Frollini? Are you – ’ he hesitated, then took the plunge. Too late. ‘Is there something going on between you?’
There was a long, cold silence.
Slowly Luisa stood up, setting her bag on the table between them, brushing at her front for invisible crumbs. ‘Something going on?’ and the mocking note in her voice cooled his blood instantly.
‘I – I – ’ Sandro felt the wine fumble with his tongue. Felt his own stupidity like a fog in which he was blundering. Because he didn’t know, he didn’t even know what he was asking. He looked at her helplessly, but she didn’t take pity on him, not this time.
‘Do you think I am going to deny anything?’ Luisa said, holding herself quite still. ‘To provide you with witnesses or proof, to show you my appointment book in New York or bring Frollini in here to explain precisely the nature of our relationship?’ Pale and terrifying and handsome, she held his gaze, and the worst of it was, he was still thinking, she could be bluffing, this could be a cover.
‘That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
He said nothing; she didn’t want him to speak; he stared at the congealing pasta, the stained tablecloth. Her handbag sat there, inviting him to up-end it, searching for clues. He averted his eyes.
Luisa leaned down to make him look at her, and when he raised his head she spoke. ‘Do you know what they say?’ she said. ‘That counselling they insisted I have? They said it can have unexpected side-effects, this kind of illness. The thought of your own – mortality, or something. Women up sticks and travel the world, some of them. Run off with younger men; take up painting or write novels. Of course, some of them just sit at home and wait to die. But I’m not going to die, Sandro.’
‘No,’ he said helplessly. ‘I know you’re not.’ But he didn’t know, not yet. Was he more afraid that she would leave him for Frollini, than that she would die?
Luisa stared at him, then swept the bag off the table and into her arms. He wished she had not done that.
‘No, Sandro,’ she said. ‘Do you know what I think?’ He bowed his head. ‘I think a little time apart wouldn’t do us any harm.’ And she was gone, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Within ten minutes of Sandro leaving, Giuli had managed to make herself less visible. Her first worry had been that if she stayed in the corner on her own the Indian doorman or one of the waiters would have her down as a hooker and have her out on her ear, but either they didn’t notice, or they didn’t care. She’d ordered a Coke from a waiter and he’d just taken her money and brought her the drink on his grubby tray. And in her jeans and biker boots, it could be that these days Giuli actually looked like a normal girl, in the right light.
All the same, when a pair of English girls sat down at the other end of the banquette, giggling stupidly on hash, she edged into their orbit, for camouflage. One of them looked at her with fleeting distaste, as if she was trying to sell them something. Not me, baby, she thought, keeping her temper.
Giuli concentrated on sipping her drink slowly, gazing into the distance as though thinking deep and stoned thoughts. What she was really thinking about, as she kept Carlotta in her sights, was what she had seen as she zipped past Rivoire on the
motorino
, wobbling as she slowed, catching a glimpse of Luisa’s familiar profile.
Next door to her place of work, sitting in the window having lunch with her boss. Of course she wasn’t having an affair, and Sandro would know that by now. He’ll have talked it over with her, she’ll have laughed him out of the kitchen. Giuli felt a kind of terror; was this what it was like, she wondered belatedly, for all those kids she’d used to envy, the kids with a house and two parents, when they hear them arguing and wonder if they’re going to get divorced?
She and Frollini, they’d known each other thirty years or more, hadn’t they? It occurred to Giuli that Luisa had known her boss as long as she’d known Sandro; since she was not much more than a kid. And the illness had changed her; it had slimmed her, made her eyes bigger and darker, given her a kind of restlessness she’d never had before. Had her boss looked at her and seen her differently, all of a sudden? Had she looked at him? With his tan and his beautiful suits and the big gold ring on his little finger, so rich, so comfortable, so easy.
This was crazy. Giuli squeezed her eyes shut to stop her train of thought and when she opened them Carlotta was on her feet. She wove her way downstairs alone, leaving her bags and coat on her seat, and Giuli, taking hers with her, followed the girl without attracting a single glance. Ladies’ room, she guessed; and not before time.
Which had turned out to be behind the tiny leopard print-hung entrance and not so much a ladies’ room as a smoking room; a carpeted lobby with two gold-tiled washbasins and a lavatory cubicle off the far end, the whole set-up perfectly decent, and with Carlotta Bellagamba perched dreamily on the washbasins, and swinging her legs. Smoking a joint.
Bingo.
These kids. The thought of Luisa and Sandro nagged at Giuli, soured her stomach.
The girl smiled sleepily at Giuli from under her curls, and Giuli smiled back. And when Carlotta held the joint up to her vertically, she knew she shouldn’t say anything, but she did.