Mariella was in Milan, putting the final touches to arrangements for a dinner party for forty she and Giovanni were giving the following week and collecting her hairpiece from Mario Petris, her hairdresser, to wear the next night at the opera.
Eliza felt anxious for the first time in her life about her appearance; she had not come across such formality, such splendour, even among the grandest parties in the grandest houses in England that she had attended in her coming-out year. But Mariella looked at her, at the dress rehearsal she had insisted upon, the epitome of chic simplicity in her Yves Saint Laurent dinner jacket, and the new, high diamanté-strapped shoes, her hair cut simply and falling to her shoulders, and said she would be the belle of the balls.
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, she seems to think I’m incapable of feeding myself, I don’t know why, she never bothered before you and me were together.’
‘I expect she realises I wait on you hand and foot and you’ve forgotten how to cope on your own,’ said Eliza.
‘Yeah, well, I’ll put her right there. 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, feeling a sliver of alarm, ‘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.’
‘No. But – we’d be able to get back all right? Tonight?’
‘Oh, yes of course,’ said Mariella, ‘it cannot stop us getting back.’
Eliza had no option but to believe her.
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 goodbye to her, made the minimum of fuss and was clearly far more interested in the supper she was to eat with Bruno in the kitchen than 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 make-up 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 swiftly 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 colours, 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 doubled – no, quadrupled – in the huge, gilt-studded mirrors.
She was enchanted, drunk by it, and when she reached the bar she felt no longer nervous of 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 talk of which crowned heads had attended the opening the week before and who had met which of them; and 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.’
‘But
Traviata
will be so beautiful tonight,’ said Janey, ‘my favourite opera of all. So exciting to be with you, Giovanni, and in the best box in the house, the royal one apart.’
‘The most exciting thing is to have you in it with us,’ said Giovanni, taking her hand and kissing it and then bowing just slightly.
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 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 sat 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.’
‘Serve him right,’ said Eliza. Absurdly, along with Fordyce, she felt responsible for what appeared to be a very English rudeness.
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 left 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, enquired if 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.
It had all only taken five minutes, and then she was perfectly all right again, make-up repaired, breathing quite normal, cough gone.
Clearly she could not go back to the box; but she could wait outside, it would be the interval in
cinque minuti
, the kindly attendant told her. She thanked her, put a hundred lire in the saucer, and made her way up to the third level, where she knew the box was. Only – which box? The doors were all numbered but she had no idea what the number was, had just followed Mariella and Giovanni while goggling at her surroundings. She tried to be calm, to think. Clearly, the box had been more or less central – but that could account for any one of five doors. She was just standing uncertainly outside one of them when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned with relief, thinking that whoever it was might be able to tell her; and there, even more handsome than she remembered, smiling at her in that so familiar here-we-are-you-and-me-alone-in-theworld way, was Jeremy Northcott.
‘Eliza! How lovely! How wonderful you look! How are you and are you lost?’
She stared at him, stared and stared, literally unable to speak. The floor heaved slightly beneath her three-inch heels; she felt as uncertain, as foolish, and as dazzled as she had done all those years ago, the first time she had set eyes on him at Brad’s; and he seemed as glamorous, and as sophisticated. The light from the chandeliers seemed to fade and brighten, several times.
And then, as reality returned and he continued to smile at her and she continued to stare at him, she knew. Of course she did … And she could see that he did too.
It was incredibly stupid of her; she could see that. Probably the most stupid thing she had ever done. She deserved the most awful retribution and it would probably come.
But here she was, having a long conversation with David, albeit on the phone, as she had sworn she never would again; she had no idea where it might lead, she only knew that it had been an oddly healing experience. And although she had vowed she would never, ever go to bed with him again, she really, really would not, she heard herself agreeing to possibly – just possibly – seeing him, the next time he was in London.
‘Matt, it is you, isn’t it? Hi!’
It was Gina. Looking very little older and really very good, in one of the new black maxi coats and fur Dr Zhivago hat, her thick fringe just appearing underneath it, her grey eyes sparkling at him.
‘Hello,’ he said. He’d forgotten how extraordinarily pretty she was.
‘How are you? It’s really good to see you.’
‘I’m fine. Yes. Great.’
‘Successful, I gather. Can’t stop reading about you. Millionaire Matt. Got your twenty-seven yet?’
She’d remembered. How he was determined to have at least twenty-seven million by the time he was thirty-nine, like Harry Hyams. He was touched.
‘Not quite. You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers.’