The Italian Girl (19 page)

‘Well, you
are
special anyway, without needing Roberto. Now, I’ll make some coffee and we’ll talk some more, okay?’

‘Okay. Thanks, Rosanna.’

‘Don’t thank me. You’re my friend,’ she replied.

Later, instead of lying in bed and dreaming of Roberto and how she’d felt when they had sung together that afternoon, Rosanna brutally forced herself to think of arpeggios instead.

The following Thursday, she arrived for cover rehearsals to find Roberto standing on the stage.

‘Signor Rossini thinks it would help you if you had one of the principals to work with you on
Butterfly
.’ Riccardo immediately saw Rosanna’s uncertainty. ‘This is a problem for you?’

‘Oh, no, of course not. It’s very kind of Signor Rossini to offer to help me,’ she said stiffly.

‘Okay, we begin!’

Two hours later, Rosanna was putting her music away in her case.

‘Are you going out?’ asked Roberto.

‘Yes. I want something to eat before tonight’s performance.’

‘May I accompany you?’

‘No. I’m meeting someone. Excuse me.’

Roberto watched Rosanna hurry off the stage. It had been a long time since a woman had refused him. He frowned in puzzlement, trying to work out why Rosanna Menici fascinated him so much. She had great self-containment and didn’t seem at all intimidated by him. In fact, she had just been positively rude to him.

‘Are you leaving, Signor Rossini? The cleaners wish to come into the auditorium,’ said the theatre manager.

‘Yes, I’m leaving.’ Roberto walked backstage and made his way towards his dressing room. He opened the door and his heart sank when he found Donatella sitting on the sofa.

‘
Caro
.’ She stood up, wound her arms around his neck and planted a full-blooded kiss on his lips.

‘Why are you here?’ Roberto asked irritably.

‘Do I need an excuse?’ A hand travelled stealthily to the button of his trousers.

He tried to brush it away. ‘I have things to do, Donatella. Tonight I perform and I . . .’

The hand undid his zip and found its way inside.

‘They can wait,’ she whispered.

He groaned and, hating himself for his weakness, resisted no more.

Donatella left the theatre by the stage door. The camera clicked five times. Two minutes later, Roberto Rossini also left by the stage door. The camera clicked again. The photographer smiled. This was the final proof. He also had photographs of her leaving Rossini’s apartment last week. He opened the door of his car, started the engine and headed off to develop the film.

The envelope flopped onto the doormat of the apartment in New York a few days later.

Five minutes later, Giovanni Bianchi was studying the contents with interest. So, it was Roberto Rossini that his wife had fallen for.

This surprised him. Every woman in Italy was in love with Rossini and he couldn’t imagine the man favouring exclusivity.

Maybe Donatella was merely infatuated, or maybe it was the menopause clouding her judgement. Roberto Rossini was years younger than she. She was obviously deluding herself.

Whichever, it was time to put Rossini out of harm’s way.

17

One bright July morning, Paolo was waiting for Roberto to arrive to discuss the forthcoming season. There was a brief knock at the door.

‘Come,’ he said.

‘Sorry I’m late. I overslept.’ Roberto nodded at Paolo as he swept into the office and took a seat. ‘Any chance of coffee?’

‘Of course.’ Paolo hid his irritation and rang through to his secretary to order one. ‘We need to talk through the schedule for the next six months, Roberto. I know you go to London in August for
La Traviata
, and take your usual month’s sabbatical in September. Then you have another three weeks at Covent Garden, as well as recording
Ernani
for EMI.’

Roberto nodded.

‘So, you’ll be back here by the middle of November to rehearse for
La Bohème
?’

Roberto nodded again. ‘Yes. And then after Paris in February, I’m back here to do Il Duca in
Rigoletto
, is that right?’

‘Yes. We’ll need you to be here for a couple of preliminary rehearsals. There’s a whole new set being built and you need to be familiar with it.’

‘With many steps?’ Roberto rolled his eyes.

‘Yes, many steps,’ confirmed Paolo.

‘After that, I believe I’m off to New York and the Met to do
Tosca
and then there’s a concert in Central Park, but you’ll need to confirm the dates with my agent.’

‘Of course. We’ve got a phone call booked tomorrow morning.’

The telephone on Paolo’s desk rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said as he picked up the receiver. ‘What is it? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed . . . I see. Then I suppose you must put her through . . . Anna, good morning.’ He smiled apologetically at Roberto. The next second the smile was wiped abruptly from his face. ‘You have
what
? Are you absolutely sure? No, of course you mustn’t. We’ll just have to reorganise things. Take care of yourself and I’ll ring you tomorrow morning. Yes, of course I understand.
Ciao, cara
.’ Paolo put the receiver down and grimaced.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Roberto.

‘The problem is that our Madama Butterfly has got scarlet fever.’

‘Scarlet fever?’

‘Yes, scarlet fever. Her baby daughter had it two weeks ago. Of course that means she won’t be here tonight or for the rest of the week, unless we want the entire company infected. Excuse me, Roberto, but I must call Riccardo. He’s downstairs with the orchestra and he’s not going to be happy.’ Paolo dialled backstage and ten minutes later Riccardo came huffing up the stairs. Once he was seated, Riccardo looked at Roberto, clearly expecting him to leave the room.

‘I want to hear who you’ll choose. I’m singing opposite her tonight, remember,’ said Roberto, staying put.

‘Of course, as you wish. I think that Cecilia Dutton must take Anna’s place,’ said Riccardo.

‘She has a recital in Paris tonight,’ Paolo reminded him.

‘Ivana Cassall then, or Maria Forenzi?’ suggested Riccardo.

‘Forenzi is a possibility but—’

‘No, she is wrong. She’s far too old. She has problems remembering her words. I refuse to perform with her,’ stated Roberto flatly.

For five minutes, Paolo and Riccardo suggested various names that in turn Roberto vetoed. Finally, when they had run out of suggestions, they sat in a dejected silence. It was broken by Roberto.

‘Gentlemen, I have the answer for you.’

They stared blankly at him.

‘You do?’ they chorused.

‘Of course. It’s obvious, surely? You must let Rosanna Menici sing Butterfly tonight. She is the cover after all, and that’s what covers are for, is it not? She’s been rehearsing for weeks with me, so she knows the role well. And I’ll be there to help her through it.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Paolo curtly, holding up his hand in protest. ‘We haven’t nurtured her all this time to see her pushed into a role like this before she’s ready. Butterfly is for a mature singer with experience. It could be a disaster.’

‘Butterfly is meant to be a fifteen-year-old girl,’ Roberto reminded them. ‘If she pulls it off, as I know she will, it is in some ways better than making her debut in
La Bohème
. Think of the publicity she’d receive.’

‘Think of the critics,’ groaned Paolo. ‘Riccardo, what’s your opinion?’

Riccardo took a deep breath. ‘I think we have no alternative. It’s too late to fly someone in. It’s either Rosanna Menici or we cancel. My instinct is that she won’t let us down. Maybe it’s fate,’ he shrugged.

‘Do I sense a conspiracy here?’ Paolo’s eyes darted shrewdly between the two men, assessing the situation. He rubbed his chin in contemplation for a moment. ‘Let me make a telephone call and try to trace Cecilia, see if she has already left for Paris. If she has, then I’ll tell Rosanna she’s to go on tonight.’

‘Wonderful! You won’t regret this.’ Roberto jumped up eagerly. ‘Tell Rosanna I’ll be available this afternoon to run through anything she’s worried about.’ He nodded briefly and left the office.

Paolo stared searchingly at Riccardo. ‘Is he right?’

‘I think he is.’

Paolo tapped his pencil on the table. ‘All this interest from Roberto in Rosanna. Is it purely professional?’

‘It seems to be. When he works with her, he’s the perfect gentleman.’

‘He always is before he pounces,’ murmured Paolo.

‘But more importantly, Rosanna doesn’t seem in the least interested in him,’ added Riccardo.

‘Well, I hope it stays that way, for her sake, because if Roberto Rossini so much as touches a hair on her head, I’ll—’

‘Paolo, I understand how special Rosanna is to you, but it’s really none of our business what singers do in their private lives.’

‘I’m aware of that, Riccardo,’ Paolo replied tersely. ‘Now, let me make some calls.’

At noon, Abi answered the ringing telephone.

‘Hello, Abi speaking.’

‘Abigail, it’s Paolo. Is Rosanna at home?’

‘Yes, but she’s in the shower. Can I take a message?’

‘No. I think you’d better tell her to come to the telephone.’

‘Okay.’

Two minutes later, a dripping Rosanna picked up the receiver. ‘What is it
,
Paolo?’

Abi watched her visibly pale as she listened to what Paolo had to tell her.

‘Okay, so I’ll see you at two at the theatre, yes?
Ciao
.’ Rosanna replaced the receiver and sank into a chair.

‘What on earth is it? Has someone died?’ asked Abi.

‘No.’

‘Then what? You look terrible.’

Rosanna inhaled deeply, then looked at her friend. ‘Tonight I am to sing the role of Madama Butterfly at La Scala.’

Rosanna sat in front of the mirror as the make-up artist transformed her into the young Japanese girl, Cio-Cio-San. She was dazed, her thoughts unclear. She didn’t feel nervous or excited – in fact, she felt very little at all. She glanced at the large bouquet of red roses on the table in front of her.

Rosanna,

I will be with you,

Roberto

P.S. I have paid the claque on your behalf.

Rosanna couldn’t help but smile. Roberto had been wonderful at the afternoon’s rehearsal: calm, concerned and eager to help. If it wasn’t for the fact that she knew how he’d behaved towards Abi, she might have given way to her feelings for him completely. But, whatever happened tonight on stage, she swore that Roberto Rossini would not win her heart.

‘Does the wig feel comfortable?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, is the wig comfortable?’

Rosanna dragged herself back from her thoughts to answer the dresser.

‘It feels fine.’

‘It’s slightly too big, but I’ve stuck so many hairpins in it that it wouldn’t move during a tornado,’ the dresser laughed. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to prepare. Good luck, Signorina Menici.’

‘Thank you.’

A minute later there was a knock on the door. ‘It’s Paolo.’

‘Come in, please.’

‘How are you?’ he asked as he opened the door.

‘Fine, I think.’

‘Good. You look calm. I’ve come to take you up to the wings. Riccardo wants to see you before beginners.’

Rosanna stood up, took one last glance at herself in the mirror and followed Paolo along the corridor and into the vast wings where Riccardo was waiting for her. He kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Rosanna, I’ll be in the orchestra pit watching you. If you need guidance, look at me. Are you nervous?’

‘No. It’s strange, but I don’t feel nervous at all.’

‘It’s good you’re calm. You know the role very well. You will do La Scala proud,
cara
.’

‘I’ll do my best, Riccardo, I promise.’

‘I’m off now to greet a very special friend of yours,’ said Paolo.

‘Who?’

Paolo tapped his nose. ‘Wait and see.’

Ten minutes later, the overture began. People were buzzing around Rosanna, making last-minute adjustments to her costume and make-up, checking props, but she hardly responded. Tonight was the night she’d dreamt of and yet she felt distant, as though it wasn’t really happening to her.

The familiar music that signalled her entrance began. She sent up a prayer, crossed herself and stepped out onto the stage of La Scala.

Luigi Vincenzi sat in Paolo’s box looking down at the slim figure, so tiny and demure. The effortlessness of her singing, combined with her youth and vulnerability, made her the most perfect Butterfly he’d ever seen. And she had such presence, such magnetism. It was rare for the audience at La Scala to be completely silent, but now, as he looked around, he saw that every eye was fixed on Rosanna, the hush palpable, as if two thousand people were holding their collective breath. Yes, there were a few technical imperfections, but those could be worked on easily enough. Luigi felt the tears trickle down his cheeks. His Rosanna, whom he’d discovered and nurtured, was making the most perfect debut. Luigi knew he was witnessing history.

As the bouquets fell at Rosanna’s feet, Paolo let out a sigh of relief. The cries of ‘Bravo!’ echoed round the auditorium. The audience were on their feet, applauding the birth of a new star. It was not the way he’d ever foreseen Rosanna’s debut, but Paolo knew he couldn’t have asked for more. She had been magnificent. He turned to Luigi, who was foraging for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Without speaking, the two of them clasped each other in an embrace.

Rosanna stood in front of the curtain watching the deluge of flowers rain in from the audience, and drank in the wildly enthusiastic cheers. She couldn’t remember whether she’d managed to sing a note, let alone in the right key. Robot-like, she let Roberto lead her forward time and again as they took bow after bow.

Then it was over. The company congratulated her, crowding round her from all sides to tell her she had been incredible. Rosanna made her way in a daze back to her dressing room, opened the door and gasped as she saw who was waiting for her.