The Italian Girl (37 page)

The only communication I had from him was a generous monthly cheque sent via Chris Hughes to cover our living expenses. There was never a letter attached.

Roberto’s time at Covent Garden ended and he left for New York and the Met. I knew of his movements through both Chris and the newspapers. Six months later, I saw a photograph of him with Donatella Bianchi. They were at a party in New York. I knew then that it was finally over, that any dreams I’d been harbouring of a reconciliation were futile; our marriage had been a sham. How could it have been otherwise? I tried hard not to hate him, but the hurt I felt for his making no effort to see you, his son, ate away at me.

I spent almost all my time alone that year, with only you for company. I could have turned to my family, or my friends, but my pride prevented me.

And yet I would hate you to think I was unhappy. I was not. I had you and the house and the solitude to lick my wounds. I didn’t think of the future, or my career. I took each day as it came, my capacity for expressing emotion limited only to you.

It was almost a year to the day on which Roberto and I had parted that things began to change once more . . .

32

Gloucestershire, June 1982

Rosanna awoke to the nearby sounds of a contented toddler playing in his cot, subtly signalling that he was awake and ready for attention. She lay watching the bright sunshine eager to throw its rays of light beyond the curtains and into the bedroom. Rarely did she linger when she first woke, knowing the thoughts that would assail her senses, but this morning she felt unusually peaceful.

Soon, a year would have passed. A year in which she had breathed, slept, eaten . . .
lived
without him. That had to mean something, surely. It was a milestone and she felt proud. And – she brightened at the thought – her dear friend Abi was coming to stay soon. She knew it was high time she started connecting with the world outside The Manor House again.

Finally, Rosanna climbed out of bed. As she walked down the corridor to the nursery, she planned the day. Breakfast, a little housework, then a leisurely walk with Nico down to the village shop. After lunch, while Nico slept, an hour’s sun in the garden. She came from a place where warmth was taken for granted, but here in England it was a precious commodity to be relished. Tea with honey sandwiches – Nico’s current favourite – then later some pasta and salad for herself with a glass of cold Frascati. But then, as the dusk descended and Nico slept, the night would close in and the loneliness would begin . . .

But first she had the day to enjoy and, Rosanna thought as she opened the door to Nico’s room, there were worse ways of living her life.

‘Mamma, Mamma!’ Nico bounced up and down excitedly, his small hands gripping the rail of his cot. ‘Milk! Milk!’

‘Then we shall go to the kitchen and make you a bottle, darling.’

Rosanna always spoke to her son in English. If this was to be their home and where Nico would be educated, then she believed his first language should be that of the country in which he’d been born.

Rosanna swept him up in her arms and carried him downstairs to the kitchen. Once she had placed him in his high chair, she filled a bottle with milk and handed it to him. While he was sucking happily, she turned on the radio and set about making breakfast.

‘There you go, darling,’ Rosanna said as she put an egg and slices of toast onto Nico’s tray, then sat herself down next to him. ‘Now, today I thought we’d go for a walk and then—’ Rosanna broke off as the first notes of ‘
Addio fiorito asil
’ from
Madama Butterfly
echoed from the radio. The memory was so acute, so painful. She glanced down and saw that her hands were shaking. Swiftly, she walked across to the radio and turned her husband’s voice off.

After lunch, while Nico was resting, Rosanna settled herself in the comfortable deckchair on the terrace. The peaceful state of mind she’d woken to had been destroyed by the sound of Roberto’s voice. It seemed she was only deluding herself when she imagined she was getting over him. Every day she ached for him, still longing to feel his strong arms closing around her shoulders, his mouth on hers, the gentleness of his touch as he made love to her.

‘Oh God . . .’ she moaned, leaning forwards and putting her head in her hands. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, wondering how on earth she was going to get through the rest of her life without him.

That evening, Rosanna let Nico stay up later than usual, putting off the moment when she would once again be alone. But at half past six, halfway through a Winnie the Pooh story, his head sagged against her shoulder, so she gently carried him up to his cot.

Once downstairs, she retrieved a bottle of Frascati from the fridge, took it out onto the terrace and filled her glass. The sun was beginning its descent towards the horizon. In New York, it was just after half past one and the sun would still be high in the sky. Maybe he was looking up at it, thinking of her, missing her . . . Rosanna stopped herself. She’d been down that path too many times before. It was over,
over
, and she had to learn to live in the present.

She began to ponder again whether she and Nico should continue to live here at The Manor House, a place with so many memories. Maybe they’d be better in Milan or Naples. Then Rosanna thought of all the people who would nod their heads self-righteously at the separation, recalling their predictions of disaster and whispering how she’d been misguided to believe that Roberto could ever be tamed.

Maybe, later in the year, she’d take Nico to Naples for a visit. It was such a long time since she’d been back to see her family, but the thought didn’t really appeal to her. It would mean making an effort, pretending she was over Roberto when she really wasn’t at all . . .

Rosanna heard the crunch of gravel as a car made its way up the drive. Could it be . . . ? Her heart began to beat faster and she leapt up, hurrying round the side of the house in time to see a Jaguar coming to a halt in front of it. She stood, holding her breath, and watched as the driver got out.

‘Hello there.’ A man was walking towards her, but it wasn’t Roberto. ‘I’m sorry to just drop in like this but Abi told me you lived here and I was just passing and I wondered how that little chap I watched come into the world was faring and . . .’ Stephen tumbled over his words in embarrassment. ‘It’s probably terribly inconvenient and—’

‘No, not at all. How nice to see you, Stephen. What happened to the Beetle?’ She gestured towards the parked Jaguar in an attempt to hide her initial stab of disappointment.

Stephen laughed. ‘The old girl finally gave up the ghost last month, so I treated myself to a slightly younger model.’

‘Please, Stephen, won’t you come in and have a glass of wine? I was sitting watching the sunset.’ The least she could do was to be polite after all Stephen had done for her and Nico.

‘If you’re sure I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Really, you’re not. I promise.’

He followed her round the house and onto the terrace and she gestured to a chair.

‘Sit down and I’ll go and get a wine glass for you.’

Stephen watched as she disappeared through the door leading to the kitchen. In a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, wearing no make-up and with her lovely dark hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked even younger and more vulnerable than he remembered her. He’d heard of course, from Abi, what had happened.

‘So,’ Rosanna said as she emerged and handed him a glass. ‘Help yourself to wine and then tell me why you came to be passing my house.’ She was surprised to find that, despite his not being Roberto, she was genuinely happy to see him.

‘I’ve opened an art gallery in Cheltenham, and I was delivering a painting to a client in Lower Slaughter. Abi told me you lived in The Manor House on the edge of the village, so I thought I’d look you up.’

‘Well, I’m glad you did.’

‘The view from here is so beautiful,’ he breathed as he took a sip of his wine, ‘so quintessentially English. And this house is one I’ve always noticed. I was brought up in a neighbouring village, you see.’

‘Well, I love it here.’

‘You don’t get lonely then, being by yourself?’

‘No. I have the baby, and besides, I’m used to it,’ she answered a little defensively.

‘Of course. I was . . . sorry to hear about your separation.’

Rosanna nodded but didn’t venture a response. Stephen took the hint. ‘So, how is Nico?’

‘Oh, beautiful, and he’s such a very good boy. He’s walking, or should I say running everywhere and is just beginning to put sentences together. He’s starting to be good company. It’s a shame you didn’t arrive half an hour ago. He was still up then.’

‘Well, maybe some other time,’ Stephen suggested. ‘By the way, wasn’t it good news about Abi’s first novel finding a publisher?’

‘Yes, wonderful. I haven’t seen enough of her in the last year, though we keep in touch by telephone. Anyway, she’s coming to stay with me in two weeks’ time. She says she needs some peace and seclusion away from London so she can concentrate on writing the next book.’

‘I’m sure she’ll find it here. And it’ll be good company for you, too.’

‘Yes, it will. I haven’t had any house guests for a while.’

There was a sudden uncomfortable lull in the conversation.

‘I really am sorry for gatecrashing like this,’ Stephen said as he made to stand up. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. Thanks very much for the wine.’

‘Not at all. It’s been lovely to see you, Stephen.’ Rosanna realised as she watched him pick up his keys that she had a strong urge for him to stay, for a few hours of company. ‘Are you hungry? I haven’t had supper yet. It’ll only be pasta and salad, but you’re welcome to some.’

Stephen turned to her. ‘Are you only being polite, Rosanna? Please be honest.’

‘No, I’d like you to stay, really. I haven’t had any proper adult conversation for ages.’

‘Then I’d be delighted,’ he said as he followed Rosanna into the kitchen and watched her as she put the kettle on. ‘Can I help you?’

‘There’s a bowl of salad on the top shelf of the fridge. Could you get it out for me?’

‘Of course.’ He did as she’d asked and set the bowl on the countertop as she hunted in a cupboard for a packet of pasta.

‘Thank you.’ While she waited for the kettle to boil, she put a pan of sauce on the hob and began to stir it. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little rude when you arrived. In the last year I’ve become very antisocial.’

‘I completely understand,’ Stephen said with feeling. ‘I broke up with my girlfriend about a year ago. She didn’t want to move to the Cotswolds when I decided to open my gallery here. We tried a long-distance relationship, but it didn’t work,’ he said sadly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rosanna empathised. ‘When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I try to remember that at least I have a lovely home to be miserable in. Now, shall we eat outside? I can take some candles and it’s still quite warm.’

‘That sounds perfect.’

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on the terrace eating tagliatelle and salad. Rosanna listened with interest as Stephen told her of his new business.

‘Of course, it’s only a small place and not at all like working at the Cork Street gallery. But it’s all mine. To be honest, my heart lies with the Old Masters, but at least I’m my own boss and if I choose my artists well, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t do okay.’

‘So, you can tell a good painting when you see one, can you?’ asked Rosanna.

‘I like to think so, yes. My expertise is definitely based around the Renaissance, but I’d like to establish a stable of modern artists too. There’s a lot of talent around here, you know. I’ve already signed two local artists to my gallery.’

‘I don’t like modern paintings.’ Rosanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe I’m stupid, but I don’t understand how squiggles and blobs of paint can be art.’

‘Come now,’ Stephen chided her gently, ‘not every modern artist produces squiggles and blobs, as you so delicately put it. I have a wonderfully talented landscape painter who works in watercolours. She’s reminiscent of Turner. I think she’ll do very well. I’ve a feeling you’d like her work if you saw it.’

‘So, do you live up here now too?’

‘There’s a small flat above the gallery which I’m camping in for the present, until I find something more permanent. To be honest, I’ve poured all my money into setting up the gallery. I can only hope it works.’

‘It must be wonderful to have something that you can watch grow, something you’ve done all alone, however much hard work it takes,’ mused Rosanna.

‘It is,’ Stephen nodded. ‘I suppose it’s a bit like watching your voice mature and improve. No plans to return to singing then?’

‘No.’

‘Never again, or just for now?’

‘I don’t know. I’d hate to leave Nico, and besides, returning would be difficult with Roberto and I . . .’ her voice trailed off.

‘Rosanna, I’m not trying to bully you in any way, but surely you owe it to yourself to use your talent?’

‘That’s exactly what Roberto said,’ she replied quietly.

‘Well, I know nothing about what happened between the two of you, but on that point, I’m afraid I agree with him.’

The wine had loosened Rosanna’s tongue, and she was suddenly overcome with the need to share her thoughts. ‘Stephen, as a man, do you believe it’s possible to sleep with one woman while still loving another?’

‘Well, that’s one way to change the subject,’ Stephen laughed, half choking on his wine at her bluntness. ‘Let’s think . . . well, maybe for some men, yes. But also for some women. For example, my girlfriend had an affair whilst still living –
and
sleeping, I might add – with me.’

‘Could you do that?’ she asked.

‘Have an affair, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Call me old-fashioned, but I believe love and fidelity go hand in hand.’ He shrugged. ‘Although I don’t think one should ever judge others, I’d like to believe that deception isn’t part of my nature.’