The Italian Girl (33 page)

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. He turned to Trish. ‘Signora Bianchi, is her husband not with her in New York?’

‘Oh my goodness, Roberto, if you know Donatella, I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Giovanni died of a heart attack . . . let’s see, it must be six months ago now. It was tragic, as John and he have done business together for many years. He really helped us out when we wanted some pictures to brighten our little apartment. Donatella was real devastated, so she decided to make a fresh start and moved over here from Milan three months ago. I’m trying to help her get over her grief.’

A huge surge of relief poured through Roberto as he realised that Donatella’s presence was mere coincidence and nothing to do with him. And he didn’t feel an ounce of remorse that Giovanni was dead. In fact, he was delighted. It meant he was free to travel to Italy once more.

After lunch, as the guests wandered back into the sitting room, Roberto felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘How are you, Roberto?’ The low, husky voice hadn’t changed and neither had she.

‘I . . .’ Roberto experienced the same animal reaction he’d had when she’d first approached him that night at La Scala. ‘I am well, very well indeed,’ he murmured.

‘Life is strange, is it not? I expect you were surprised to see me here.’

‘I was. Trish says you live in New York now.’

‘I do, yes. How is your wife? I hear she’s pregnant.’

Roberto looked at her warily. ‘She is fine, thank you.’

‘You don’t need to be embarrassed. Yes, of course I was furious when I realised you’d dumped me to marry Rosanna, but then I discovered what my husband had done to you, to us both. He confessed on his deathbed, the old fool. Besides’ – she shrugged elegantly – ‘it’s all behind us now. Maybe it was for the best. I’m happy here in New York and you have your Rosanna.’

‘So, you know now what happened, that I had to leave Italy. It wasn’t easy and I’ve paid a heavy price. I had to cancel all my Italian engagements and I couldn’t even attend my mamma’s funeral. It devastated me.’

‘I apologise on Giovanni’s behalf, Roberto. You know Italian men. They have such pride when it comes to their women.’ Donatella smiled bewitchingly.

‘Would he have carried through his threat? I’ve often wondered,’ mused Roberto.

‘That’s something only Giovanni could have answered. He was a powerful man and he certainly knew many people who could have done so. You were wise to stay away.’

‘I’m glad I’ve seen you, if only because it means that now Rosanna and I can go and visit our families in Naples.’ Roberto knew he was deliberately goading her with his wife’s existence, but she was not to be deflected.

‘I hope,’ said Donatella softly, ‘that you have other reasons for being glad to see me.’ She reached over and briefly touched his hand.

There it was again, that unbidden attraction surging through him. This was dangerous. He had to leave. Right now.

‘How long are you in town for?’ she asked.

‘I fly to London next Sunday.’

‘Would you like to have dinner? For old times’ sake?’ Donatella pulled a card out of her sleek clutch-bag.

‘No, I . . . unfortunately I won’t have time.’

‘Well, just in case you change your mind, my number’s on the card.’

‘I . . . I have to leave now. I have another engagement to attend.’

‘Of course.’ Donatella smiled knowingly. ‘
Ciao, caro
, if you get lonely, call me.’

Roberto watched as she turned away and sauntered across the room. She looked fantastic, even better than he’d remembered her, but he refused to listen to the traitorous stirrings of his body. The woman was nothing but trouble. He excused himself, said his goodbyes to the St Regents, then left.

That evening, Roberto sat in the silent apartment alone, studying the empty bottle of wine and contemplating whether to open another. He reached unsteadily for the telephone and dialled Rosanna.

‘It’s me. Did I wake you, my darling?’

‘No. I was lying here reading a book. How are you?’

‘Lonely. Chris is away in Europe and the silence is driving me mad.’

‘I’m sorry, darling, but it won’t be long now.’

‘How are you? You sound happy. Why?’ Roberto asked.

‘Oh, no reason really. I went to dinner last night with Abi and two of her friends. Maybe it did me good to get out,’ Rosanna replied.

‘Female friends, I hope?’

‘No, male actually. I had a nice time.’

‘I see. So, you’re gallivanting around London with strange men while I sit, lonely and sad, in this horrible apartment by myself?’

‘Roberto, really, Chris’s apartment is beautiful!’

‘I cannot bear to think of you having dinner with other men.’

‘Roberto, don’t be silly.’

‘In fact, I absolutely forbid you to go out again,’ he growled.

‘What? You’re being ridiculous. It was nice to go out for a change, that’s all.’

‘And what exactly were they like, these men?’

‘They were both charming, if you must know.’

‘Good-looking, I suppose?’

‘Roberto, stop this, please. There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about, I assure you.’

‘And how can I be sure of that? One of them could be in my bed now for all I know, some eager young stud just panting to sleep with the famous opera star,’ he added, the wine and loneliness making him ridiculously irrational and grumpy.

‘Roberto! Don’t speak to me like that,’ Rosanna said, the quiver in her voice betraying how upset she was. ‘I want you to apologise – now.’

There was an agonising pause as Roberto struggled against his alcohol-fuelled jealousy, and lost. ‘Well, I won’t apologise,’ he said petulantly. ‘This situation is your doing, not mine. Goodbye.’

He slammed down the receiver, knowing that he was being supremely childish but unable to help himself. Minutes later the telephone rang, but Roberto ignored it. He went to the kitchen and opened the other bottle of wine, tossed back a glass, then went to take a shower. When he emerged, he looked at the clock. It was only eight p.m. He sloshed more wine into his empty glass, and roamed the apartment like a wounded animal.

He loved Rosanna, he loved her with all his heart.

He didn’t love Donatella.

But Rosanna was thousands of miles away and apparently perfectly happy to spend an evening out with ‘charming’ men. More than that, she seemed oblivious to the hurt it had caused him.

Donatella was just five blocks away, probably waiting for his call.

He just needed some company, he told himself, that was all. The company of an old friend, someone who would understand his isolation. Roberto groaned, the temptation driving him mad.

An hour and an empty bottle of wine later, his hand reached for the receiver and dialled the number on her card.

29

Rosanna was in a state of high tension and exhaustion. She’d hardly slept in the past week.

Roberto would be home in twenty-four hours. He’d called her twice since their argument, but the conversations had been brief and Roberto had sounded distant.

She’d decided to keep as busy as she could, trying to convince herself she was overreacting. Roberto was tired and missing her, that was all. Tomorrow he would be home and everything would be all right.

Rosanna struggled back from Kensington High Street carrying several bags. She’d been tempted to buy herself a new dress for his arrival, but she felt so fat and frumpy that she’d decided to buy a teddy bear for the baby instead.

She hummed along to
La Traviata
as she arranged fresh flowers in a vase and bustled around the house, making sure all was immaculate for his homecoming.

That afternoon, Rosanna lay down, exhausted from her frenetic burst of activity. She felt achy and unwell. She dozed off and, when she woke up some hours later, she went down to the kitchen to make herself some supper. At ten, she glanced at the telephone. She calculated that Roberto would be getting ready to leave for his last performance at the Met. He had said he would call before he left, but the telephone remained silent. At half past ten, in an agony of frustration, she dialled the number of Chris’s apartment.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Chris, is Roberto there?’

‘No, honey, he isn’t.’

‘Where is he then?’

‘He left early for the theatre tonight.’

‘Well, could you ask him to call me when he gets back after the performance? It doesn’t matter what time.’

‘If I see him, I will.’

‘Surely you’ll see him later?’

‘Yes, of course. Are you feeling okay, Rosanna?’

‘Yes, but I’ll be much better when Roberto’s home. He’s still catching the morning flight from Kennedy Airport tomorrow, isn’t he?’

‘I believe so.’ Chris sounded vague.

‘Well, tell him I’m planning to meet him at Heathrow.’

‘Sure will. Bye, Rosanna. Take care of yourself.’

‘Bye.’

Rosanna replaced the receiver, her heart beating unsteadily. The sooner he was home, the quicker she could calm down and silence the demons that were asking questions at the back of her mind. She went to bed an hour later and drifted into a troubled sleep.

The following morning, Rosanna woke at eight o’clock. She climbed out of bed and felt a sharp pain shoot across her stomach. Wincing, she sat down and waited until it had passed before walking gingerly to the shower. While she was towelling herself dry, she felt another pain.

Surely, she couldn’t be . . . No, she told herself firmly. She had another two weeks to go and, besides, she had read all about the phantom contractions you could have. It was her body practising, that was all.

Two hours later, Rosanna was beginning to realise there was every chance the pains were not merely a practice. She had begun to time the contractions and they were starting to come every eight or nine minutes. Dr Hardy had told her that there was no need to go to the hospital until they were coming every five or six minutes. Still, she’d better be ready to go when the time came.

Slowly and painfully, she climbed upstairs to the bedroom. She retrieved the small case she’d already packed for the hospital and carried it back downstairs, having to stop halfway as another contraction ripped through her. She checked her watch. That one was more like seven minutes and much stronger than the last. She made it to the hall and placed the case by the front door, pausing to catch her breath before shuffling into the sitting room to find her address book.

She was just about to dial Dr Hardy’s number when the doorbell rang.

Rosanna made her way laboriously back into the hall.

‘Who is it?’

‘Stephen, Stephen Peatôt.’

Rosanna hesitated, thinking a visitor was the last thing she needed at this moment. But he knew she was at home and she couldn’t very well just leave him standing there. She unlocked the door and opened it.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient. I was passing and I wondered whether you’d managed to dig out that copy of
Madama Butterfly
for me.’

‘Yes, I . . .’ Rosanna gasped and bent over.

‘Hey, are you all right? What on earth’s the matter?’ Stephen put his arm round her, helped her inside and closed the door behind them.

‘I . . . I think I’m in labour. The pain will pass in a minute,’ she gasped. It did so and she stood up and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Stephen.’

‘Don’t be so silly. Are you on your own?’

She nodded.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ He followed her into the sitting room and watched her sink onto the sofa.

‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Could you pass my address book so I can call my doctor? I think I need to go to the hospital soon. The contractions seem to be speeding up quite fast.’

Stephen picked up the address book and passed it to her. Rosanna dialled the number and asked to speak to Dr Hardy.

‘Yes, hello, Doctor? This is Rosanna Rossini. I think I’m in labour and . . . no, my waters haven’t broken. Contractions? About every seven minutes, and getting closer all the time.’

Rosanna listened then said, ‘Okay. Thank you, Dr Hardy, goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver.

‘What did he say?’ asked Stephen.

‘That if my waters hadn’t broken, it’s doubtful the birth is imminent, so I’m not to panic. He wants me to go to the Chelsea and Westminster hospital anyway and he’ll meet me there. I’ll call a taxi.’

‘No need to do that, I’ll drive you there. It’ll only take ten minutes on a Sunday.’

‘Are you sure? It’s not the kind of weekend outing you’d probably planned.’ She managed a weak smile between puffs.

‘Of course I’m sure. As long as you promise not to give birth in my Beetle,’ he joked. ‘Now, where’s your coat?’

‘In the hall . . . oh, I must call Roberto and let him know what’s happening. He’s coming back from New York today and is expecting me to meet him at Heathrow,’ she explained.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to make the call?’ asked Stephen, concerned that her breath was now coming in shallow pants.

‘No, no. I must speak to him myself,’ she gasped.

‘Of course. I’ll put your case in the car while you call him.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosanna dialled Chris’s apartment, gritting her teeth at another contraction as the line rang and rang.

‘Wake up, wake up,’ she groaned.

Stephen came back into the room. ‘No answer?’

‘No. He’s probably asleep and hasn’t heard the telephone. It’s about five in the morning in New York.’

‘Well, I really think we should get going. You can try and call when we get to the hospital.’

Rosanna reluctantly replaced the receiver. ‘I’ll leave a note here telling Roberto what’s happening, just in case I don’t manage to get him before he boards the plane.’

She scribbled a note on a piece of paper, left it on the hall table, then followed Stephen out to the car.

Dr Hardy was waiting in the hospital reception area, where he immediately helped Rosanna into a wheelchair.

‘Have you contacted your husband?’ he asked.

‘I’ve tried but I haven’t managed to get hold of him. He’s flying back to England today, but his plane doesn’t arrive at Heathrow until tonight. I was going to meet him.’