Unmasking Elena Montella (16 page)

Once Rosanna left the apartment, her feet picked up such a pace that they very nearly flew right out of her shoes. She looked down and admired them: beautiful rich burgundy strappy heels - not the sort for crossing great distances in but she so wanted to look nice. She’d met Irma Taccani before, of course, but she’d never had a summons to tea before, and she thought she should make an effort even if she wasn’t sure she was her son’s intended.

Rosanna wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She’d been in at least two minds about Corrado before Reuben had arrived and, now, she didn’t know what to think. She’d barely stopped thinking about Reuben since the moment she’d first seen him dressed in one of Sandro’s white towels. What was it about him? She was a rational woman; she didn’t fall in love at the drop of a hat - or even the drop of a towel for that matter. Yet there was something about him that she couldn’t shake from her mind even though she knew she had every reason
not
to be thinking about him. Or did she?

One of the reasons she thought she shouldn’t be thinking about Reuben was that she was with Corrado but she still had her doubts about him, and that was one of the reasons she’d agreed to go over to his mother’s today. The second reason was that Elena was engaged to Reuben. But she was also engaged to Mark so surely that put a new spin on things.

She groaned. Could she just wait around and see which man her sister picked and hoped it wasn’t the one that she had fallen for? And, even if Elena chose Mark, Rosanna had no real proof that Reuben felt anything for her, even if she had felt his eyes burning into her when he’d been in the apartment.

Doing her best to put Reuben out of her mind, - she turned right into the calle that led to Irma Taccani’s. The apartment was one of several overlooking one of the tiniest canals in Venice. Washing was strung across the canal, the brilliant colours reflected in the dim water, still as a painting. Like Sandro’s apartment, this one was tucked away in a quiet spot far from the reach of tourists. This was the Venice Rosanna loved but she wasn’t at all sure that she was going to love her time here this afternoon.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed a golden buzzer. It took a couple of minutes before she heard an elderly woman’s voice croak a response.

‘
Signora Taccani? It’s Rosanna Montella.’

There was no reply.

‘
Corrado invited me. For tea!’

Still, she didn’t speak but, after what seemed an age, she buzzed Rosanna in.

Her palms were beginning to sweat and she fiddled anxiously with her hair which, she was sure, was sticking out, giving her the appearance of a Gorgon, and she suddenly regretted her choice of outfit, believing it to be slutty rather than sophisticated, and the shoes, which she’d thought so beautiful just moments before, now looked wildly inappropriate.

Narrow stairs led up to the Taccani’s and, reaching apartment number five, Rosanna knocked on the cracked white door and waited.

‘
Corrrrraaaddoo!
’ a voice called from behind the door. Rosanna waited. And waited. She was just about to raise her fist and bang with the whole weight of her body behind it when the door swung open and Corrado beamed a smile at her, pushing a hand through newly-washed hair.

‘
I thought you were ignoring me!’ she complained.

‘
Mama doesn’t like answering the door.’

‘
But she knew it would be me!’ she pointed out, baffled.

Corrado gave an apologetic shrug. ‘She doesn’t like people,’ he said.

Rosanna’s eyebrows rose. Well, she supposed that made sense as most people didn’t like her either.

‘
Well, can I come in or can’t I?’ she asked.

She stepped inside and Corrado gave her a smile which began in his eyes. They were the first things she’d noticed about Corrado. Well, actually, if she was absolutely honest, it was his arms she’d noticed first: his big strong labourer’s arms, tanned by a thousand hours of sunshine. She’d imagined what it would feel like to circle his wrists with her fingers and to have his arms wrapped right around her waist and, when she’d found out, she hadn’t been disappointed. But, back to his eyes. He had the largest, darkest eyes she’d ever seen. They were like autumn conkers and were far too pretty for a man to own. They held a brightness in them, despite being so dark, and yet were lazy too - as if they couldn’t be bothered to focus on anything for long.

What she soon became aware of was that he couldn’t possibly have inherited his eyes from his mother. Hers were like tiny, shrivelled raisins, barely daring to peep out of her face and yet seeming to miss nothing.

Corrado ushered her into the living room. It was small and dark but she was instantly aware of how clean it was. Every surface shone. It was the kind of room you dared not breathe in let alone sit down in, but Corrado motioned to a two-seater sofa by the window and, carefully inspecting her skirt, Rosanna sat down.

She instantly felt guilty as she thought about the state of Sandro’s studio. There was a tarantula-like ball of hair at the bottom of the bath, bits of dried tomato on the kitchen tiles which Elena called her spaghetti western shoot-out, and a snow-like layer of dust on the plants. She’d have to have a major housecleaning session before he came back. Looking around the Taccani apartment, it was clear to her that dust never even got a chance to land, and dirt was a foreign species.

‘
Rosanna?’

‘
What?’

‘
Are you okay?’

‘
I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just a little overcome by all the dirt in here. Doesn’t your mama ever clean this place?’

‘
What?’

‘
Nothing. I was joking.’

Corrado raised dark eyebrows at her in bemusement. He was always a little slow on the uptake.

‘
Mama’s been baking. Would you like some crostata?’ he asked, sitting down on the sofa next to her and taking her hand in his.

Rosanna hesitated before answering. Wouldn’t that make a lot of crumbs? But she nodded, knowing she couldn’t win either way. She actually didn’t like apricots, unlike most Venetians, but it wouldn’t endear her to either of them if she turned Irma’s baking down.

Corrado took Rosanna’s hand to his lips and kissed it. It felt deliciously warm and she could feel spirals of desire shooting through her body. It felt ages since she’d last been kissed.

‘
Corrraaaadooo!’ a voice called from the kitchen breaking their spell. Rosanna watched as he jumped to attention, dropping her hand as if it had suddenly caught fire.

‘
Coming, Mama.’

She bit her lip. She obviously wasn’t the top woman in this particular household. Getting up from the sofa, she walked over to a dark wooden table where she had noticed a shoal of silver photo frames. There were no less than three baby photos - all of Corrado. He was an only child and, from the other photos showing his passage through childhood right up until adulthood, the collection had more of a shrine-like feel to it.

Rosanna had a sudden vision of Irma Taccani, duster in hand, polishing each silver frame with the utmost care. She picked one up: a sweet school portrait with Corrado wearing a smart navy tie. She held it towards the window as if she half-expected to see a great lipstick mark on it.

‘
What are you
doing
?’

A blunt voice startled Rosanna and she dropped the frame which crashed to the floor.

‘
I - I was- ’

‘
Mio Dio
!’

‘
I didn’t mean to-’

‘
Mama!’ Corrado interrupted. ‘It was an accident.’

Irma stared at Rosanna, her raisin-like eyes shooting her down with disdain.

‘
I’m ever so sorry,’ Rosanna said at last, daring to examine the frame as she placed it back in line on the table. Nothing was broken, thank god, but it didn’t stop her from feeling stupid.

‘
Doesn’t Rosanna look lovely, Mama?’ Corrado said, as he led Rosanna back to the relative safety of the sofa and sat down next to her, holding her hand so that she couldn’t do anymore damage.

Irma’s tiny eyes squinted until they almost completely disappeared in her sallow face.

‘
Red,’ she said, and that was all, but the word came out of her mouth as if it were a curse.

‘
Burgundy,’ Corrado corrected.

The raisin slits opened a fraction and she eyeballed her potential daughter-in-law but there was no changing her mind. She thought she was a slut and that was that. Rosanna should have worn blue, like the Madonna, and then
La Stronza
might have been happier.

‘
We don’t normally have tea,’ she said, sitting on a chair opposite the sofa.

‘
Oh?’

‘
Too early. It’s too English. I do not like to eat before eight in the evening.’

‘
But,’ Corrado interrupted, ‘it’s nice to do things the English way for a change.’

‘
Pah!’ Irma spat. ‘Who wants to be Engleesh?’

‘
I’m not really English, you know,’ Rosanna said in her defence. ‘My father was English but we never really knew him.’

‘
I thought you were schooled in England?’ Irma asked suspiciously.

‘
But that doesn’t make me English. I don’t live there anymore, do I?’

Irma frowned at her as if she was answering her back.

‘
I’m as Italian as you,’ she dared.

Irma just shook her head and then disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a large plate of crostata. Rosanna winced.

Irma placed the plate on a small table in front of the sofa. Cut into neat slices, the apricot glowed like some form of alien ectoplasm. Rosanna could only thank her lucky stars that Irma was a little on the mean side and had cut a particularly small slice for her.

‘
That looks wonderful, Mama,’ Corrado said, his voice fuelled with admiration. ‘Mama is such a good cook,’ he added.

‘
You cook?’ she asked Rosanna sharply.

She tried not to gag on her mouthful of crostata. ‘Not really,’ she said, trying not to wince after her first mouthful of the vile apricot tart.

‘
What?’

‘
Of
course
she does, Mama! She just doesn’t admit to it.’

‘
Every woman should cook.’

‘
Rosanna works hard too,’ Corrado said, and she was impressed that he would defend her in front of his mother in that way.

‘
I’ve heard,’ Irma said, her raisin eyes looking unimpressed.

Rosanna wondered how much Corrado had told his mother about her job and whether she knew that it involved her taking her clothes off but Irma didn’t elaborate and Rosanna was grateful for it.

They ate in silence for a few moments. It was the most nerve-wracking few moments of her life. Part of her was aware of Irma’s stare, another part was terrified of making crumbs on the immaculate sofa and carpet, and another part of her wracked her brains for something intelligent and unincriminating to say.

‘
This is nice,’ Corrado said at last, and all Rosanna could do was nod, casting a quick look at her watch to see how long she had to put up with this before making her excuses and escaping for home.

Elena couldn’t get Mark’s wounded expression out of her mind. Why did she keep shutting him out when he so desperately wanted to help her? He was the only one of her fiancés to have questioned her like that - the only one to realise that she wasn’t being completely honest. But did he really want to help her? If she told him the truth, would he really understand? Somehow, she didn’t think he would. Some people thought they could handle the truth - and would bug and bother until it was exhumed but, once in possession of it, would turn and flee faster than an athlete on steroids. It was like licking somebody else’s wounds - it just wasn’t natural. People’s pasts, she’d always believed, should be left well and truly alone.

When Elena got back to Sandro’s, it was late afternoon and Rosanna was out. Even with her mind in a maelstrom, she spared a thought for her sister and hoped she was coping with the pint-sized ogre that was Irma Taccani.

The apartment seemed so quiet with just her there. Of course, peace and quiet was part of the reason why she’d come to Venice but, now she had it, she felt restless and anxious.