The Italian Girl (16 page)

Luca was watching her intently. ‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’

‘No, I . . . of course I don’t think that. Really I don’t,’ she reiterated. ‘But, Luca, if you become a priest, it means sacrificing all worldly pleasures. Are you really prepared for that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And yet, you can’t tell me you feel nothing for me?’

‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I can’t. From the first moment I saw you, Abi, I felt something for you that is difficult to describe. And ever since then, you’ve had a place in my heart. We’ve grown so close over the past four years.’

‘Yes, we have. And perhaps the “something” you can’t describe is called “love”, Luca.’

‘Yes,’ he finally agreed. ‘I think you are right. But don’t you see? You’re just one of the tests that God has placed before me. A test which I failed just now.’ Luca hung his head miserably.

‘I’m not sure whether I’m flattered or insulted.’ Abi spoke in a small, hollow voice.

‘I’m sorry, that came out insensitively,’ Luca said hurriedly, ‘but it was meant in the best possible way. You’re the first and only woman I have ever loved.’

‘So you admit you do love me?’

‘Yes, I think I must love you, Abi. I’ve spent so many nights thinking of you, wanting you, and asking God for guidance. Your presence here so often has made it very hard. That’s why sometimes I’ve seemed . . . aloof maybe,’ Luca admitted.

‘So . . .’ With a heavy heart, Abi realised she was powerless to alter the situation. ‘When do you intend to enter this . . . seminary?’

‘I’ve already been through my interviews. If all goes well, I shall leave for Bergamo in six weeks’ time, when Rosanna and I return from Naples.’

‘I see. Does Rosanna know yet?’

‘No. I’ve been planning to tell her but I didn’t want it to spoil her good news.’

‘She’ll be devastated. You two are so close.’

‘No, I don’t believe she will be. If she loves me as I think she does, then she’ll be happy for me.’

‘Maybe,’ Abi sighed. ‘But forgive me if I can’t be happy for you too, at least not for now. There’s nothing I can do to make you change your mind?’

The yearning in her voice caught at Luca’s heart, but he knew he must remain steadfast. ‘No. Nothing.’

She could keep back the tears no longer. ‘Then hold me, Luca, please.’

Luca opened his arms and she went into them. Luca stroked her hair, feeling his body stirring as he did so.

‘It won’t change, you know,’ she murmured.

‘What?’

‘The way I feel about you. What we’ve shared.’

‘Abi, I promise that it will. You’re a beautiful girl and very young still. One day, you’ll find someone to love you as I cannot. You’ll forget all about me.’

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Never,’ she said. ‘Never.’

The following day, Rosanna sat down at the table and listened to what Luca had to tell her. Surprisingly, despite her sadness at the thought of being without him, she felt relief that the mystery of her brother’s solitary life was resolved.

‘When do you leave?’

‘In the autumn, when we return from Naples.’

‘Oh Luca, will I be able to visit you in Bergamo?’

‘Not for a while, no.’

‘I see.’

‘You do understand, don’t you, Rosanna? Why I have to go?’ Luca asked her.

‘Yes, as long as it’s really what you want.’

‘I’ve wanted it for many years, without even realising it.’

‘Then I’m happy for you. But I’ll miss you so much, Luca.’

‘And I you. But you won’t be alone. I think Abi is eager to move in here. You’d like that, yes?’

‘Of course, but it won’t be the same.’

‘You’ll be so wrapped up in your new life at La Scala that you’ll hardly notice I’ve gone,
piccolina
.’

‘I understand that you must go and find your own way, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still need you.’ Determined not to cry, Rosanna added brightly, ‘I wonder what Papa will say?’

‘Oh, I think he’ll enjoy being able to brag about his son the priest and his daughter the opera singer, so he’ll be happy enough.’ Luca reached for her hands. ‘Rosanna, you know I still love you? That you are the most precious person in my life?’

‘Yes, Luca.’

‘But I think it’s right for me to go now. You too must learn some independence.’

Rosanna nodded sadly. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. It’s time for me to grow up.’

The two months in Naples passed quickly. The café was busy and Rosanna was unable to spend as much time as she would have liked with Luca. As her brother had predicted, when he heard the news, Marco boasted to anyone and everyone that his son was to become a priest. It was this news, rather than his daughter’s joining La Scala, that was cause for celebration. Rosanna accepted his apparent lack of interest in her career; it only served to demonstrate how far she’d come from the safe but narrow world of the Piedigrotta. And she didn’t expect Papa to understand.

Before she returned to Milan, knowing it might be a while before she could visit Naples again, Rosanna went to see Luigi Vincenzi. They sat outside on his beautiful terrace, shaded from the fierce August sun and enjoying glasses of chilled white wine. She felt guilty that she now felt more at home here with Luigi than she did in her father’s café.

‘You think I’m right to follow Paolo’s plans?’ she asked him as he topped up her glass.

‘Oh yes. Going abroad and singing the big roles sounds very glamorous, but Paolo is wise to give you the time you need.’

‘Sometimes I feel as though I’ve been practising forever,’ sighed Rosanna. ‘It’s nearly ten years since I began my lessons with you.’

‘And you will continue practising, Rosanna, until the day you die,’ reiterated Luigi. ‘That’s part of your job and how you will continue to improve. Look at it this way: it would be much more profitable for Paolo to immediately put you into a leading role at La Scala. He knows what a big star you’ll be and the attention you’ll command. But instead, he and Riccardo Beroli wish to nurture you, give you as much time as you need to build up your confidence and your repertoire.

You think other sopranos get this kind of special treatment from the artistic director of one of the greatest opera houses in the world?’

Rosanna could see the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’m being impatient and selfish.’

‘All part of the artistic temperament, which will flourish along with your voice,’ Luigi chuckled. ‘You’re exactly where you should be, Rosanna. Trust me, and trust Paolo and Riccardo. We’re all on your side.’

Half an hour later, Luigi saw her to the front door. ‘You must send my best wishes to your brother. I hope all goes well for him in his chosen path.’

‘I will,’ Rosanna nodded. She reached up and kissed Luigi affectionately on both cheeks. ‘Thank you, Luigi. Maybe I will see you in Milan on my first opening night?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ He returned the kisses. ‘
Ciao
, Rosanna. Keep practising.’

‘I will.’ She smiled and waved as she made her way down the drive.

Four days after their return to Milan, Rosanna accompanied Luca to the Stazione Centrale, where he would embark on his journey to Bergamo. As her brother boarded the train, Rosanna gave him one last hug.

‘I’m so proud of you, Luca.’

‘And I of you,
piccolina.
One word before I go – you have a great gift, Rosanna, and as with all blessings, there will be a high price to pay. Trust nobody but yourself,’ he entreated her.

‘I won’t, I promise.’

‘Abi will look after you. And you must look after her too.’

‘Of course. I think she’s more upset about you going than anyone.’

‘Yes, we had grown close.’ Luca’s reply was deliberately light in order to mask his true feelings.

‘You will write to both of us, won’t you?’

‘I’ll try, but forgive me if you don’t hear from me for a while. They have strict rules for novices.
Ciao, bella
.’ Luca kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And may God bless you and protect you while I’m gone.’

‘
Ciao
, Luca.’

Rosanna waited until the train had disappeared from view before she stopped waving. As she walked slowly back along the platform and out onto the busy Milan streets, Rosanna felt bereft. Luca had always been there. Now he was gone and she had to face her future alone.

15

Roberto was woken by the telephone. Cursing, he reached for the receiver.

‘
Pronto
.’

‘
Caro
, it’s Donatella.’

‘Why do you call me at this time? You know I arrived back late last night,’ he replied irritably.

‘My apologies, but you’ve been away for six weeks. I wanted to hear your voice and make sure you were home safely. Don’t be angry with me,
caro
,’ she pleaded.

Roberto relented. ‘Of course I’m not angry. I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘How was London?’

‘It rained all the time. And in August too. I caught a bad cold.’

‘Poor thing,’ she soothed. ‘But never mind. I read the reviews for
Turandot
. They were simply stunning.’

‘They were quite good, yes,’ he conceded modestly.

‘Shall I come and see you this afternoon? We have some catching up to do.’

‘No, this afternoon isn’t possible. I have a meeting with Paolo de Vito about the forthcoming season.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Okay. Tomorrow.’

‘I can’t wait. I’ll be with you at three.
Ciao
.’

‘
Ciao
.’ Roberto put the receiver down and lay back with a sigh, his relief at returning to Milan after the greyness of London ebbing away.

In the past three years, Donatella had changed. In the beginning, the relationship had been based on a strong mutual attraction, and the looming presence of Donatella’s husband had stopped things being taken to a more serious level. But slowly, as Roberto’s fame had increased, so had Donatella’s possessiveness. It had been so gradual that he’d hardly noticed, but in the past year, words of love had begun to creep into her vocabulary. She’d become angry if she saw newspaper reports or magazine photographs of Roberto with other women. She constantly accused him of having affairs, and on occasion she had been correct. But while Donatella was still rich and influential, she was not his keeper. He may have been nothing when he met her, but now he was an international star and nobody,
nobody
, could tell him what to do.

But then, no other woman excited him sexually quite the way she did. The physical spark that had first ignited the relationship was still there and he found her maddeningly hard to resist.

Roberto pondered his dilemma as he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stepped under the jet. He wondered whether Donatella had seen the newspaper photographs of him and Rosalind Shannon, a young soprano at Covent Garden. London’s dreary weather had been considerably brightened by her warming his bed on more than one occasion. Of course she’d been upset when he’d left London yesterday, but he’d promised the usual things and that had seemed to pacify her. Roberto doubted he’d bother contacting her again. It had been fun while it lasted, but . . .

He towelled himself dry and slipped into a pair of casual Armani trousers and a silk shirt. He went to the kitchen to make his special honey-based drink, which soothed and protected the vocal cords. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he couldn’t help smiling as he surveyed what his success had brought him. Others might claim material possessions were unimportant, an addendum to their fame. Roberto disagreed. He loved being rich.

His new apartment was just off the Via Manzoni, a mere stone’s throw from La Scala, and it suited his needs well. It was small enough to be manageable. He didn’t like the thought of an army of maids stumbling upon him
in flagrante
. But it was smart enough to reinforce his status as one of the world’s greatest living tenors.

He’d come a long way, and he liked to think he’d done it all by himself.

If Donatella wanted part of him, then she’d have to learn to play by the rules. Otherwise, it would be goodbye.

The following afternoon, Donatella slipped into her new Ferrari. She checked her make-up in the mirror, then started the engine and roared out of the palazzo drive, eager to be in Roberto’s arms once more. She could hardly believe how much she’d missed him.

She’d grown weary of their part-time relationship, of being forced to keep their affair secret when she wanted to shout to the world that
she
was the woman in the great Roberto Rossini’s life.

She’d spent most of the summer with her husband in a villa in Cap Ferrat. As she’d lain by the pool soaking up the sun, she’d studied her husband: short, balding, coarse-featured and with a paunch that grew larger in proportion to the years. She could hardly bear for him to touch her anymore. Previously, the sacrifice had been worth it. His wealth, power and position had given her the things she’d always craved.

But since then, a man had come into her life who made her feel young again, who was just as successful as her husband, but, more importantly, who was a man she loved and desired. As Donatella had swum slowly up and down the villa’s spectacular pool overlooking the Mediterranean, she’d convinced herself that the only reason Roberto had never said he loved her was because he knew it was hopeless. After all, she reasoned, she was a married woman who had no intention of leaving her husband and she’d made that clear from the beginning.

But . . . what if she was single?

By the time Donatella had arrived home from France, she’d made up her mind. She would divorce Giovanni and, after an appropriately seemly interval, marry Roberto. In the meantime, having announced the separation from Giovanni, she’d be free to travel the world with her younger lover. No longer could she stomach reading about his dalliances in newspapers. She wanted him all to herself.

After all, his success was due to her.

‘
Caro
, oh, how I have missed you.’

Roberto groaned as her snakelike tongue worked its way down his belly. She flicked her tongue backwards and forwards on the most sensitive part of him.