The Italian Girl (22 page)

An hour later, after three more large brandies, Roberto checked again. The car and his minders were still there.

Should he call the police and tell them what had happened? No, it would do no good. Giovanni was too powerful, almost certainly with Mafia connections, and even if they did manage to bring charges of threatening behaviour, Roberto would fear for his life every time he set foot on Italian soil.

Roberto tried to think about how all this would affect his future. Apart from
La Bohème
and
Rigoletto
at La Scala, he had no other Italian engagements planned. Paolo would be furious when he heard the news, but given the circumstances that couldn’t be helped. Roberto went to bed a little calmer. After all, it could have been worse. He could be dead.

And at least Donatella was no longer his problem.

20

As the plane began to taxi along the runway, Roberto breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed back into the cushioned leather of his first-class seat. The longest three weeks of his life were finally over. He’d hardly slept since Giovanni’s visit. He’d watched the car containing the two henchmen tail his own limousine everywhere he went. They’d even followed him as far as the check-in desk at Linate Airport.

After much thought, Roberto had decided to make London his base for the next few years. His Milan apartment would be sold fully furnished, and the proceeds from the sale, along with the contents of his Milan bank accounts, would be transferred to London. While he was at Covent Garden, he would look around for a suitable house to live in. Chris Hughes, his agent, had no idea that his leaving Milan was permanent. Roberto would tell him of his plans in the fullness of time.

He turned and studied his companion’s pale face as she stared out of the window. He noticed that she was twisting her hands round in her lap. He stretched out his own hand and covered hers with it.

‘Don’t panic,
principessa
. Soon we’ll be in the air, high above the clouds.’

The engines began to roar as they sped down the runway. Roberto said a silent goodbye to Italy, then watched as Rosanna closed her eyes and crossed herself as the nose of the plane lifted and the wheels left the ground. He chuckled softly.

‘If you’re to be an international star of the opera world, you’ll have to get used to flying, little one.’

‘Are we in the air yet?’ Rosanna asked, her eyes still tightly closed.

‘Yes. We are up. You can look now.’

Rosanna opened her eyes, peeked out of the window and gasped with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. ‘Look! There are clouds below us!’ she breathed in awe.

‘Yes. Although if it was a clear day, you would see the spire of the great Duomo beneath us.’

‘Champagne, sir?’ An attractive stewardess offered two glasses and a bottle.

‘Thank you.’ Roberto turned to Rosanna. ‘Have one – a little champagne may calm you down. Normally I don’t drink on a flight as it dehydrates you. But today I feel like celebrating.’

The stewardess poured champagne into two glasses and smiled at Roberto shyly. ‘I saw your Nemorino at La Scala. We sat in the upper gallery, so we didn’t have the best view, but I thought you were wonderful.’

Roberto smiled back. ‘Thank you, Signorina . . . ?’ he prompted.

‘Call me Sophie,’ the stewardess said, blushing. ‘Are you staying in London for long?’

‘A month. I’m singing
La Traviata
at Covent Garden.’

‘Oh, how lovely. Maybe I’ll be able to get tickets.’

‘Give me a call at the Savoy and I’m sure we can arrange some for you.’

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Rossini, I’ll definitely do that.’ Her heavily mascaraed eyelashes fluttered coquettishly.

Roberto’s eyes followed the stewardess’s shapely legs as she moved forward to serve the passengers in the seats in front of them.

‘Well,
principessa, salute
!’ Roberto took a gulp of his champagne. Rosanna, who had quietly observed the flirtatious exchange, was staring at him in disgust.

‘What is it? What have I done?’ he protested.

Rosanna sighed and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

‘No, please tell me why you look at me with such disdain.’

‘No, it’s none of my business.’

‘I want to know why you’re cross with me,’ he persisted.

‘Okay, if you insist, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what I have to say,’ Rosanna warned. She hesitated for a second before blurting out, ‘I think you’re terrible with women.’

Roberto threw back his head and laughed.

‘I don’t think it’s funny, actually, especially when you treat them so badly. Like you did my friend Abi Holmes.’

Roberto’s face immediately became serious. ‘Ah, now I understand. You hate me because I had an affair with your friend.’

‘No, I don’t know you well enough to hate you. It’s just that, well . . .’ Rosanna struggled to find the words, then gave up and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes it does. For some reason I value your opinion.’

‘Well, I think you never take women’s feelings into account. You promise them things and then you drop them when it suits you.’

‘And you have that on good authority, do you?’

Rosanna flushed. ‘The whole world knows what you’re like.’

‘Rosanna, I know of my reputation. And I have to take most of the responsibility for it. Yes, I enjoy female company and in my position I’m given plenty of opportunities, which I frequently take advantage of. I don’t deny it. But don’t you see that it’s because I love women? I worship them. I think they’re one of the only things on this planet of ours that make life worth living. And I never make promises I can’t keep. They know what Roberto Rossini is like. If they cannot accept that, then they shouldn’t become involved with me. It’s simple,’ he shrugged.

‘Have you ever told a woman you loved her?’

‘Not of my own free will, no.’

‘They force you to say it, do they?’

‘There are moments when, in the height of passion, a woman asks you and you respond. But I’ve never been in love.’ Roberto sipped his champagne contemplatively. ‘You know, Rosanna, you must understand the other side of the story too before you judge me. I am easy prey for women. They like to be seen with me because it’s good for their egos, and often for their publicity campaigns too. Many times they are using me more than I am using them.’

Rosanna rolled her eyes in disbelief at his defence.

‘You see? Nobody understands poor Roberto. They always think badly of him. One day, when you too are a big star, you’ll see for yourself how lonely it can be.’

Rosanna finally gave in and chuckled at his blatant attempt to garner sympathy, shaking her head at the same time. ‘I can’t feel sorry for you, Roberto.’

He looked at her squarely. ‘You don’t like me, do you, Rosanna?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Now, I wish to study the
La Traviata
score.’ Flustered, Rosanna pulled her music case onto her lap, retrieved the score and turned away from him.

Roberto closed his eyes and wondered yet again why he was so keen to have Rosanna Menici’s approval.

A sleek limousine was waiting for them outside Terminal 3 at Heathrow and they were driven into the centre of London. Conversation was limited to pleasantries, since Rosanna spent most of the journey gazing out at the unfamiliar landscape, from the grey suburbs to the increasingly grand buildings that flanked the road as they made their way through Kensington and Knightsbridge. The car finally came to a halt beneath the imposing art deco canopy of the Savoy hotel, where the manager was waiting in the lobby for them. Roberto was ushered to a suite and Rosanna to what she considered to be a delightful room. She was beginning to unpack when there was a knock on the door. She opened it and Roberto swept in. He looked around, then shook his head.

‘No, no, no. It will not do.’ He went to the telephone and dialled reception. ‘This is Roberto Rossini. Tell the manager that Signorina Menici requires a suite. He is to come and meet us both in mine immediately.’

‘Roberto, please, this room is more than fine,’ Rosanna protested as Roberto flung clothes back into her case.

‘Rosanna, you are coming to this country as a guest artiste of the Royal Opera House and you are entitled to all that I have. Now, you will come to my suite until they find you one of your own.’

Rosanna followed Roberto down the corridor, realising it was pointless to argue with him.

‘You see, you have to establish these things from the beginning, otherwise people will walk all over you. Just remember it’s
you
doing
them
a favour, not the other way round. Ah, here is my friend the manager.’

They reached the door to Roberto’s suite, where the manager was already waiting for them. Roberto put an arm round his shoulder. ‘Only a small problem. We wish Signorina Menici to have a suite in your beautiful hotel.’

‘Of course, madam. I’m so sorry for the mistake. Come this way.’

‘Wait, I need to get my suitcase.’ Rosanna was about to turn back but Roberto put a hand on her arm to stop her.

‘No, little one. The bellboy will deliver it to your new room. Remember who you are. I will collect you from your suite at eight. Then we shall dine together in the restaurant.’ Roberto winked at her, unlocked his door and disappeared inside.

Two hours later, Rosanna was luxuriating in the large bathtub, scented bubbles caressing her skin. She felt disorientated, but not unhappy. The silence in the enormous suite was deafening and she realised this trip to London would be the first time she’d ever had more than a few hours alone. At home, there’d always been Mamma, Papa, Carlotta and Luca. When she’d moved to Milan, there had been Luca and then Abi. Now, for the next month, she would have to learn to stand on her own two feet, with only Roberto to give her advice.

Rosanna soaped herself with a flannel. Her feelings for Roberto were confused. On the one hand, she found him insufferably arrogant, but on the other . . . she could not help but be drawn to him.

Just like hundreds of women before me
, she scolded herself as she stepped out of the bath and towelled herself dry.

Rosanna dressed, then sat in front of the gilt-edged dressing table and applied a little mascara and lipstick. After fiddling with her hair for a few more minutes, she stood up and smoothed down one of the elegant new dresses Abi had insisted she buy before she left Milan. She sighed as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. For a girl who had not an iota of interest in her appearance, she wondered why she had just spent almost an hour getting ready for dinner tonight.

Roberto knocked on the door of the suite. When Rosanna opened it, he drew in his breath. The short black dress clung lightly to her slender figure, accentuating her long, slim legs, and her freshly washed hair shone under the light. She looked so young, so fresh, so beautiful. Roberto was surprised by the deep impression she made on him, for she had none of the assets he normally found attractive in a woman – no deep cleavage or shapely hips. It was almost as if her body was still suspended somewhere between childhood and adulthood.

‘Rosanna, may I say that you look stunning.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled shyly.

He offered an elbow and she tucked her arm in his. ‘It will be my honour to escort you to dinner.’

They walked off down the corridor towards the lift.

The following morning, even though the Royal Opera House was only a five-minute walk away, a car was waiting to drive them to rehearsals. They were dropped at the stage door rather than at the colonnaded main entrance, but Rosanna still felt overwhelmed as she entered the building. The artistic director took them onto the stage and showed them the set that was being constructed.

After lunch, rehearsals began. The chorus filed onto the stage behind Roberto as he stood studying his score.

‘No, no, no!’ he shouted, gesturing impatiently for them to leave. ‘During this part I sing alone on stage.’

Jonathan Davis, the artistic director, smiled patiently at Roberto.

‘I know it’s different, but because of the set-change going on at the back, we have to bring the chorus forward. There’s no time to get them off stage then on again. The audience won’t see them, though.’

‘But I will
feel
them behind me, that’s what matters.’ Roberto yawned and looked at his watch. ‘It’s past four and I’m tired. I will go back to my hotel for a rest. Signorina Menici will leave too. She’s also tired from our travels.’

‘I’m fine,’ Rosanna clarified defensively.

‘But, Mr Rossini, we need to go through the . . .’

Jonathan’s words were lost as Roberto walked off towards the wings.

Rosanna remained on stage. ‘I don’t want to go yet. Is there anything we can run through without Mr Rossini?’

‘Of course. We can work on “
Sempre libera
”.’ Jonathan smiled tiredly at her.

‘I’m sorry for Roberto leaving like that.’ For some reason Rosanna felt moved to apologise for his behaviour.

‘Miss Menici, we are all used to the . . . shall we say, eccentricities of the stars. Now, we will continue.’

Rosanna returned to her suite two hours later feeling drained and fractious. She couldn’t bear to think that in four days’ time she would be opening in her debut at Covent Garden in the taxing role of Violetta. She felt completely unprepared.

The telephone rang almost immediately.

‘
Pronto
, I mean, hello?’

‘It’s Roberto. Where have you been?’

‘Where do you think I’ve been? I’ve been rehearsing, as best as I could, without you.’

‘Attch! You’ll be fine. I’m taking you out to Le Caprice for dinner tonight. It’s a very good restaurant.’

‘No, Roberto,’ she said firmly. ‘I, unlike you, haven’t had a rest this afternoon. I’m going to send for room service, study my score, then get some sleep. Goodnight!’

The telephone rang again a few seconds after she’d replaced the receiver, but Rosanna ignored it. When it stopped, she dialled room service and ordered a salad. Then she told reception to block her line and settled down to study her score.