Part 7 (1/2)

'Well, gosh, um...'

'You live with family? Mother and father, tutte le due?'

It was a harmless enough question but the context rendered it somehow momentous. Instead of saying 'yes', she let out a sob, which was all the more absurd because of course she lived with both her parents in the traditional nuclear unit and she'd never had anything awful happen to her, apart from a broken leg even that hadn't been so bad because the plaster cast and the crutches had got her loads of attention. However, she was miserably aware of the fragility of her family unit at this particular time like a bubble too easily p.r.i.c.ked.

It was pathetic to come over so emotional in front of Joe after what he'd been through. He must think her a wimp of the first order. She could never have wobbled like this in front of Renate and Ilse or any of the other language students; they were all so determined to get out there and have fun. It would have been different with Ruby, tough bossy Ruby, because she knew her so well.

Joe took the initiative. First he patted her on the back. Then, tentatively, he put his arm around her and drew her closer. She was aware of a strong masculine smell and a sc.r.a.pe of stubble against her hair. She pushed him away. He pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and pa.s.sed it to her. She dabbed her eyes and sniffed.

'Sorry,' she said. 'It hits me sometimes, I guess. Feeling homesick.'

'Homesick?'

'It means...' Sasha wondered how she might explain. A person who had no home couldn't sicken for one, could they? It would be an insult. 'My dog died,' she said instead, which provoked a nostalgic yearning for the touch of a wet nose and the thump of a tail against her leg. She dug in her bag for a fresh tissue and found some loose coins which cheered her up. 'Hey, but that's enough whingeing. Why don't we have a real drink?'

'Cosa?'

'Like a c.o.c.ktail?' She leaned from her chair and peered into the dim interior of the bar. The door was curtained with strips of plastic to keep away the flies. On the counter a dish of panini oozed yellow mayonnaise, on a shelf above stood bottles of obscure aperitifs and liqueurs. But what was she thinking? This was hardly the spot for c.o.c.ktails. 'No, bad idea. Forget it.'

Her phone was ringing with the call she'd been waiting for. She moved away from the table to answer it. They were on the train, Renate told her 'the beach was so busy and the water so dirty, you would not believe it!' and would be getting in shortly.

'I'm only five minutes away,' said Sasha, pleased that for once she was in the right place at the right time. 'I'll come and meet you, yeah?' As long as Joe pointed her in the right direction she wouldn't need him any more. She could put their second mildly embarra.s.sing encounter behind her. 'That was my friend, Renate,' she said. 'We're meeting outside the station.'

'I carry you,' he said.

She giggled. 'No, Joe. Take, not carry, but I can handle it, no worries. Left and left again, right?'

He blinked. 'Scusi?'

Her shorts were sticking to her thighs; trickles of sweat were running down the backs of her knees. She longed for the evening. 'That way?' she said, pointing.

'I show you.'

He was determined to follow Gina's instructions to escort her, so she had to let him take the lead though she was able to orientate herself within moments of turning the corner. And even when they arrived at the station he hovered in the background like a bodyguard, unwilling to leave her by herself.

Renate and Ilse strolled off the Ostia train and down the platform arm in arm, swinging their beach bags. They were followed by four Italian youths talking with animation among themselves, but failing to keep up. 'Ciao!' said Renate, embracing Sasha. A dusting of sand freckled her left cheek. 'How was the football?'

'Not great. I mean not great for me. Antonio was, ”Wow, this is so cool, I'm a real hero.” Imagine!'

Ilse peered beyond her, at Joe, who was keeping his distance. 'That's not him?'

'No.'

'He is your date?'

Sasha turned, trying to see Joe through the German girls' eyes. He was holding himself very erect, but there was something louche and untamed about him too, barely reined in. Actually, she thought, if you didn't know anything about him, you'd think this guy was well fit.

'He's someone I met through a friend,' she said casually.

'He is student also?'

'No, he's, um, a male model.'

The girls both looked approving. 'He will join us?'

But this, Sasha was not ready for. 'He's got stuff to do,' she said. 'Maybe later.' It was too big a step to include him but, if he asked, she might be prepared to exchange phone numbers.

9.

Gina preferred to have notice of Roberto's visits. She didn't like him to catch her unawares. She needed time to clear away disordered magazines and dirty crockery especially the latter, in case he'd a.s.sume it was recent and react as if she had someone hidden in her wardrobe. If she said, 'Actually it's my cup from yesterday', he'd be appalled by her slovenliness, and if she said, 'A friend was here', he'd want to know who and when, male or female? She'd find herself seething at his questions and not at all mollified by his insistence that he found her so fascinating he wanted to know everything about her. And the worst of it was when her rage translated into arousal, making her growl like a cat on heat, biting and scratching as he tried to pin her down. The s.e.x that followed would be tremendous and the man with whom she had this entirely unsuitable love-hate affair would strut off preening, like the b.l.o.o.d.y c.o.c.k of the walk.

It had disturbed her to discover he'd used his key to let himself in and although it had only been the once allegedly for her benefit she didn't want it to happen again. So she arranged for him to collect the photographs late one afternoon. She'd compiled a presentation pack of half a dozen 8x10s for him to take home. Her favourite showed Antonio with his head tipped back, the ball suspended like a saucer of leather, almost out of the frame. The line that flowed down his throat and sternum bisected the shot in an unbroken arc; the expression on his face was rapturous. She hoped her selection would satisfy the family, that she wouldn't have to edit another bunch of images.

Roberto had a site visit; he wanted her to join him there but she refused. He was so used to people marching to his orders it didn't occur to him they might have other priorities. Gina was adamant. 'Bertie, I don't want to tramp around some dusty tip where I'd have to wear a hard hat.' And then she got him to admit he'd also scheduled another appointment at the bank, who were being difficult but not so impossible that a little pressure wouldn't work its charms. No doubt representatives of the bank would be invited away for the weekend or perhaps the house party had already taken place and they required reminding of any indiscretions.

'Text me when you've finished with them. I'll be home waiting. And the least you can do, if you're going off on your family holiday, is come over and say goodbye properly.'

The Boletti household would soon be relocating, along with other family members grandmother, aunts, cousins to the villa they owned in Fregene. Built in the sixties when the resort was in its heyday and much envied for its generous size and prime position, it was near enough to Rome to enable Roberto to trot regularly back and forth, attending to his affairs. His wife, ensconced in an undemanding career as a civil servant, would be taking her full holiday ent.i.tlement. Sasha Mitch.e.l.l, whose course was almost over, wasn't going with them; she'd be flying home at the end of the week. Gina didn't expect to see her again.

When her doorbell rang and she picked up the intercom she a.s.sumed Bertie was early.

'Ciao, Gina!'

'Oh... Sami, it's you.'

Sami was a frequent visitor. Like some of the other lost boys, he'd turn up at the slightest excuse. Some people, who didn't approve, warned that she was courting disaster; she would be robbed and deceived. But her expensive equipment was at the studio, and her treasure chest repository of her few items of sentimental value was kept locked, the key buried in a kitchen canister. Besides, Sami was no stranger. She'd taken him under her wing three years before, seen him gain in confidence and prowess. He'd finally been granted leave to remain but there was little chance of legal work or getting a permit to perform. Every time he took his stand in Piazza Navona he was taking a risk. He'd decided this risk was small compared to some of the others he'd run. One of the worst, he'd told her, was the dogs used to sniff out human cargo as well as narcotics; he'd escaped them by hiding in a container of fish, partially rotting. He could no longer eat fish.

'I can come in?' Sami asked.

'No, I'm sorry, not today. My landlord's due.'

'Five minutes only? Please! For my make-up.'

She sighed, reconsidering. 'Okay, if you must, but we have to be quick.'

She sat him on the swivel chair under the anglepoise lamp. The shutters were wide open but the day was dull; an overcast sky threatened thunder. She smoothed a thick white base over Sami's face and neck and with one of her fine sable brushes traced a web of light grey to create a marbled effect. He could do the backs of his hands himself.

'How's Joe?' she asked casually. 'I've heard nothing lately.'

'He's seeing the English girl.'

'What English girl?' Even as she spoke, she realised he meant Sasha. 'What do you mean? They've been meeting each other? More than once?'

Sami nodded.

'What on earth are they doing together? Not dating?'