Part 7 (2/2)

'They walk.'

'Walk? I see.' But she didn't. 'Where?'

She tried to picture them wandering in the area around the Pantheon, blending into the ma.s.s of sightseers, maybe drinking at night in the bars around Campo de' Fiori where the foreign students cl.u.s.tered like iron filings. Was that likely? What did girls of Sasha's age drink? Syrupy slugs of sambuca or limoncello? Pina colada? As for Joe, he wasn't used to alcohol. Although he'd been excited to discover its effects, most of the time he couldn't afford to go to bars. She wouldn't have thought the pair had much in common, but she couldn't stop the images forming. There they were: a couple of misfits one who had seen too little of life, the other who had seen too much holding hands in front of the Trevi Fountain, or leaning over the parapet of the bridge to Isola Tiberina, watching the river gush around the forlorn fragment of the Ponte Rotto, sharing the experience of being in tune with somebody else, if only for a fleeting moment.

Sami said, 'I don't know where, but he meet her again tomorrow.'

Gina couldn't help feeling twitchy. 'Look, I know it's nothing to do with me apart from the fact that I introduced them but warn him he shouldn't get involved, will you.'

Sami's eyes were uncannily round and dark in their ivory mask. 'I tell him?'

'Yes, I think it's better coming from you. She's a kid, he's an adult. Do you understand what I mean?'

He gave a non-committal grunt. She stood aside to let him out of the chair. 's.h.i.+t, what am I doing, leaping ahead, jumping to conclusions? Mountains out of molehills. Forget it.'

'I'm sorry, what you want me to do?'

'Niente. Forget I said anything.' In a way, she wished he hadn't said anything either. Imagination overdrive, that was her trouble. Packing away her tubes of greasepaint, she added, 'Right, you've had your five minutes so you better get going. I need to buy some more sugar for Signor Boletti's coffee so I'll come out with you.'

She was anxious to escort him from the building herself, she didn't like to think of him lurking, inviting Bertie's suspicion. He was looking especially incongruous because he hadn't yet changed into his full costume. He was carrying his cloak and toga in the crate he used to stand on. He would cut a bizarre figure on the bus: a sculpted laurel-wreathed head rising from the collar of an everyday polo-s.h.i.+rt, but Rome was a place where people regularly stared at extraordinary sights. Gawping was something you got used to.

She accompanied him down the road and then dived into her local alimentari for the sugar. Once inside, inhaling its ripe and salty air, it was not hard to be persuaded to add a carton of olives, maybe some artichoke hearts and ham to her purchases. While slicing the transparent crimson wafers of prosciutto crudo, Signora Bedini updated, for Gina's benefit, her lengthy and convoluted feud with her daughter-in-law. The bones they quarrelled over were son and grandson and resolution seemed unlikely. The Signora had won the most recent round. She'd refused to babysit on the occasion of a formal dinner. 'At very short notice, when it becomes impossible for them to find an alternative. Magari! Next time maybe she won't be so quick to criticise the way I treat my son's child.' Her lips smacked in satisfaction and Gina nodded in approval. She'd been a customer here for several years, listening to the Signora's laments for the way things used to be, and had joined the ranks of her confidantes. She looked forward to her tales of one-upmans.h.i.+p.

'They had to pay for the dinner in advance, I suppose?' she said as she was handed her waxed paper package of ham.

'Naturalmente!' They smiled in harmony at each other.

She had been longer in the shop than she intended. As she stepped outside she felt a fat drop like a tear on her cheek. She looked up. The sky was livid, a puddle of spilt petrol, dark and iridescent all at once. It wasn't surprising; humidity had been escalating throughout the day. More drops splashed around her. She cradled the shopping bag close to her chest for protection, put her head down and ran into Sami who was trying to shelter under the awning of the nearby bar.

'Sami, what are you still doing here?'

He regarded her mournfully. 'I cannot work in the rain.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, it's only a shower. It will be over in minutes, you know that. By the time you get off the bus the sun will be out. Sbrigati! Hurry up.'

He didn't move. 'There will be no sun today.'

'It's a summer thunderstorm,' Gina insisted. 'It'll clear the air. And if everyone else is rained off, you'll have the piazza to yourself. The tourists will be grateful. They need extra diversion in the rain.'

'I can come inside again?' he said.

'No, Sami, you can't. And you know why. Do you have enough money to get yourself a coffee? You can sit in Gae's place till it stops. Quit acting like you need a b.l.o.o.d.y mother to hold your hand.' She broke off. 'Hey, I'm sorry... I shouldn't...' The rain was pelting them both. Her hair and clothes were plastered to her skin. His make-up was running. 'Go,' she said, giving him a gentle push through the doorway of Gaetano's bar. Then she took a deep breath and sprinted home.

It was amazing how wet you could get in such a short time, she thought, as she squelched up the stairs and fumbled with her keys. If Sami hadn't appeared she could have popped out twenty minutes earlier and escaped the downpour. And it turned out to be a wasted errand: as she let herself into the apartment she loosened her grip on her shopping. The olives careened across the floor in all directions and the sugar, its packaging already damp, burst open on impact, scattering grains like white sand, coa.r.s.e and sticky underfoot. Maybe she could rescue some of it, scoop a few spoonfuls into a bowl. Who would know? Then she'd sweep up the rest, collect and rinse the olives, take a shower and, if there was time, effect all the other little touches that would show Bertie she was a good tenant: taps sparkling, rubbish emptied, CDs in cases, pillows plumped in readiness...

She was part of the way there when she recognised his peremptory ring on the doorbell and had to admit him in her bathrobe.

'Ah Gina,' he said, tugging her towards him by its cord. 'I'm sorry if I'm late. You're impatient for me?'

'No,' she said, towelling her hair. 'I was caught in the rain. I got soaked.'

He let her go and rested his umbrella by the door. He took off his jacket, gave it a little shake and hung it on her coat stand. He removed his tan leather loafers and lined them up under the jacket. He padded towards her again, not the type to waste time. 'Allora,' he said. 'Al letto.'

'Don't you want to see the photographs first?'

'The ones you emailed? I've already seen them on the computer.'

'But those were raw unedited shots, like old-fas.h.i.+oned contact sheets. I've printed up the ones you said you liked so you can frame them. Or you can choose one or two to enlarge even more. It's up to you and Antonio, whichever you prefer.'

'I'm sure they're magnificent,' he said, slipping his arms around her waist, inside the bathrobe, squeezing a handful of flesh.

'Bertie! This is unprofessional.'

He was perplexed. 'How?'

Gina couldn't bear to admit to herself that he'd no interest in her skills as an artist. Why should he? They'd kept up this fiction for nearly two years: that she was a lonely widow and he was saddled with a wife who was 'un po' stronza'; that they could comfort each other without making unreasonable demands. In practice this spelt escape for Roberto from his witchy wife, security of tenure for Gina and athletic love-making for them both. But there were limits.

'Right now,' she said. 'I've got my photographer's hat on, so you need to treat me properly, as you would your architect or your accountant.'

He laughed. 'You think I sleep with my accountant?'

'No! That's my whole point.'

'My wife does,' he said, trying to push the robe off her shoulders. 'So I let her think it. That way she doesn't suspect anything about us.'

'Just look at the d.a.m.n photos, will you.' She grabbed the folder and thrust it into his straying hands, determined to keep up appearances.

He loosened the ribbon and opened the cover, picking up the prints one by one and holding them gingerly at their edges. She watched closely, hoping she'd see him register delight and admiration, but in truth it was hard to tell. 'Very good,' he said.

'Very good, you mean that?'

'Certo.'

'You're happy with them?'

'Yes! You've done an excellent job. What more can I say? What else do I have to do?'

'You could pay me.'

He laughed again. 'Of course I'll pay you.'

'I've included my invoice, as you'll see. Cash would be good. Now, if possible.'

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