Part 22 (1/2)

22.

Gina slid into the seat behind Mario and he smiled at her in the mirror. 'Buona giornata, oggi?' he said.

'Benissima!' she agreed joyfully.

Less than two weeks ago she had been fraught and frazzled, preparing the replacement photographs for the exhibition and trying not to panic over Bertie's threats. But she'd heard no more from Bertie or from Franco Casale and now it seemed things were looking up. Maybe not in the bag yet, but she was optimistic.

Mario was driving her to the offices of a company who published ill.u.s.trated travel books and guides to social and cultural history. She was meeting a commissioning editor there, Luca Morani. She would overlook the fact that he hadn't managed to make the opening of her show and all the confusion caused as a result because David had kept his word and persuaded him to visit since. It had been a pleasant surprise to get a call saying he wanted to discuss a project he was working on.

Mario dropped her in Viale Mazzini, not far from the RAI studios where her neighbour with the colourful outdoor furniture worked as a producer. The company was an offshoot of a larger publis.h.i.+ng house and she'd imagined books tottering in dusty piles, but the reception, with its fresh flowers, quiet air con, and elegantly framed samples of cover art, was slick and modern. She didn't have to wait long for the editor to appear. Luca Morani wore a snowy white s.h.i.+rt; his silver hair was swept back like an aesthete's, but he had the dark twinkling eyes of a true Roman. Not easy to manipulate, but hopefully susceptible to charm. As they shook hands she gave him her warmest, sincerest smile. 'It's an honour to be here,' she said. 'You produce such lovely books.'

'We have high standards,' he acknowledged. 'Would you like a coffee?'

'No thank you, I'm fine.'

The walls of his office were papered with a collage of striking images but she didn't have time to examine them because he began to speak and Luca Morani could talk for his country. She'd barely sat opposite his desk in a pose of interested enquiry before the flow began. And it was like listening to music. Flattery, maybe, but that didn't detract from the charming enthralling cadences of his speech. He was saying things she had longed to hear ever since she'd first picked up the camera and she didn't dare interrupt the momentum. At any point, she feared, he might break off, re-examine his diary and burst out: 'Madonna mia! This is a terrible mistake. You're Gina Stanhope, no? But I was expecting Gina Stanowski.'

She kept waiting for the 'But'. There was always a 'But'. You couldn't get through life without one. That was why Felix had been good for her. He explained it was her natural tendency to be contrary, which meant she had to be positive when she was around him. He was a born pessimist so he brought out her sunny side.

'Per,' said Luca.

Okay, not a But, a However. Gina crossed her legs in their slim trousers and locked her hands over her knee. She offered him another slow smile of utmost sincerity and leaned forward slightly to show she was willing to compromise.

The phone rang. 'Scusi,' he apologised, raising the receiver on his desk.

She caught the vibrations of a high-pitched female voice, though not the words. A harangue, she guessed, probably his wife. She tried not to appear to be listening, not to appear impatient, though she couldn't stop her foot tapping. When luck see-saws so violently from one extreme to another, the desire to pin down a moment of triumph is overwhelming.

Morani ended the call and rotated his expensive pen. He straightened a small pile of papers in front of him and it struck her this might be the contract he wanted her to sign.

'I'm so sorry,' he said. 'Where was I?'

'Per,' she said reluctantly. 'You were going to tell me about the catch.'

'The catch?' And then he laughed, a rich booming laugh. They both relaxed.

'The brief is tight,' he said. 'The deadline too.'

'Well, it's true that I'm very busy. Spring and early summer are prime time for weddings. They're my bread and b.u.t.ter and I have to eat. But they're generally at weekends so I have some weekdays free.'

'There would be some travel involved. But you are independent? This wouldn't be a problem for you?'

'I love to travel.' This wasn't true, not any more. In the past, when she'd flown business cla.s.s it had been different, sometimes a positive delight. Like those far-off days when she'd met Mitch in a string of exotic locations. But budget airlines had destroyed the excitement of flying, turned the process into a ch.o.r.e and a scrum.

'That's good. Excellent. Allora...'

She waited.

'Regrettably, the photographer who was working on this a.s.signment for us is unable to continue,' said Luca.

Gina stared at him. 'This book, the project... it's already been started?'

'But yes. It's due for publication at the end of the year, to tie in with the market for Christmas. We could take it out of our schedule completely, or defer it if necessary, but we prefer first of all to investigate other options.' He spread his hands, palms upwards, and then clasped them together, smiling at her. 'So, by happy coincidence, I hear of your exhibition. I visit. I tell my colleagues this woman could be perfect and so we have our interview.'

'You want me to finish off someone else's work?'

He went back to fiddling with his pen, a little defensively. 'Did I not explain the book itself is the work of a journalist? The photographs are ill.u.s.trations only. However, you may have heard of him, Nico Stakis? He is Greek, but based in Bologna.'

'Possibly,' said Gina, almost certain she hadn't, but she didn't want to sound too grudging. 'What happened to him?'

'He has been in a road accident, broken his arm and his collarbone. Such bad timing! The car is totally destroyed. He is presently in plaster, but he has made us some raccomandazione.'

Could news of her style have reached Bologna? That would be a fillip. 'This Nico, you mean he recommended me?'

'Not exactly,' he admitted and Gina envisaged a long list of names scrubbed out because they all had more important things to do. She reviewed those reams of flattery she'd enjoyed so much. There might be a principle at stake here. Would a person who was trying to be taken seriously as an artist agree to subsume their vision to another's? How would it work out if she stepped into the injured man's shoes? Who would get the credit? Who, apart from herself, would care?

'We are hoping for a seamless transition,' Luca continued. 'It's not precisely reportage that we're after. We want to aim for something more enduring. But you call yourself a street photographer, is this not correct?'

She'd insisted on it, in the piece she'd prepared for the exhibition catalogue. Of late she'd been using the studio less frequently for photo shoots, though she preferred the editing equipment there. She liked to think that out of doors she could create an air of untrammelled spontaneity, even if every item in the frame was tightly controlled.

'Yes I do since I've been following i vulnerati, and they live and sleep where they can. Being on the streets becomes their natural habitat, turns them into foragers.'

'The changing face of Italy,' he said, 'is our theme. In particular, we don't wish simply to produce vacant beauties. We are looking for portraits of character to ill.u.s.trate this position of flux. I will give you the full brief with the ma.n.u.script.'

'I promise you, my portraits won't be lacking in character.'

'Bene. I think, from what I've seen, that your work and Nico's has much in common.'

Gina didn't care for this. n.o.body likes to hear they aren't unique. 'Really?' she said, as non-committal as she could manage, given that she was being compared to an accident-p.r.o.ne Greek she'd never met.

'Well, you are both, if you like, immigrants yourselves. Perhaps you are attracted to rootlessness.'

'Actually I've been based in Rome for the best part of twenty years.' She paused. There was every chance the actions of Bertie and his henchman Casale might render her not only rootless but roofless too. As vulnerable as her subjects. She should not argue with this man. He had influence and contacts, the parent company was prestigious. 'Sorry to be so p.r.i.c.kly,' she said, all honey again. 'I'm sure you know the insecurities we freelancers suffer from. The project sounds fascinating and I would love to take it on. With the appropriate credits, of course.'

'Of course.'

'We would need to discuss a fee. Plus expenses.'

'You have an agent? Does David Farnon represent you?'

'Only as a dealer.' There was no need for David to have a larger slice than he was ent.i.tled to. He was already in an enviable position: a dabbler, as she thought of him.

As it turned out, the fee Morani quoted was not especially generous. However, he reminded her of other openings the project might lead to and she agreed to take away a detailed brief and the contract, which she would go over with her avvocato not that she had one. She'd sacked her previous lawyer when he'd been incapable of dealing with Bertie's ridiculous writs; David had offered to find her another. The actual ma.n.u.script, with accompanying images, would be emailed. Most of Nico's work had covered the northern industrial cities. Gina's focus was to be Rome and the south: Brindisi, Taranto, Naples, Catania. Bandit country, as she thought of it. Places where finding beauty could be a challenge, although there would be no shortage of character.

He then rose and shook her hand warmly across his well-ordered desk. More like a bank manager than a publisher, she thought to herself when he failed to ask her out to lunch. Not that she would have accepted; she'd no time for a leisurely meal. She had to get home to check the plumber had turned up. That would be the icing on her perfect cake: hot water.

Or so she thought, until she checked her phone on her way to the bus stop and saw that David had sent her a text. Possible buyer alert. Call me.