Two Women in Rome Read online

  Leo was becoming more worldly.

  Do you think he knows about us, I wanted to know, and Leo replied that it was possible. Apparently, Beppo had remarked to Leo that yearling horses always had to run on a long leash before they could be hauled in but that, in the end, they were always broken in.

  I bent my head. The uncle knew.

  The new, savvier Leo said that he thought that Beppo might have tried to find out who I was.

  I frowned.

  The table between us was stained, the plush on the seats was worn, the train windows needed a clean. The future would not be easy. None of it mattered.

  Snatching a moment of joy was a luxury, permitted from time to time. To acknowledge intense, ongoing desire was far more serious. It pushed deeper into the spirit and demanded a different response. For both of us, I think.

  When we reached the station, he got to his feet and towered over me. I looked up. It was always a source of wonder how he managed to be both elegant and yet strong.

  He put out a hand to help me up. After a moment, I placed mine in his.

  I tally up the score sheet: the pluses and minuses of the situation. Betrayal. Guilt. That bloody guilt. Grief. Desperate, tearing need. All those.

  What I cling on to is the idea of generosity. If we were generous with one another then, if we took nothing else away at the finish, there would be that.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IN BED WITH TOM, SHE ASKED, ‘CAN SOMEONE EXIST IN A vacuum? Having no one?’

  ‘I detect you’re still fretting over the Nina Lawrence papers.’

  ‘I’ve been reading the journal,’ she said, a touch defensively. ‘Can someone?’

  He shifted, and a whiff of the starch that Concetta used to spray the sheets before ironing was discernible. It was a reminder of the good things. Clean sheets, newly baked bread, a fire in winter. Normal and sweetly sane.

  ‘Yes, they can,’ he said, ‘but it takes organisation.’

  She propped herself up on an elbow. ‘And you know?’

  ‘Of course I don’t know, but it’s obvious that it would have to be planned.’

  She lay back down. ‘It troubles me to think Nina had no one. It … just troubles me. She writes about how she craves friendship. The true friend who accompanies you to the scaffold.’

  ‘The old nightmare?’ he asked tenderly.

  She laced a hand into his, feeling his fingers press on hers. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ he said. ‘Tormenting yourself. What happened to you in childhood was not your fault.’

  ‘Children blame themselves when something bad happens.’

  ‘Odd but not justified.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m going to make it my business to make sure you understand that.’

  She rolled closer to him.

  Lottie woke early. The city was stirring. More precisely, it had never gone to sleep. The night clubs and hot spots catered to their populations through the small hours and the stray cats in the Torre Argentina catted through the night.

  Tuesday was Concetta’s cleaning-the-floor day and she believed in starting early and could not be dissuaded otherwise. Greeting those mornings was the clank of the bucket along the tiled floors and a dampness underfoot. Lottie had quickly wised up that wearing open-toed sandals on Tuesdays was hazardous.

  She picked her way down to the kitchen hoping for breakfast, but Concetta had set up camp. Spread proprietarily out on the table were Parma ham, butter, pasta and green and red radicchio. Two peeled garlic cloves scented the room. The sink was filled with soapy water. This mise-en-scène was intended to convey business.

  Clank went the bucket in the passage, followed by a cough.

  Lottie fought her irritation. Her sandal slid on the wet floor and her big toe slipped out of the strap and banged against the tile.

  It took a few seconds for the discomfort to fade but, flexing her toe, she wised up. Be grateful for Concetta and her domestic feats. Otherwise, order and comfort in this apartment would degrade.

  Even so – a tiny protest – she positioned her water glass from her bedside table on Concetta’s newly scrubbed draining board, where it would almost certainly leave a water stain, and went to collect Tom from the bedroom. ‘We’re going out.’

  A favourite of Tom’s was the Caffè Colonna and breakfasting there with him emphasised how quickly Lottie was acquiring new pleasures, not least the intimacies of a peaceful breakfast outside with the person you lived with.

  ‘Did you know that Concetta has a grandchild?’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘We should give her more time off.’

  ‘If you like,’ he said carelessly.

  She reached across the table and wiped a fleck of foam from the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s odd that you didn’t know about Concetta’s family. You should.’ Lottie looked down at her plate and then up at the sky. ‘Clare probably knew.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Tom.

  Lottie’s head was aching but she pulled her thoughts together. ‘I’ve been thinking of taking some daytrips. Ostia. Genzano. Tivoli. Perhaps a return to Palacrino.’

  ‘You should,’ he said. ‘Just tell me when and where,’ he signalled for a second round of coffee, ‘and I’ll see if I can join you.’

  While she drank her coffee, Lottie flipped through the paper. L’ Omicidio ran a headline that was becoming familiar. ‘Solved after three months.’ She read about the discovery of the body of a known drug dealer, which had been dumped on a roadside in a village south of Rome.

  The reporter wrote in emotive prose of how, initially, the police were baffled, of their ‘shaming’ failure to make headway, the absence of witnesses and the ‘terror’ of the villagers. He summed up:

  Yes, no one ever escapes. Inevitably, a tiny marker of DNA will give away the secrets of the case, however hidden, however unobtrusive. A DNA trail is always present, however hard it may be to locate. It is a question of vigilance. In this case, a junior policeman searched the grass verge and picked up the stub of a cigarette. This has led to the arrest of Tommaso Martino, a respected schoolmaster at the local school. It is thought he took revenge for the drug-induced death of his daughter.

  Lottie pushed the article over to Tom. He glanced at it. ‘Poor man,’ he said. ‘I would feel the same if it was my son or daughter.’ He looked across to Lottie. ‘Do you want to know the real story here? The DNA on a fag is a diversion. The real story is that Tommaso Martino was a humble man. He had no contacts on which to call. Or sufficient influence. If he had, the cigarette butt would have never made it into the lab.’

  She folded up the paper. No one ever disappears, she thought. There is always a trace left behind. Somehow, they are there.

  In the Via Giulia, she caught up with Mirella, who was progressing down it at a leisurely pace. They greeted each other warily but fell into step.

  Since Mirella was a magnet for most, it was akin to a royal progress, which Lottie rather enjoyed.

  They halted outside a shop selling cigarettes and Mirella bought several packets. ‘It’s for my father,’ she said, emerging into the street. ‘He’s confined to his chair and can’t get out. It’s very hard for him and he likes his cigarettes.’ She gave a wintry smile. ‘And cake. So I try always to bring him something.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  Mirella shrugged. ‘She died when I was ten.’

  ‘Who looks after your father?’

  ‘A neighbour during the day. I do the rest.’

  This was another side to the beautiful Mirella and Lottie was touched. Clearly, the determination to present a flawless exterior was her way of dealing with the burden of a moribund parent.

  The following morning, Lottie called in at Mirella’s office with a packet of almond cakes. ‘I thought your father might like these.’

  A blush – pink and delicate – stained Mirella’s cheeks. ‘Thank you.’ She looked genuinely confused as she accepted the packet. ‘No one has ever done that
.’

  ‘I hope he enjoys them.’

  Paul had been busy tapping up his police contacts and he waylaid Lottie with two trophies – a phone number for Marta Livardo and a black-and-white photograph that had been lurking in a defunct file and had not been used by the press.

  It was a professional passport photo in which a woman faced the camera with a neutral expression. She had a narrow nose and an unexpectedly full mouth, with dark hair that was scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a blouse and jumper and no jewellery and looked neat, settled and the sort of slightly colourless person who was easy to overlook. Written on the reverse was; Lawrence, Nina.

  This was a different facet of Nina Lawrence and did not conform to Lottie’s image of the woman who lived so close to the edge, and nothing like the tanned and glamorous figure of the Lake Walkers photograph.

  Lottie hid her disappointment. She had wished to see… well, what? Glamour? Charisma? High intelligence? None of those were evident. ‘She must have had chameleon qualities,’ she said. ‘I thought she’d be more sophisticated.’

  ‘Passport photos never tell the truth,’ said Paul.

  She thanked him profusely and, at the first opportunity, Lottie telephoned the number for Marta Livardo.

  The Livardos had retired to Settebagni in the north of Rome, and it was Signor Livardo who answered the call. Naturally, he was puzzled but polite until Lottie revealed why she was making contact and asked if it would be possible to talk to his wife.

  Politeness turned into ice. ‘Signora, it’s too long ago,’ he said. ‘A sad story. Why do you want to know about her? Are you a relative?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why? You want to make money?’

  ‘Am I right that her murder was never solved? I wanted to know more … Not for the wrong reasons but to try to settle it for her. Does that sound odd?’

  ‘You are hoping to make money.’

  ‘Signor Livardo, I’ve just explained my reasons.’

  ‘You’re not an official. This is a case that should be left alone.’

  ‘I am responsible for her papers in the archive; they’re being dealt with and I wanted to clear a few things up.’

  ‘She’s dead, Signora.’

  That was inarguable. ‘But her memory isn’t.’

  ‘Signora, you know nothing of things as they are here. Trust me, it’s not a good subject.’

  ‘But surely one that requires an ending?’

  ‘It had an ending.’

  The conversation continued along the same lines until Lottie managed to persuade him to agree to a brief meeting with his wife at the end of the week.

  During her lunch hour, Lottie decided to go home to take a shower. Recently, her periods had become more painful and she wasn’t clear why. Different water? The building heat? The consequences of a physical and psychological upheaval? Or was it the city, with its light and glitter, its troubles and its beauties, and its satisfactions, that was driving her endocrinal system into malfunction?

  The scaffolding and the affair of the political posters was now a memory but the courtyard, which was currently an empty arena, posed an irresistible challenge to the feminist collective.

  The target of their latest power play were the empty pots positioned in the corners. When no one had been looking, and almost certainly against regulations, they had planted them up with lemon trees and tied red ribbons around them.

  The largest was directly in Lottie’s line of sight and she walked over and sniffed at the flowers; the scent was almost dizzying.

  A familiar voice made her look round.

  Tom was running down the staircase from their apartment, addressing remarks over his shoulder to a couple of women. One was Concetta. The other was tall, dressed with boho elegance in a flowing skirt, with hair pulled back into a chic and untidy bun.

  At the bottom of the staircase, the trio stood talking for a few seconds, obviously saying their goodbyes. The woman hugged Concetta.

  Concetta returned the embrace with enthusiasm.

  The women stepped away from each other and Concetta went back upstairs. Tom slipped a hand under the woman’s elbow and she smiled at him. Still linked, they walked through the arch from the courtyard and out into the street.

  An emotional hurricane – anger, dismay, and an old terror – barrelled in and Lottie ran upstairs.

  Needing quiet, she headed straight for the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Clasping her right wrist with her left hand, she pulled hard and concentrated on the cracking of bones.

  Years ago, when her life appeared to be at its worst, she used to tell herself that it was a dream and would pass.

  The tactic was no longer appropriate, or effective. Plus, Lottie would despise herself if she fell back into those weary thought patterns and behaviours.

  Tom’s nail scissors lay on the dressing-table top. Lottie picked them up, ran her finger along a blade and dropped them back.

  She undressed. Shoes. Linen wrap dress. Underwear. Normally, she would have placed them on a chair. In this instance, she abandoned them to the floor.

  In the shower, sluicing with water brought relief to her body but not to her disordered thoughts.

  The woman must have been Clare and, judging from the easy intimacy they displayed, it was likely Tom and she still saw each other.

  There was no reason why Tom should not see his ex. They had parted amicably, and they were adults.

  Why hadn’t he told her?

  The towel rasped over her skin as she dried herself, her bodily discomfort contributing to her sense of destabilisation. Dressed in fresh clothes, she checked herself in the mirror and was reassured. Whatever she might be feeling, she looked fine. Just fine.

  She touched her hair and her reflection did the same.

  What is happiness? she enquired of her own image. Can you expect it?

  As a child, she had decided it was something she only read about in books. Or saw on the TV – but not that often. She read descriptions of wonderful, choking moments experienced by the writers when listening to music, standing still in the sun, stroking an animal. As an adult, she came to understand it was the most fleeting of experience and could not be ordered up.

  Lottie felt it when she had achieved a good piece of work, or when Tom bought her a pink T-shirt with ‘Dolly Mixture’ written on it and made her laugh helplessly. Or, when he turned to her in bed and said: ‘You are the best thing.’

  Unhappy was different. Never an aspiration like happiness, it had a habit of seeding itself and of being destructive, and the grown Lottie had promised herself never to allow herself to sink into that state ever again.

  Picking up the nail scissors, she opened the top drawer and stowed them in the leather case where they belonged.

  Before she left, she sought out Concetta, who she found hunched over the kitchen sink.

  ‘Was that Signorina Clare I saw you and Tom with?’

  Concetta turned on the hot water tap. ‘Yes. She came for coffee.’

  The next question betrayed a certain vulnerability but ask it Lottie must. ‘Does she come here often?’

  Concetta positioned two of the cups on the draining board. ‘Not often,’ she said, and made a play of placing the third cup beside the other two.

  Lottie tackled Tom after their evening meal, which they ate on the balcony. Tom talked at length about the Italian political situation in the 1970s which she listened to in chilly silence.

  Eventually, she asked, ‘Why are you going on about this, Tom?’

  ‘Because of this Nina Lawrence you’re interested in.’ He was echoing what she had already read in the journal. ‘It’s thought a right-wing coup was planned in December nineteen seventy, headed by the Borghese Prince – an awful man – but someone took fright when intelligence revealed that Soviet ships were cruising in the Med.’

  ‘You mean the Americans took fright.’

  He stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’ His good humour sw
itched off.

  ‘Wasn’t the US keeping a watchful eye?’

  ‘Best not to speculate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘but some things don’t get discussed.’

  ‘Because governments are misbehaving.’

  He said gently: ‘It’s never black and white, Lottie.’

  She shot him a look. ‘Tom, you’re more political than I thought.’ It was warm and the aroma rising from the lavender and herbs was delicious and she was reluctant to break the spell. ‘I saw you with Clare here at lunchtime.’

  He was taken aback. ‘I didn’t spot you but, yes, she was here.’

  ‘Concetta tells me she’s visited several times.’ He nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I thought it would cause trouble.’

  ‘And it wouldn’t cause trouble if I found out? Which I have.’

  He shifted in the chair and she knew he was annoyed but she could not tell whether it was with himself.

  ‘I told you we parted on good terms.’

  ‘I’m delighted. But shouldn’t you warn me when you are planning to meet?’

  ‘Clare was fond of Concetta and drops in to touch base.’

  Lottie appeared to be observing this exchange from a great height, detached from it and taking notes, rather as the sociologist might. Simultaneously, she was plunged into deep and complicated feelings.

  ‘Lottie, don’t look like that. There’s no need.’

  ‘I should meet her, then.’ She looked directly at him. Thin, beaky nose, kind mouth. Preoccupied. ‘I would like to.’

  Tom inhaled audibly. ‘You know I love you. And only you. Clare and I are history. It ran its course.’

  They had lived together for ten years. They had enjoyed it but then, it was over.

  Funnily enough, Lottie understood the psychological sense. During her twenties, she experienced a similar arc with Bill. Love for him hit her with a mallet and nothing else mattered until she was exhausted with sensation and emotion. Then, it changed for them both. She and Bill struggled to acknowledge it but, eventually, broke free and thrived.