The Long Weekend, page 20
‘I think we’d better move,’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ he said, wrapping the bread rolls in a napkin and draining his wine glass. ‘Finish your wine.’
Automatically I did as I was told and he took both our empty glasses. ‘Bring the bottle,’ he said.
‘Where are we going?’
‘For a picnic.’
Mystified, I followed him through reception and into the hallway, where he grabbed a mackintosh from the hallstand.
‘A picnic in the storm?’ I queried as he threw the mackintosh over our heads and opened the front door.
‘What better way to see it?’
‘You’re mad.’ And together we raced out into the pelting rain.
Across the gravelled courtyard, past the fountain, between the statues, beneath the vine-covered trellises (damn, I felt the heel of a shoe snap) and finally to the pergola at the far end of the garden.
We were breathless when we arrived, and a bit giggly with excitement. Stefano plonked the food and glasses on the wooden table, shook the mackintosh out and draped it over a bench.
‘Did you get very wet?’
‘No, surprisingly. Busted a shoe though.’ I took both shoes off. The heel of one had disappeared completely. ‘Who cares?’ I shrugged. ‘They’d had it anyway.’ They hadn’t ‘had it’ at all – they were my very best black courts – but shoes seemed a petty consideration, standing there amongst the vines, the storm raging about us.
‘I wonder how old they are,’ I said, peering up at the vines, thick and impregnable, which formed the roof of the pergola. Barely a drop of rain escaped them.
‘Very, very old,’ Stefano replied, pouring the wine, ‘possibly hundreds of years.’
We sat side by side on the wooden bench, sipping our wine, eating our bread rolls and admiring the storm. I wondered if, a hundred years ago, another young couple had sat under these vines watching a storm. And I wondered if, in a hundred years from now, yet another young couple would be watching yet another storm.
‘This was a good idea,’ I said, finishing my bread roll.
‘I had to do something to get you out of there.’ Stefano was enjoying the whole experience as much as I was. He looked very boyish in his excitement, I thought. ‘You should have seen your face when you were attacking that steak.’ He laughed. ‘Poor Umberto, I feared for his safety.’
His laughter was infectious. I joined in.
He poured another glass of wine and we sat in silence while the storm rumbled its way towards the distant hills. Finally, its ferocity spent, we were left with nothing but the torrential rain and an occasional grumble of far-off thunder.
I don’t know how long we sat there but, as the rain lessened, a wonderful sense of peace pervaded the garden. I couldn’t help but feel surrounded also by a strange sense of triumph, as if this timeless space, in once again escaping the wrath of the elements, was claiming an age-old victory.
Possibly it was this sense of occasion or possibly I was cold, but I shivered a little.
‘You’re cold,’ Stefano said and put his arm around me.
I was suddenly self-conscious. Was this the precursor to an embrace? Was he going to kiss me? I wouldn’t have minded at all if he had, in fact I wanted him to, but his hand was gently and firmly massaging my right arm, a natural gesture to warm me. How was I supposed to react?
‘I don’t know how you can defend him. He’s a dreadful man.’ When in doubt I always talk.
‘Who?’
The arm continued to harmlessly massage. Yes, he was only intending to warm me, I thought, feeling vaguely disappointed.
‘Umberto. Do you know he leads Rosella and Natale on shamelessly? They honestly think he’s going to make Rosella a star.’ He was looking at me, and once again I was disconcerted. Keep talking, I told myself, keep talking. ‘Well, I think that’s terrible, don’t you?’
‘No.’ He’d stopped massaging now but his arm remained around me. ‘Umberto is very good for Rosella and Natale.’
I forgot my self-consciousness and stared at him, amazed. ‘Surely you don’t believe that. You couldn’t!’
‘There is little excitement in Genzano.’ Stefano looked out at the rain, which was falling gently now. I recalled my morning’s walk and the desultory air of the town. Well, he was right there, I thought.
‘Rosella is a shop assistant and Natale works for the local post office,’ he continued. ‘Every evening after work, they dress in their finest and come to the Hotel Visconti.’ He turned to me, his arm gently pulling me closer. ‘At the Hotel Visconti they find a world of promise and excitement,’ he was going to kiss me now, I knew it, ‘a world of romance.’ He gathered me in an embrace. ‘What matter if it is fantasy?’
I returned his kiss – a long, lingering, beautiful kiss. I was a little breathless when we parted; my God but I’d never been kissed like that. More importantly, I’d never responded to a kiss like that. I desired him. He knew it too. And I knew that he knew it.
‘The rain’s stopped,’ he said, ‘shall we go inside? Your clothes are damp.’
If that wasn’t an invitation what was? Oh, come along, Jane, I told myself, you’re hardly a virgin, you’ve had one-nighters before. Well, two, neither of which had been particularly pleasurable, and I’d avoided them since. But this was my Italian adventure, wasn’t it . . .? Well, wasn’t it . . .?
‘Um . . . yes . . . We’d better go inside.’
As we closed the front doors and he replaced the mackintosh on the hall stand, I still hadn’t made up my mind.
‘I’ll see you to your room,’ he said.
‘Fine.’ I smiled a trifle too brightly. ‘Thanks.’
Did that mean I’d said yes? No, of course not, the voice of propriety insisted. There were still the stairs to go. Still time to say, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Stefano. Goodnight.’
But I didn’t.
I woke to find the touch of bed linen on my skin delicious and, for a moment, I wondered vaguely why I was naked and why I felt so sensual. Then I remembered.
It was morning and beside me the bed was empty. Stefano had gone. Naturally, he’d been discreet, I told myself in a drowsy haze. He’d left before the hotel awoke. It was the correct thing to do, it was to have been expected, it was for the best . . . I willed myself back to sleep, erotic images drifting behind my eyelids, before I could acknowledge my true disappointment.
The fact was, Stefano was the best lover I had ever experienced. Well, I’d only experienced three, and that included the two rebellious one-night stands after James and I had split up, so I suppose it meant I’d really only had one lover to speak of. But I had presumed that James’s and mine had been a fully erotic relationship. We’d been partners for seven years, two of which we’d lived together during our student days at drama school, and our lovemaking had been mutually satisfying and adventurous enough.
Now, as I lay dreamily recalling last night, I realised that James and I had been as competitive in bed as we had been in our daily coexistence, that we had always been aware of the individual performances we were giving. Roland had said as much when we broke up. ‘Dangerous for actors to live together,’ he’d said in that peremptory manner that so irritated me, ‘too much ego under one roof.’
Roland had been right, I thought, as I recalled the pure delight Stefano had taken in my body, and I in his. Not for one moment had I been conscious of my own performance. Not once had I thought, ‘Am I giving him pleasure?’ We’d both been lost in each other’s sensuality and the eroticism of the night.
I lay, half asleep, half awake, recalling each touch of tongue and lip and finger, feeling myself becoming aroused at the memory.
‘Do you know that your drain is blocked?’
Someone was calling out to me. I sat up groggily and looked around.
‘The shower’s flooded.’ Stefano was standing naked at the bathroom door, brushing his teeth.
‘Oh. Yes. I know. They haven’t fixed it. Is that my toothbrush?’ I asked lamely.
‘Yes, you don’t mind, do you?’ He grinned through the froth and disappeared momentarily. The brief sound of gargling and he was back.
‘Sorry about the shower.’ He sat on the bed and kissed me. ‘Good morning.’ I was wide awake by now and a little unsure how I should react, but his complete lack of self-consciousness made it easy.
‘Hardly your fault.’ I kissed him back. ‘It’s been blocked since I arrived.’ I was probably being unworldly, I thought, but I couldn’t help it. I felt a rush of pleasure that he was here with me, that he hadn’t dissolved into the morning.
With the flat of his thumb he wiped ineffectually at the rings of mascara under my eyes. ‘You should get rid of this make-up.’
I jumped brazenly out of bed, modesty seemed a secondary consideration with Stefano wandering around buck naked (besides which, no actor who has suffered the indignity of shared dressing rooms and backstage costume changes is coy about nudity), and looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A sluttish owl looked back. Damn. I never went to bed with make-up on. How could I have done that!
‘Won’t be a tick.’ I turned the shower on full bore – well, as full bore as it would go (let the bathroom flood, who cares) – and when I stepped out in a bathrobe several minutes later, Stefano was dressed and ready to leave.
He pushed my matted wet hair back from my face. ‘You look lovely,’ he said. ‘I like you better without make-up.’ And this time the kiss was not just a good-morning kiss. I opened my mouth to his, waiting any moment for him to open my bathrobe and run his fingers over my nakedness . . .
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Father Ralph and the herd will be finishing breakfast.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed, trying to sound sensible.
‘You will stay another day, won’t you?’ Before I could reply, he continued, ‘I’ll be back soon. I take the Americans on a quick trip to the Pope’s summer palace, and the afternoon they spend in church or preparing for tomorrow’s trip to Assisi.’ He started to nuzzle my neck. God, it felt glorious. ‘I’ll only be gone a few hours, wait here for me.’
‘I’d love to. I would, really, but I can’t.’
The nuzzling stopped. ‘Your itinerary? Break it.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with my itinerary, it’s the Hotel Visconti,’ I explained. ‘I can’t stay another night here.’
He laughed, assuming I was joking. ‘We won’t eat the food, I promise.’ The lips started on my earlobe now.
‘It’s not the food, Stefano,’ I laughed back, ‘it’s the hotel.’ He left the earlobe alone and looked at me, mystified. ‘It’s too expensive, I can’t afford it.’
‘You can’t afford the Hotel Visconti?’ Now there was genuine puzzlement in his eyes. ‘You are joking, surely.’
‘No. I’m not.’ I quelled the slightly sick feeling in my stomach. He didn’t know the prices Umberto charged, I told myself, that was all. ‘It’s very expensive here, you know.’
‘But you’re wealthy, a wealthy actress from Sydney, Australia. That’s what Umberto told me.’
There was no quelling the horror I now felt, rising from the very pit of my stomach. ‘I’m afraid I’m not, Stefano.’ I edged out of his embrace, although he didn’t appear to notice, he was too busy staring at me in disbelief. He looked rather foolish, I thought. ‘I’m a working actress. I told you that, if you remember.’ My voice was sharp. I was angry, very, very angry. But I knew that it wasn’t really anger I felt, it was deep humiliation.
‘I thought you were being modest.’
‘I wasn’t. I was being truthful.’
I splashed my way through the bathroom and concentrated on brushing my hair, gazing at my reflection in the mirror above the washbasin, willing myself not to give in to the tears of disillusionment which threatened.
He followed and stood behind me, looking long and hard into the mirror, as if trying to discern some mystery.
‘You’re a struggling actress and you can’t afford the Hotel Visconti,’ he said eventually, as though he’d discovered the answer.
‘Yes.’ Why was he tormenting me? Why the hell didn’t he go away? Beneath my humiliation, I felt a genuine stab of anger. Anger at myself, at my stupidity and naiveté, my dreamy, girlish assumptions of a shared eroticism – the man had played me for the fool I was. Get out, something inside me yelled. What are you hanging around for? There’s nothing in it for you! But I remained silent.
Then he laughed. Loud and long. ‘Poor Umberto,’ he said, ‘he is always getting it wrong.’
I stood, hairbrush poised, staring at him as he delighted in his private and delicious joke. Eventually he calmed down, put his hands on my shoulders and grinned at my reflection. ‘Poor, poor Umberto,’ he said again, shaking his head sympathetically. ‘He has been winking at me and nudging me ever since you arrived.’
I couldn’t believe it. Umberto had pointed me out and said, ‘Go for it, mate,’ and Stefano found it humorous! A joke to be shared! What was I supposed to do? Laugh along with him?
He continued to grin at me, entirely oblivious to the anger and humiliation that must have been mirrored in my face.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I will sort out Umberto.’
‘Oh yes? In which particular way?’
He failed to notice the iciness in my tone, or perhaps he merely chose to ignore it. ‘He will charge you the tour rate, I will see to that.’
I watched the top of his head in the mirror as he pushed aside my towelling robe and bent to kiss my shoulder. I felt the warmth of his breath and the softness of his lips against my skin. ‘Umberto will charge you the tour rate for the whole of your stay,’ his mouth was against the curve of my neck now, ‘it will be far less than you had expected to pay, so you see,’ he turned me about to face him, ‘you have no excuse. Now you must stay another night.’
He kissed me fully and, although I didn’t return the kiss, I didn’t resist. ‘I will see you at lunchtime.’
Hairbrush in hand, feet in several centimetres of water, I watched him leave and, as I did, all I could think was . . . his shoes must be saturated by now.
He laughed again as he opened the door to the landing. ‘Poor Umberto,’ I heard him say, ‘he is such a foolish man.’ Then he was gone and I was left in a state of utter bewilderment.
I dressed, my mind numb. I didn’t want to analyse the situation. Automatically, I had donned my walking gear, my light tracksuit and runners. Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll go for a walk.
The grinding of tyres on gravel. I looked out the window to see the Americans’ tour bus pull out of the driveway. It turned right and I watched as it headed down the main street on its way to Castel Gandalfo.
When the bus had disappeared, I went downstairs and walked hurriedly through the reception area, hoping that Annita wouldn’t ask me what time I was booking out, but she wasn’t there. Once again the place was deserted, and I wondered whether it would be locked on my return and whether I’d have to steal in through the kitchen doors again.
This time I turned left as I walked out of the gates of the Hotel Visconti, past the Shell garage, down the hill and into the countryside. Apart from a little white farmhouse way in the distance there was nothing but a narrow, hedge-lined dirt road winding across the valley amongst the olive groves. Strange to think that just over the rise behind me was Genzano di Roma where, for two days each year, thousands of people flocked to see the festival of the flowers.
I didn’t make any decisions as I walked; my mind remained a blank. It was a glorious day and I wandered along the little dirt road, avoiding the muddy potholes, admiring the olive trees glinting grey-silver in the mid-morning sun, and simply drinking in the freshness of the countryside revived by last night’s rain.
I made the little white farmhouse my target, but it was further away than it appeared, and by the time I stood looking at its walls of peeling plaster and the hens ferretting about the debris of the yard, I had been walking for well over two hours.
I hurried back to the hotel, hot and sweaty when I arrived, and vaguely disappointed not to see the tour bus parked in the driveway. Perhaps I had deliberately walked too far. Perhaps I had deliberately filled in my morning hoping Stefano would be there on my return, who knows? But I certainly was not going to sit in my room waiting for him.
Behind me there was an angry roar and I turned, startled, as a motorbike squealed through the gates and into the courtyard. A young man in a leather jacket alighted. Simultaneously, the main doors swung open and Umberto appeared with Sarina, who was wearing jeans and a silk scarf knotted about her head, turban-style. She looked more beautiful than ever.
I couldn’t understand a word Umberto was saying, but the message was perfectly clear. His tone was loud and bossy, and he was pointing at his watch. Sarina nodded, agreeing meekly as she joined her young man waiting by the motorbike. Umberto kept repeating himself, calling after her and again pointing at his watch. Again Sarina nodded meekly. She climbed aboard the pillion seat and, even as the bike tore through the gates and she waved farewell, she was still nodding.
I fumed. I knew it was really none of my business, but the poor girl was desperately overworked. Was she not to have friends? Was she not to have a moment’s respite from her slave labour? The man was a tyrant.
‘Ah, signorina Jane.’ As I walked up the steps to the main doors Umberto held his arms wide, as if to embrace me. I glared and strode past him, not daring to speak.
‘You are booking out today.’ Annita was at her post behind the reception desk.
‘Yes,’ I said without a moment’s hesitation.
‘There is no hurry.’ Her smile was charming and her voice warm. God, the woman was mercurial. ‘You would like to stay for lunch?’ she continued before I could reply. ‘We do lunch for the Americans on their last day. You would like to join them? They are dining now.’
