Chapter 4 Rafaella #2
‘Oh,’ she said, but it wasn’t Fon she was looking for; in fact, he hadn’t even crossed her mind.
She was too preoccupied with what was – and wasn’t – happening right here.
This time last year, Cosimo would have been standing out here in the shadows with them, sneaking drinks and cigarettes; now he was inside, seducing a starlet and drinking Merlot or cognac.
He had always sworn, as the four of them lay on the rocks, out of sight at the lido and past their curfew, that he would never become like his parents – by which he meant one of the ‘social-climbing pseudos’ or ‘fakes’ that populated their smart circle.
He had passionately, avowedly aligned himself with his port-bound best friends – but that had been naive; she could see that now, as she looked around the decorative garden and glimpsed the lavish lifestyle that was the reality of his world away from here.
They weren’t the same, and the differences between them were only going to grow more apparent with every passing day.
Suddenly there was a shift in the party’s mood, bodies stiffening and necks craning as one.
‘Oh God,’ Donatella exclaimed, clapping her hands together as a clamour rose up through the crowd. ‘I think she’s here! She’s actually here!’
‘Stick with me,’ Gina said, pulling Rafaella along as they joined the throng beginning to gather below the balcony.
Cosimo’s parents, Filippo and Rossanna, were already standing graciously in the central arch above the dual staircase, crystal flutes in their hands.
A stone campana urn had been over-ambitiously planted with a froth of geraniums so that they had to stand either side of it to be seen, but from everything Romola had ever said about her parents, distance between them was only ever a good thing anyway.
Not that the villagers would know it – to them, the Franchettis epitomized grace and good fortune.
Rossanna was a noted beauty and society figure in the capital; Filippo was a senior politician for the Christian Democrat government – currently he was the minister of infrastructure – and he usually only made a few fleeting appearances in the port during the summer season, more often being detained by official business in the city.
As well as being an important political figure, he was the Duke of Paliano, and nobility seemed to have been bred into his bones, drawing him with an aquiline lightness of touch so that he seemed somehow almost transparent. Never fully there.
His presence was felt now, however, and the crowd fell quiet.
‘Friends,’ Filippo began warmly, drawing immediate cheers again. ‘Rossanna and I are honoured to welcome you to our home, to celebrate the onset of summer and our family’s return to our most treasured place, Tricase Porto …’
There were more cheers. Rafaella couldn’t see Romola or Cosimo on the balcony with their parents. Where were they?
Filippo addressed the crowd, complimenting their efforts to pull the party together so quickly and thanking them for the warm welcome as his wife stood serenely beside him.
Rafaella watched the mother, but it was the son she saw: dark mahogany hair, generous smile, soulful eyes framed with lustrous lashes.
Rossanna was wearing a floaty white one-shouldered dress, pearls like globes at her ears, her hair loosely pulled back at the nape of her neck and punctuated with a single white lily.
She was the embodiment of Roman elegance.
But as a raucous cheer went up, Rafaella saw the embodiment of Roman glamour step up behind her, and even the duchessa was eclipsed. For a moment, Valentina Fabiani was hidden behind the urn; then the duke stepped back with his usual good manners, giving her his spot and the stage.
Rafaella gasped and felt her spirit plunge.
The magazine photographs hadn’t done Valentina Fabiani justice.
She was exquisitely beautiful: nubile, with skin like a peach.
She was wearing a red pleated silk chiffon dress, corseted through the bodice and flowing into a draped skirt.
Her lipstick matched the dress and her platinum-blonde hair shone even in the darkness, her cat-like eyes darting and sharply watchful as she basked in the villagers’ hysterical acclaim.
She was the most famous person any of them had ever seen in real life – Dante Giannelli excepted, who was now assumed to be on first-name terms with La Lollo – and it was true that even the Franchettis’ star power waned in comparison.
Rafaella watched Rossanna’s smile freeze, her chin lifting a quarter-inch.
‘I know whose face I’ll be beating off to tonight,’ Gino said behind her to Luigi.
‘Ugh!’ Gina groaned with a shudder as they sniggered. ‘Animals!’
‘Grazie mille!’ Valentina smiled, waving to her adoring audience. ‘Thank you for your kind welcome. I am so happy to join you here tonight. I look forward to meeting you all through the course of this evening –’
They cheered louder still as she blew them kisses, and it was as if the lid blew off the sky. Rossanna Franchetti looked as if she might splinter into shards of glass.
‘Where’s Cosi?’ Rafaella hissed impatiently to Gina, seeing no sign of him still on the balcony. ‘Or Romy?’
Valentina stepped back, and Filippo told his guests to eat all they could and drink the cellar dry. No one needed telling twice.
‘I know, it’s odd,’ Gina shrugged, casting around the crowd too. ‘I mean, he has to look after his girlfriend, at least … but what’s Romy got to do that’s so important?’
A sudden loud bang made everyone cry out, their bodies collectively contracting into a lowered hunch, and the sky flashed white as if split open by the gods – but no rain fell, no forks of lightning speared the heavens …
Rafaella felt Gina grab her arm as they looked around in alarm and confusion.
What was happening? From the bewildered looks passing between the Franchettis, they seemed as shocked as everyone else, although not necessarily afraid.
It came again, the ear-splitting bang – but this time, the sky glowed blue.
‘It is only fireworks!’ Filippo called out as the villagers quailed once more. ‘No need to be afraid!’
‘Fireworks?’ Rafaella murmured. She had heard of them, of course, just never seen them for herself.
No one here had, and their gasps began to fall into synchronicity as the explosions started coming more quickly and rhythmically.
It struck her as a remarkable feat that the rich could actually paint the sky red, blue, gold, green …
They were seemingly never-ending, cascading in a whimsy of shapes and colours, each more beautiful than the last. Rafaella looked back at the villa again and this time she caught sight of a silhouetted figure moving past one of the windows on the upper floor. Romola’s bedroom.
‘Oh, Gina!’ she gasped, pointing excitedly. ‘She’s in there!’
They didn’t hesitate, slipping through the mesmerized crowd and darting over the now deserted Apollo lawn towards the kitchen at the back of the property.
‘Ciao, Signora Cinzia,’ they smiled as they burst in, waving to the Franchettis’ cook, who always came down here with them from Rome.
‘Bellas!’ she cried. She knew them well, of course, and raised no protest as they passed through while she stirred the risotto.
They slipped past the pantry and washroom into the grand public rooms of the villa.
The rooms ran in a cascade, one into the other, most of the time divided only by an arch; they skittered beneath vaulted ceilings, past gilded mirrors and plush silk sofas, over ancient tiled floors.
There was a staircase to the two upper floors at either end of the villa; the master suite and the little ones’ rooms were on the first floor, and Fede’s, Cosimo’s and Romola’s at the top.
Rafaella glanced towards the balcony as they ran for the left-hand stairs that brought them closest to Romola’s bedroom.
The Franchettis were still standing there with their guest of honour, the night sky beyond them a kaleidoscope of colour.
Valentina was chatting intently with Filippo as the fireworks continued to boom; on the other side of the urn stood Rossanna and Cosimo.
Rossanna had a hand to the urn and was pointing to the base, where some of the stone appeared to have crumbled away.
Rafaella felt her breath catch in her throat just at the sight of Cosimo talking with his mother. He was partly out of sight, but even the edges of him were thrilling. Instinctively she slowed, but Gina, bringing up the rear, pushed her onwards.
‘Hurry up!’ she hissed, grabbing Rafaella’s arm and dragging her along.
They ran up the stairs with a familiarity that came from childhood summers spent racing along these corridors, not bothering to knock at Romola’s door as they burst in.
‘Rom—!’ Gina panted, pulling up short so suddenly that Rafaella walked into the back of her as they both took in the sight by the window.
Romola was pressed against the wall, her slight frame all but hidden by the boy kissing her, one of her legs in his grip as he pushed into her, his trousers down by his knees.
For a moment the vision was freeze-framed, as sometimes happened at the cinema when the film reel snagged and stalled, the image flickering, blistering, burning … Then it was released quite suddenly, and the lovers pulled apart at the sudden intrusion.
A stunned silence exploded, every bit as loud as the fireworks outside, as they watched Romola pull down her dress and Fon fiddling with his trousers before he eventually turned. But Rafaella hadn’t needed to see his face to know who it was.
She staggered back, unable to believe this was really real.
Fon’s betrayal was wounding enough, but Romola’s …
She was one of her dearest and best friends in the world.
Rafa’s entire year revolved around her return; her days were enlivened by news of her exploits – so for this to happen, when Romola Franchetti could do anything, have anyone …
‘Rafa!’ Romy cried, the word slurring as she saw Rafaella’s eyes immediately filling with tears, her chest beginning to heave with sorrow. ‘Wait!’
But it was too late. Rafaella turned and fled with a speed that was uncatchable. She was down the two flights of stairs seemingly without touching a tread, flying through the interconnected rooms like a midnight bat—
‘Whoa!’ She was caught and spun, hands upon her arms, eyes upon her eyes. ‘Rafa?’ Cosimo’s voice broke as he found himself holding her and she was propelled back to that moment in their past which, for one blinding, dazzling instant, had felt like a beginning and not an end …
‘Rafa? What’s happened?’
She saw his eyes rake over her face, taking in her tears and distress, his grip tightening as he held her again in his arms. It was everything she had wanted. But not like this.
‘Tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt? Who’s hurt you?’
She wanted to scream that it was Romy – that Romy had taken what she wanted, simply because she could!
She wanted him to know that he had hurt her too, throwing cold water over her fevered hopes by bringing one of the most desired women in all of Italy here, undeniable proof that he had moved on from the moment that had been everything to her and nothing at all to him.
But she pulled back wordlessly, out of his grasp. There was nothing to be said. Her dreams were dying all around her tonight, leaving only ashes in her mouth.