The Apartment In Rome Part 22

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 publishing 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 shirt; 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.

The bus was approaching. She caught her breath, didn't breathe out until she had swung aboard. Then she dialled, the mobile sweaty in her palm. 'Hi, David, it's me. Mission accomplished.'

'How did it go?'

'Good, I think. Morani's offered me first refusal on the commission.'

'You aren't going to refuse it, are you?'

'I need to check over the terms before I sign but, you know me, I'll do anything that raises the profile.'

Progress as they wound towards Castel Sant'Angelo was slow. The area around the Vatican was always a bottleneck and in addition they were halted by a temporary traffic light. She had a good view of a piece of stone wall. She added, 'So if you're looking for grat.i.tude, darling, you have it. In spades. He wouldn't have noticed my work if you hadn't given me the show and nudged him to come along... so do you want me to lick your shoes now or later?'

'You sound high, hon.'

'I feel high. Get on with it, tell me the big news.'

'Are you sitting down?'

'Well, I'm on a bus, but yes, I've managed to get a seat. It's not that crowded, but they're digging up some gas pipe in the road so we're stuck a while. You have my full attention.'

'You got my text?' said David. 'I think we may have a buyer.'

'That is so delicious! I hardly dared hope money would change hands. I thought the subject matter would be too challenging. Anyway, no matter. Tell me which one?'

'Two, as it happens. Numbers 42 and 43.'

'I can't remember your d.a.m.ned numbering, David! What are their t.i.tles?'

'You numbered them yourself. Aftermath 1 and Aftermath 2.'

'Aftermath?' said Gina as the bus finally lurched forward and gathered speed along the riverside. Through the streaky window she could see a party of schoolchildren strapped into backpacks, a daredevil scooter nipping along the narrow s.p.a.ce between their crocodile and the side of the bus.

'The pair you produced,' he said, 'when we had to take down your young football player. You are one h.e.l.l of a chancer, Gina, I'll give you that. But it turns out to be the best thing you could have done. No?' She didn't respond. 'Are you still there? We have to figure out a price. Do you know which shots I'm talking about?'

'Aftermath,' she said slowly. 'Yes, I know exactly which prints you mean. And they're not for sale.'

That steely voice of David's sharpened a fraction. 'Not for sale? What's your problema?'

'They were a last minute subst.i.tute, weren't they, because Bertie was putting pressure on and because you'd planned everything so rigorously we couldn't possibly allow any blank s.p.a.ces. According to you, the whole world would cave in if the proportion of gallery wall to frame was not absolutely precise. So I had to come up with the Aftermath pictures. But I don't want to sell them.'

'Why the h.e.l.l not?'

'Because...'

Because Sasha Mitch.e.l.l was back in Rome, and might actually still be in her apartment. This was extraordinarily bad luck and something she could never have foreseen. She hadn't expected the girl to return, let alone seek her out. But it seemed she'd only just arrived. If Gina acted fast enough there need be no repercussions, but she couldn't explain all this to David. He'd berate her for being unprofessional. 'I have my reasons,' she said.

'They'd better be good ones.'

'Just take them both down, will you?'

'What, in the middle of the show? Gina, you can't do this to me.'

'I'll find you something else.'

'We already went through your portfolio. Those were the most stunning. And the buyer thinks so too. What am I going to tell the guy? He's coming in to the gallery this afternoon and my instructions were to find out your price. Capisce?'

'Let me think about it then.'

'Half an hour,' said David. 'Don't keep me waiting.'

'Okay. Okay. I got the message.'

She switched off her phone, too agitated to make or receive any more calls. At Piazza Trilussa she stumbled homewards through the narrow streets. Moments ago she had been on cloud nine; why should anything change because Sasha Mitch.e.l.l had reappeared? The girl need never know. In fact, the sale of the pictures presented a solution. If the buyer took them away at once and she replaced them, David might not be happy, but hey, she'd have the money and he'd get his cut. She should ask for the highest price she dared. She toyed with numbers in her head and her step lightened.

Signora Bedini was out on the pavement in her slippers, pulling down the shop's shutters for lunch. She hardly ever left the premises or the flat above where she lived with her younger son. He sat at the till by the door collecting payment or raced around in a delivery van, dealing with orders. 'Ciao, come stai?' the signora hailed her, as if hoping for a chat: another chapter in the battle with her daughter-in-law. In the last instalment the grandchild had developed a shocking McDonalds habit.

'Bene grazie,' Gina called, not wanting to be delayed, speeding up as she neared her front door.

She was, she had to admit, apprehensive about dealing with Sasha and her friend. Arguably, since the girl's face was scarcely visible, permission should not be necessary. She'd prefer to get it, naturally, but doubted it would be granted. Gina had learnt, in her years of being photographed, to detach herself from the end product. The extraordinary looking person on the magazine page wasn't her; it was a two-dimensional creature, preened and primped and painted. In real life no one would recognise her. But try telling that to Sasha Mitch.e.l.l. She would be far too self-conscious to appreciate the power of the image Gina had created.

She needed to find a way of getting rid of the girls without arousing suspicion. If she could sweet-talk them, send them on some wild goose chase to another part of the city, out to the Catacombs for instance, it would give her time to get over to the gallery. Whereupon she'd have to sweet-talk David, who was a much tougher proposition, but she'd think of something.

She reached the top landing. No voices in her apartment: perhaps the girls had left, which would be a temporary relief. The tension constricting her neck and shoulders eased. She pushed her key into the lock. At least, she tried to push it but met resistance. Perplexed, she tried again and then thumped on the door.

'Sasha, are you in there? Stop playing silly b.u.g.g.e.rs.'

Silence. Why on earth would the girl block up her keyhole? She banged and listened once more; it was hard to tell whether there was anyone inside. She knelt and peered into the lock: nothing was visible. She poked at it uselessly with the key. Glue, that's what it must be. She'd heard of it as a student prank, like an apple-pie bed. Then it struck her that Sasha might have been after revenge, that she might already have visited the exhibition and seen the shots of herself in abandonment.

Gina grew cold. The day that had begun with such promise was splintering into fragments. She would not let the bad luck win out. She still had the girl's number on her phone, though she'd need to do more arm-twisting than sweet-talking at this stage. Standing in the small square of sunshine pooling from the rooflight, she thumbed through her contacts' list. She didn't preamble. 'This is Gina Stanhope,' she said when Sasha answered. 'What are you doing right now?'

'Right now?' Evidently the girl was too fl.u.s.tered to think of lying. 'I'm having lunch.'

'Where?'

'Oh, um, in a pizzeria called Ivo's. I'm sorry we didn't wait for you but the plumber came and fixed whatever it was, and then '

'Ivo's? San Francesco a Ripa?'

'Yes.'

'Don't leave,' said Gina. 'Wait for me there. I need to speak to you.'

She hung up without giving the girl time to reply. If she hurried she could get to the pizzeria in five minutes. She wouldn't allow Sasha Mitch.e.l.l the chance to run out on her. Meanwhile she had another call to make and she was well within her allotted half hour.