Cloud pines dotted the sky, pigeons sporadically darting across her frame of vision. The grass felt cool beneath Cesca’s bare arms, the spongy mat sticky with sweat between her shoulder blades. A short distance away, she could hear the splash of oars cutting through the boating lake, the babble of tourists’ chatter as they exited the Villa Borghese and explored the park.
Beside her, Alessandra began to snore.
‘Stop it,’ Cesca giggled, walloping her lightly on the stomach with her nearest arm.
Alessandra cracked up, rolling onto her side and resting her head in one hand. ‘You know this bit bores me.’
‘You’re supposed to be centring yourself. Connect with your breath.’
‘I’d rather connect with that guy from Zizi the other night.’ Her voice was low, her laugh dirty. ‘You really missed a good time.’
‘Yes, well . . . I was trying to be a responsible adult for once.’
‘And look what happened there. You got fired. I hope you have learned your lesson.’ Alé grinned and collapsed onto her back, staring up at the sky, a red bra strap peeking out from beneath her khaki ribbed vest, the orange nail polish on her toes chipped and missing from some nails altogether. They always said theirs was a pop-up friendship, like one of those camping tents you could pack in a bag and throw open wherever you stopped. From the first time they’d met at Glastonbury, there had been an immediate recognition, an understanding between them. It had helped that they were both drunk at the time, but Alé was certain they were both old souls reconnecting from another life. Whatever, Cesca was just grateful they’d been in the queue for the toilets at the same time. It was Alessandra who had talked her into following her dream and coming out here when Cesca had tearily told her she’d quit her job and had no idea what her future looked like any more; Alé who had helped her with her Italian when her audio course had her speaking like a courtier; Alé who had opened the doors for her to this life in Rome, introducing her to her ‘brothers’ – the boys she’d befriended in childhood, Matteo and Guido – and helping her secure the apartment, Signora Dutti being a friend of her grandmother.
Cesca closed her eyes again, her body heavy with fatigue after another night of broken sleep and an intense day’s work. She had left the palazzo at five, after eight hours of sorting through thousands of small black-and-white photographs. It had been a dizzying introduction to a life lived at the very highest level of privilege. She half felt she had experienced Elena’s childhood in real time – almost every moment had been captured because almost every moment had been special. How could it not be when ponies and rabbits and puppies were as plentiful as toys, and some of the finest real estate on the Eastern Seaboard was her playground?
As Alberto brought through trays of tea and cakes at two-hourly intervals, she had begun by pulling out one or two images from different times in Elena’s childhood, starting with all the obvious baby and pram shots, through the toddler years and moving through childhood towards Elena’s adolescence; she had finished the day with Elena at fifteen or sixteen, which she considered to be pretty good going for one day’s work. She had then gone through them again, writing down the questions that each image posited – who’s that woman in almost all the photos? What was the name of that horse?
Elena had told her the publishers wanted a 300-page book with a preliminary cut of 250 images which, given there had been over 1,000 photographs in the first box alone, meant they were going to need to be ruthless with the edits. Cesca could see why Elena had wanted someone objective working on the project. Whittling down a seventy-plus-year life to a set number of images, of moments, was harder than it looked. But Cesca was unfazed; as a barrister, she had had to work through boxes, several kilograms heavy, full of documents and evidence and testimonies, and cut through to the singular artery that defined every case. Because there always was one, and Elena’s life would be no different.
‘So how did today go with the devil woman?’ Alé asked with a dramatic tone.
Cesca grinned. ‘I barely saw her, to be honest. I’ve had my nose in a box of photographs all day, trying to get up to speed. Honestly, her life is unbelievable. I swear, her boating pond had a model boat on it that you could race in the America’s Cup!’
Alé tutted.
‘And they had peacocks! No scrawny pigeons for them.’
‘I guess that’s just how it is when you’re born a Valentine.’
‘Valentine?’ Cesca asked in surprise. The name had immediate resonance – like Oppenheimer or Rockefeller or Rothschild, the Valentines were wealthy beyond measure.
‘Sole surviving heir, my mother said,’ Alé remarked, looking surprised. ‘You didn’t know that?’
‘Only the name. I didn’t know she was one.’
‘Oh, so you are taking your research seriously then,’ Alé teased with a wry smile.
‘I’ll have you know Elena has specifically asked that I don’t do any background research to begin with. She wants me to hear her life story in her words, without prejudice.’
Alé considered this for a moment. ‘I guess that is understandable. The tabloids love her. If she thought you believed everything they said about her, she could not act the principessa, could she?’
Cesca made no comment. She couldn’t reconcile the frail, elegant lady she knew with the supposed notoriety of her public image – tabloid fodder, devil woman . . . What on earth had she done to warrant a reputation which seemed so at odds with the image she presented now?
‘Tell me, what is it like inside the palazzo?’ Alé asked, fidgety as usual and flipping over onto her stomach and assuming the plank position. She preferred their Monday evening HIIT classes to this yoga session in the park, but then, she didn’t need to work on her tan.
Cesca gave a shudder. ‘Ugh. Not my gig at all – all those long galleries and empty rooms. Gold everywhere.’
‘What? You don’t like it? It’s one of the best addresses in the city.’
‘And I can see why, architecturally, but to live in? The whole thing’s like a mausoleum, not a home. I don’t understand why she wants to live there – and on her own too! I mean, the garden’s great and I appreciate the super-rich can’t be expected to live in a two-up, two-down like the rest of us—’
‘A two what?’ Alé puffed, her cheeks beginning to flush.
‘It’s just a term for an average house,’ Cesca said dismissively. ‘Maybe this is what comes of all their jet-setting and living in hotels? That’s what they know – marble floors and hard, dainty perching chairs. No toast crumbs in the kitchen for them, no saggy Ikea sofas or dog hairs blowing into the corners.’
‘Is that what your home is like?’
Cesca realized it was, although Slipper, their border terrier, was so old now he was practically as bald as her grandfather, so there were fewer dog hairs these days. ‘Pretty much, actually.’
‘Sounds nice. I bet you have carpets too, yes?’
‘Of course.’ She knew Alé was teasing her Britishness.
Alé chuckled from under her mop of hair hanging forwards. ‘You’re so funny.’
‘Thanks.’
There was a beat of silence. ‘Do you miss it?’
‘What? England?’
With a pant of effort, Alé rolled onto her side, her hands resting on her ribcage as she looked across at her. ‘Home.’
Cesca resolutely kept her eyes closed. ‘No. Because this is my home now.’
‘But your family . . . your career. You’ve turned your back on everything you knew.’
‘I haven’t turned my back on anything. My parents were out here last month.’
‘You know what I mean. Why do you never talk about it?’
Cesca felt Alé’s hand on her arm.
‘I know something bad happened.’
Cesca sat up, and in so doing dislodged Alé’s hand. She pulled her legs in to her chest, her arms flopping over her knees. She kept her eyes on a young woman pushing a pram, a toddler walking alongside and licking an ice cream. ‘Nothing bad happened, Alé. It was just a poor career choice. I’m not cut out for it. I don’t have the disposition. It takes a certain type to thrive in that environment. A perfectionist; a stickler for detail.’
Alé arched an eyebrow. ‘You read the terms and conditions of everything you buy online.’
‘Everyone should do that,’ Cesca said solemnly.
‘Proving my point: you are the barrister type.’
‘I’m not. There’s not another barrister in the land who wears vintage bloomers unironically.’
Alé laughed.
‘Besides, I’m happy here. I’ve got my friends, my deluxe apartment—’ Alé laughed harder ‘—I’m living in the city I dreamed of living in as a little girl. I feel free here.’ She looked around at the bright cloud-shaped shadows on the ground beneath the trees, at the short upright blades of grass resisting the unremitting heat like lines of brave soldiers, at a group of shirtless teenagers playing football on that grass on the other side of the path. Every sense was spoilt in Rome: the scent of jasmine wandered the air while the hum of scooters zipping round the perimeter roads was as calming as the buzz of bees. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to prove the point.
‘Are you sure it’s freedom?’
‘What else could it be?’
Alé shrugged. ‘Escape?’
Cesca looked away, pretending to examine the freckles popping up on her pale skin like daisies. ‘I’m afraid my life isn’t anywhere near as fascinating as you give it credit for,’ she murmured, rolling back down and laying her arms flat on the grass, palms upstretched, closing her eyes and trying to connect with her breath again. But it was a diversionary tactic, something to throw her friend off the scent and stop the questions from coming – because she knew those questions would lead to only one answer: that she had blood on her hands.
It was almost a carpet. The silk rug stretched to each wall with barely an inch gap all around. The wicker-framed sofas, meanwhile, were so soft and squashy-looking that Cesca half thought she would need a winch to get her back up again. Every side table had a lamp on it and a full-skirted bullion-fringed cloth, and the green-on-cream lattice-printed curtains – curtains, not shutters – matched the wallpaper. It was busy and fussy, an homage to the Eighties, but Cesca was overjoyed: there was no marble in here, nor any statues; there were no angels on the ceiling (just a delicate lacy plasterwork that she could live with) and not one pointless perching chair. Finally, in this palace of almost a thousand rooms – as Alberto had told her while marching her through the galleries earlier – they had found one that felt homely.
They were sitting in the garden room on the ground floor of the west wing. Elena was sitting opposite, her ankles crossed in Fendi ballerinas, small sun blemishes on her shins betraying a lifetime of summering on yachts. She was wearing a cornflower-blue shirt dress cinched with a leather belt, and tortoiseshell spectacles were perched delicately at the end of her nose. One eyebrow was arched as she leaned forward to scan the assembly of images Cesca had brought here, not necessarily for inclusion in the book but to get the conversation flowing about Elena’s life.
To her right, Cesca had her voice recorder poised, ready to begin. They were waiting for Alberto to finish setting down the teacups – Lapsang Souchong, this time – and Cesca was idly watching a hatted and aproned gardener working on some rosebushes beyond the arched doors, the snip of his secateurs just audible through the glass.
‘Will that be all, your Grace?’
‘Yes, thank you, Alberto.’
He bowed his head. ‘And just a reminder that the car will be ready for you in an hour. You have a lunch appointment with—’
‘Christina, yes, yes, as if I could forget. Thank you, Alberto.’
He bowed his head again and left the room.
‘Honestly,’ Elena said, her voice barely more than a breath as she picked at a thread on the cushion nearest her hand. ‘This gala. You’d think she was organizing a coronation.’ When she saw Cesca’s quizzical expression, she added, ‘My husband’s foundation has just completed a five-year restoration project of the ruins at Massimo’s Forum and there’s a charity gala at the beginning of September in his honour. He did so many great charitable works for his beloved Rome.’
‘And Christina is . . . ?’
‘Oh, an old friend. She grew up with Vito and his brother; she rather sees herself as their honorary sister. She’s my cochair at the foundation, this gala’s all her idea.’
‘Oh.’ Cesca thought for a moment. ‘Well, perhaps I should speak to her for the book then?’
Elena frowned. ‘Why?’
‘It could be good to get in some colour about your philanthropic work. It would provide good balance,’ she said, not wanting to elucidate that a non-stop barrage of luck and in-your-face privilege would also turn off most readers.
Elena considered the suggestion. ‘Yes, I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll put it to her today and she can set something up. Although, to be frank, I don’t think you’ll get much from her; she won’t be a particularly forthcoming interviewee.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, as one of the Black families, she’s not—’ Elena looked at her, noticing Cesca’s baffled expression. ‘You’ve heard of the Black Nobility, obviously?’
There was nothing obvious about it. Cesca had never heard of any such thing. ‘Uh . . .’
‘Oh, I see,’ Elena said, looking surprised. ‘Well, the Black Nobility is used to describe those families who were given their titles by the popes, as opposed to the later White Nobility, who gained theirs from the state. I suppose you might say the Blacks are the ultimate “old money”. Deeply conservative, traditional and very low-key. No scandals. No fun.’ Cesca saw the glimmer of mischief in Elena’s eyes. ‘So if it’s a press release on worthy causes you’re after, then Christina will be your woman. But that will be the sum of it.’
‘I see.’ Cesca nodded with a smile, understanding now. Discreetly, she started her recording device, knowing they were off. ‘But from what I’ve seen of your childhood so far, it strikes me that you hail from whatever America calls its aristocracy.’
Elena sat back in her chair. ‘Well, it’s true we were rich, absurdly so, but we were only second-generation wealthy. We were what they would call “new money”. My father inherited a billion-dollar fortune and doubled it in his life-time. He was an intensely charismatic man and business was easy for him. He was good-looking, intelligent, delightful company – people were just drawn to him; they honestly couldn’t help themselves. My mother used to laugh that they gave him their money, just to have an excuse to be close to him.’
‘Your mother was very beautiful too.’
‘Oh yes, she was considered one of the great beauties of her generation. And her beauty combined with my father’s star power meant they were highly sought after. I suppose you might say they were a power couple, long before such a thing was in the tabloid domain.’
‘Was it a happy marriage?’
Elena paused. ‘It was a passionate marriage. That is not always the most peaceful kind. But there is no doubt they loved each other intensely, some might say to the exclusion of all else.’
Cesca thought she sensed an unspoken point: to the exclusion of her. Or was she just being a barrister, still looking for a deeper narrative: a victim, a motive, a plot? ‘Were you an only child? I didn’t see any photographs of other children in the collection.’ As if to prove the point, she scanned the assorted images again, looking for a playmate or companion in the baby shots, but knowing there was none. She never missed the details, having been trained to read crime photos with a forensic eye.
‘Yes, my mother had a difficult history. She had miscarried multiple times before falling pregnant with me and she was forced to take five months’ bedrest before I was born. She said it may have saved me, but it almost did for her. She was a sprite, my mother, you see, always darting from one thing to the next, and such confinement wasn’t good for her spirit. She said she couldn’t bear to go through it all again. My father, I know, yearned for more, but my mother’s happiness came above all else for him.’
‘It must have been very hard for them,’ Cesca sympathized.
‘Indeed.’
‘Was it hard for you?’
Elena looked surprised. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Being the only child in such a big house? Did you ever wish you had brothers or sisters to play with?’
‘Well, of course, which only child doesn’t? But I was never alone. I had Winnie, my beloved nanny, and she came everywhere with me. I couldn’t be parted from her. I would cry and call for her terribly any time she left the room.’
‘Is this Winnie?’ Cesca asked, leaning forward and pulling out a black-and-white snapshot of a baby – Elena – in a grand carriage pram. She was wearing a velvet bonnet and coat, a lace coverlet over her legs. A sturdy woman was standing beside her in black boots, a black dress, a tweed coat and matching cloche hat.
‘Darling Winnie!’ Elena cried, taking the photograph from her and bringing it closer to her eyes in order to see better the woman’s doughy features. She smiled, nodding at it affectionately. ‘Yes, that’s exactly as I remember her. Stern as a scaffolder, she hardly ever smiled – I think only for me – but her voice was like water tumbling over rocks in a river. She was Irish, from the south; near Waterford, I believe. Oh, it was just the most beautiful accent. Even now, if I hear it, I stop in my tracks and close my eyes and it’s like being transported back to my childhood.’
‘It sounds like you loved her very much.’
‘I did, I truly did. She was the centre of my world.’
‘Did your mother ever feel jealous of your relationship with her?’
‘Heavens, no! My mother was just pleased I wasn’t squawking, I expect. You have to understand, my parents were very busy. Ours wasn’t a normal family. My father often entertained important people and with Graystones being such a big house to run, my mother was always over-seeing the staff or dealing with the flowers or checking on the horses – she was a very keen horsewoman, you see. So Winnie and I were left to our own devices most of the time. It suited us very well. My rooms occupied the top floor of the house and Winnie’s was beside my bedroom, so we had plenty of space.’
Cesca nodded. ‘Did Winnie have her own family?’
Elena shook her head. ‘No. Although I understand from my mother that she was once proposed to by the head groundsman. They had been courting and he came to ask my parents if he could take her hand in marriage.’ Her eyes sparkled as though the delight was still fresh.
‘He asked your parents for her hand? But surely it was a private matter?’
‘Oh no, not when her role was so pivotal to the running of our family. Winnie never would have done anything that would have disrupted arrangements.’
Cesca was taken aback. ‘What did your parents say?’
‘My mother had to refuse.’ Elena shrugged, replacing the photograph in the box and sitting back again. ‘I was little more than a toddler and very attached to Winnie by then. They couldn’t afford to lose her.’
‘But would her getting married have meant you would have lost her?’
‘Well, of course. No doubt they would have started a family of their own and then, at best, her attention would be split; at worst, I could have lost her altogether.’
Cesca double-blinked as she always did when she was shocked. ‘What happened to her?’
‘Winnie? Oh, she moved on when I left home at sixteen. There was nothing more for her to do, really, once I had gone.’
‘And how old was she when she left?’ Cesca couldn’t help asking the question; it was her barrister’s brain, wanting the complete picture, to see every side of the story.
Elena considered. ‘Mid-forties, I should think? It’s hard to tell. Everyone past thirty looks old when you’re young, don’t they?’
‘And do you know where she went next? Did you keep in touch?’
Elena shook her head sadly. ‘No, and it is something I regret very much. I’m sorry to say I was at that most selfish of ages – sixteen years old. All I cared about was getting on with the rest of my life. I wanted to be an adult, in control of my own future. I was desperate to get away from Graystones and I suppose to some extent Winnie was the emblem of my life there. Once I left Graystones, I never saw her again.’ She glanced at her hands – tiny, pale, with grey-blue veins lacing the skin. ‘Well, not until her funeral, anyway,’ she added, as though that was something notable. ‘She died in 1978. Tuberculosis.’
Cesca nodded, seeing what Elena seemingly did not – that Winnie had forsaken her (possibly only, certainly last) chance to have a family of her own to look after someone else’s child – only to be dismissed when she was past her own child-bearing years, only to be forgotten by the child she had loved as her own, only to die alone.
‘Sometimes I feel very sad about it, but I have to take comfort in the fact that my mother assured me that when she left our service, she wrote a most warm reference.’
Cesca nodded, words failing her. And this was only the first photograph.