‘I actually cannot believe this,’ Cesca murmured. ‘It’s not a safe. It’s a bank vault.’
‘Yes, well, when you live in the building that houses one of the most important private art collections in the country, you can’t skimp on things like insurance. I’m afraid they insist upon it,’ Elena said, walking into the reinforced steel room and up to the floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted cabinets. Automatically, lights came on – ‘pressure pads in the floor,’ Elena explained – highlighting the dazzling jewels arranged on velvet trays.
‘I would have thought something like this would need armed guards or, I don’t know, a Swiss bank and a few fierce Dobermans at least,’ Cesca gasped, as she saw rows of sapphires and rubies, emeralds and diamonds, pearls and aquamarines . . . It was like being inside Asprey’s on Bond Street, or Tiffany on Fifth Avenue, or—
‘I know, it’s like Bulgari on Via Condotti in here,’ Elena smiled, opening one of the cabinets and tenderly lifting a sapphire drop necklace. ‘Bulgari always say I own more of their collection than they do. They’re forever asking me to sell pieces back to them for their private collection.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I will. After all, I have no daughter to whom to leave them.’
‘No? What about your daughter-in-law?’
‘She’s a liberal.’ The tone in which she said this made Cesca wonder whether she had in fact meant to say ‘radical’. ‘She thinks it’s “unethical” to spend this sort of money on jewellery. She doesn’t understand – or doesn’t want to understand – that it’s a form of investment every bit as sound and wise as art or wine or property. But then, she’s a biochemist; she’d rather look at things in her microscope than this.’
‘It’s a shame she thinks the two things have to be mutually exclusive,’ Cesca said lightly.
‘My thoughts precisely, Francesca. I’ve never understood this mindset of “Sunday Best”. Beauty is an elevating force, don’t you agree? We should try to make every day our best.’
‘Well, I will make a point of remembering that, should I ever be given something even a fraction as lovely as any of this – which of course I won’t.’
Elena glanced over at her, seeing how her eyes tripped over the shelves, absorbing the colours, longing to touch. ‘Try something on.’
‘What?’ Cesca look alarmed. ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to . . . I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s too precious,’ Cesca laughed, clasping her hands behind her back for good measure.
Elena turned and came over to her. ‘For a beautiful girl like you? Of course it isn’t. Here, let me put this on you.’
She had to reach up – and Cesca had to bend her legs, keeping her plait out of the way – to fasten the criss-cross diamond torque around her neck.
‘Oh my goodness, it’s exquisite,’ Cesca breathed, fingering it lightly, feeling the cold of the metal against her skin.
‘This one’s a Tiffany. Platinum with 32-carat diamonds.’
‘Do you know the spec for all of these?’ Cesca asked.
‘Of course. Every piece tells a story for me. That one, for example, was a gift from my father to my mother on their silver wedding anniversary.’ She walked over to the open cabinet and lifted an emerald, diamond and ruby necklace with a suspended diamond. ‘And Vito gave me this sautoir as an engagement gift – 44.90 carats. This really was a special piece. I usually just wore the bracelet for everyday use.’
Everyday use? Like it was a string friendship bracelet?
She picked up a sapphire cuff. ‘And this belonged to my dear friend Elizabeth Taylor.’
‘Oh wow,’ Cesca murmured, peering at it closely but not daring to touch, knowing Guido would die to be in her shoes right now. ‘I’ve seen some photographs of you and Elizabeth Taylor together. We really should put those in the book.’
‘Absolutely. I do agree. Everybody always loved looking at Elizabeth.’
‘Which one is your favourite?’ Cesca asked, reluctantly unfastening the necklace from her own neck and handing it back. It was already warming against her skin and it wouldn’t do to get a taste for such things.
‘Now there’s a question,’ Elena said, stepping back and looking around at her own jewelled vault. Cesca couldn’t begin to imagine the net worth in this room alone. ‘And you may think it’s a hard answer to give, but actually, it’s this one,’ she said, walking across to a necklace that Cesca hadn’t even noticed: palest pink beads simply strung to sit at the base of the neck.
‘That one?’ Cesca asked in amazement. She could see yellow diamonds, pink sapphires and black pearls, and yet that humble, almost plain, string of beads was Elena’s favourite?
‘It’s not the most valuable. Not by a long way. In fact—’ Elena considered, standing back and looking around. ‘I think it may be the least valuable . . . Still, it means a great deal to me.’ She lifted it from the velvet case and carried it over. ‘Vito gave it to me. I wore it every day that we were married.’ She handed it to Cesca. ‘Would you mind . . . ?’
Cesca fastened it for her, admiring its modest simplicity in the full-length mirror. It was by far the closest piece to her own taste too.
‘Opal,’ Elena murmured, touching it lightly. ‘It’s funny. Some people are superstitious about opal. In Eastern Europe, jewellers simply won’t sell it at all. People think it brings bad luck to marriage, whereas the Romans thought quite the opposite – the Caesars gave them to their wives as good-luck amulets. Some say a Roman senator called Nonius opted for exile rather than sell his opal to Mark Antony, who wanted to give it to his lover, Cleopatra.’ She shrugged. ‘And then the Greeks, on the other hand, believed it brought the wearer second sight.’
‘Second sight?’ Cesca echoed.
‘I just thought it was pretty,’ Elena smiled, taking it off again and kissing the beads tenderly, before replacing them on the velvet shelf.
‘So which one are you going to wear tonight?’ Cesca asked, sinking onto the ivory silk-velvet buttoned ottoman in the middle of the room, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hand.
‘Well, Signor Armani has been so kind as to make me an oyster silk skirt suit, so I thought perhaps . . . this,’ she said, picking up a string of large gold pearls. ‘These are from the South Sea and so flattering against the skin. At my age, Francesca, less is most definitely more.’
‘They’re stunning,’ Cesca smiled, gazing at them dreamily. Never in a million years would she ever get so close to such beauty again.
Elena stopped and stared at her. ‘You should wear emeralds.’
‘Me?’ Cesca laughed. ‘Yes, well, I don’t think I’ll ever have to make a choice on the matter.’
‘With your hair and skin tone, they’re absolutely the stone for you.’
‘Well, that’s nice of you to say but—’
‘Try this.’ Elena picked up a dramatic piece that wasn’t so much jewellery as clothing – an elaborate lattice of white diamonds and emeralds that swept from a high, Victorian neckline down to the shoulders and chest, almost like a collar.
‘God, no. I couldn’t possibly,’ Cesca cried, looking horrified.
‘Why ever not?’ Elena laughed, amused by her reaction. ‘Come on. It won’t hurt you.’
‘But—’
‘No excuses. I insist.’
Cesca got up, lifting her plait out of the way again and marvelling as Elena draped the necklace over her skin.
‘A plait is not how we accessorize it,’ she said, pulling the band from her hair and teasing out the braid. ‘There, that’s better.’
Cesca’s hair, fanned out, looked aflame against the radiant jewels. ‘I’ve never . . . I’ve never seen . . .’ she mumbled, her fingers tickling the stones.
‘Me neither,’ Elena said, looking thoughtful. ‘It needs something simple. Strapless.’
‘Black?’
‘No. White.’ She looked at Cesca in the mirror, their eyes meeting. ‘Wait there.’
Cesca gawped as Elena left the room, leaving her standing there wearing what must be several million pounds’ worth of jewellery – and her Converse.
Elena returned a few minutes later. ‘It’s all settled. Signor Valentino is sending it over.’
‘What over?’
‘Your dress for tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘The Bulgari party.’
‘But I’m not invited.’
‘Of course you are. You can be my plus-one, Francesca. It’s absolutely right you should come with me. Every girl should get to wear a four-million-dollar necklace for at least one night in her life.’
‘But—’ Four million dollars? Worse than she’d thought, then. She’d need a guard, or an AK47, or an SAS SWAT team to leave the palace in this.
Elena smiled, taking the necklace from her. ‘What are you waiting for? Go home and shower. The dress will be with you in forty minutes. I’ve given them your address. Get ready and come back here in an hour to put the necklace on. Insurance, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ Elena said, patting her shoulder. ‘We’ve both been working very hard recently, Francesca. Tonight, we shall have some fun.’
The dress alone was worth more than her car back home (a battered twelve-year-old Golf that actually groaned every time she sat in it and only went into fifth gear from third). White lace and floor-length, with a black velvet bow at the waist, it gave her a shape she’d never imagined on herself before. She had blow-dried her hair for once, and gone as far as applying some grey kohl and mascara to her eyes, as well as slicking a tinted gloss across her lips.
She stood in front of the mirror in her bald little apartment, the lace hem incongruous as it kissed the terracotta tiles, and worrying whether it mattered that her toenails – which peeked through the black suede shoes that had come with the dress (all miraculously in her size) – were unpainted.
Well, there was no time to do anything about it now. With a deep breath, she closed the door of the apartment and tiptoed carefully down her steps, taking care to lift the hem of the dress so as not to trail it through the freshly watered geranium pots.
She felt conspicuous as she walked the short distance between the apartment and the palazzo, wishing it had a side door onto the piazzetta as people stopped to stare at her hurrying over the cobbles, feeling too tall in her heels, lace gathered in one hand, her hair shimmering in the fiery dusk light.
‘Francesca!’
The cry made her stop in her tracks. Signora Accardo came hurrying out of the osteria towards her, abandoning her diners and making them all turn and stare. The little old lady’s white bun didn’t wobble as she bustled quickly in her direction, shaking her hands in the air in a gesture that could have been praising the heavens – or damning them. ‘Carina, carina, where are you going? You look like a princess.’
‘I feel like one,’ Cesca shrugged shyly, noticing even Signor Accardo standing by the fig tree watching them, wiping his hands on his long white apron. He’d left the kitchen? She must look different . . . ‘I’ve been invited to the Bulgari party on Via Condotti tonight. They’re show-casing their new collection. Or something.’
‘You are a vision,’ Signora Accardo said, walking around her and sighing. ‘Mia cara. Mia cara. Where is Signora Dutti?’
‘I’m not su—’
‘She should see you. Otto!’ She called across the width of the square to her husband. ‘Fetch her! Fetch her!’ she cried, motioning to the closed door below Cesca’s apartment.
‘Actually, I should get going. I’ve got to—’
But Signora Dutti had been roused anyway by the shouts outside and was already hurrying towards them.
‘Mia cara, mia cara,’ she began crying, her hands fluttering above her heart as she too started praising Cesca’s fairy-tale dress and the two women started gabbling in rapid-fire Italian. Cesca didn’t dare tell them about the four million dollars’ worth of emeralds she was about to put on with it.
‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go,’ Cesca said, using her thumb to indicate her direction. ‘I’ll be late.’
‘You go with your sweetheart?’ Signora Dutti asked, eyes misty with the romance of it all.
‘My boss. The Principessa.’
In a flash, both women’s faces changed.
‘Pah.’
‘Tuh.’
‘She is wicked woman, Francesca. Bad lady. Why are you with her?’ Signora Dutti demanded.
‘Because it’s a job. And I need a job. I really don’t understand why you both don’t like her. She’s fine.’
But Signora Accardo shook her head stoutly. ‘Is no good, Francesca. Is problema.’
Cesca nodded, knowing they meant well. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay. It’s fine. Really. It’s just a job. It’s fine. But thank you. I know you’re only looking out for me. But I really must go. I’m sorry. Thank you . . . Okay . . .’
She took her leave, having almost to run out of the piazzetta and into the Piazza Angelica, up the steps to the palazzo. The door opened as she reached the top step, as though Alberto had been waiting for her – which, of course, he had been.
Elena, too, was waiting: on a satin bench, the necklace ready for her. Within three minutes, they were in a bullet-proof black limousine being whisked off to the party, security guards riding on motorbikes behind. Her fingers at her neck, Cesca looked out of the tinted windows as they sped through the city – past Mussolini’s grand marble monuments, past the crumbling ruins of an ancient empire, past the winged angels of Castel Sant’Angelo and the colonnaded saints of Vatican City – and she knew she was part of a different Rome tonight, one where she could almost forget that beneath the pomp and the grandeur, there were quarries and holes and pitfalls which could break the ground beneath her feet at any given moment.