Roman Summer Read online

  Ruth shook her head. ‘Not now. It would have done at first.’

  ‘How long were you married? Under three years? So short a time? What happened?’

  In the brief bald words she kept for answering such questions from strangers Ruth told how Alec had been bound for the London office on a routine visit when he had been one among the total loss of passengers and crew of the aircraft he had travelled in. Then, sparing her companion the conventional sympathy he might feel he must offer, she changed the subject. ‘Until I saw a news story about you some years ago, I didn’t know you were in the musical world at all,’ she told him.

  ‘It was rather inevitable,’ he said. ‘I went to college with the rest of my Sixth year at Charlwood, and when I came down I joined my father and my uncle who were in partnership as concert agents. But I wasn’t content for long with the lesser artistes they dealt with. When I’d had a lucky break or two in placing some star names I began to move into the big time on my own. Of course my beginner’s luck didn’t hold, but I was cocksure enough to believe that the best plums were there for the gathering, so I bided my time until some of them were ripe.’

  ‘Such as Signora Parioli?’ Ruth questioned.

  ‘Such as Stella Parioli—among others.’

  ‘You haven’t married.’ Knowing from his publicity that he had not, Ruth made a statement of it.

  No,’ he confirmed. ‘May I—?’ At her nod he sat down, stretching out his legs. ‘No—looking for a piece of sky on which to squander a soldino is no immediate problem of mine. Most of the glamorous, talented women I know are my bread-and-butter, and while that’s so, the folly of marriage is a heady, distracting adventure I don’t mean to afford.’

  ‘You sound rather blasé about women,’ said Ruth.

  He shrugged. ‘You could say I’m the boy from the jam factory who, when they offered him jam at the Sunday School treat, said, “No, thank you. I works where it’s made—” ’

  ‘Agreeing that you are blasé?’

  ‘If you like. I prefer to see it as putting first things first—first for me being a career at which I’ve worked like the devil, with the possible entanglement of marriage being a poor second, even if it’s anywhere in the field. After all, I have as much of the society of women as I want, and I see no reason at present to invite one of them to shackle me by the wrist.’ As Ruth flinched at the cynicism of this, he said, ‘Treading on your dreams, am I? I’m sorry.’

  She came back at him. ‘Don’t be,’ she said with spirit. ‘Personally I’d rather have my dreams trodden on than admit I had no dreams at all.’

  ‘Who’s admitting to having no dreams?’ he countered. ‘Or, being a woman, for you must any dream be irrevocably linked to romance?’

  ‘Of course not. But it was your rejection of romance that we were talking about, I thought.’

  He crooked an eyebrow. ‘Now I thought we were talking about my rejection of marriage,’ he said meaningly, and seemed to relish the naive flush which Ruth knew had flooded her cheeks. ‘Meaning that for you they are not necessarily at all the same thing?’ she asked.

  ‘Exactly. In other words—that currently I have plenty of jam—’ He allowed his pause to point the meaning of that even more clearly, then he stood up.

  ‘I’ll write to Mrs. Mordaunt if I may, telling her we’re in broad agreement as to your hostessing of Cicely, and she’ll be in touch with you, confirming terms. Cicely, by the way,’ he added, ‘flies in the day after tomorrow. May I ring you as to the time, and drive you out to the airport to meet her?’

  ‘Please do.’ Ruth adjusted quickly to his switch from the provocative to the businesslike, but as he took her hand in parting his half-amused scrutiny of her face embarrassed her again.

  ‘I hadn’t noticed until now, but you’ve still got rusty eyebrows,’ he said.

  While they waited for Cicely Mordaunt’s aircraft to come in Ruth asked how well Erle knew his protégée and what she was like.

  ‘I’ve known her off and on since she was about ten,’ he replied. ‘She and her mother go to stay with my people at intervals. As I remember, she has long blonde hair and blue eyes, so she should be God’s gift to Italian youth, and you may find your role as chaperon no sinecure. Have you thought out any cultural programme for her?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Ruth. ‘I thought I’d find out whether her chief bent is architecture or sculpture or history or whatever, and begin with that.’

  ‘And supposing her bent leans principally towards the nearest pop joint or the Lido?’

  Ruth laughed. ‘It may well, of course, and I may be hard put to it to sugar the pill of “culture”. But when she goes home, she’s going to want to come back to Rome, or I’ll know the reason why!’

  ‘Determined to earn your fee, or because you’re jealously attached to Rome yourself?’

  ‘Both, I suppose,’ Ruth admitted. ‘I only know I’d hate anyone with whom I’d had any influence to leave Rome without feeling nostalgia for some aspect of it that’s unique to it.’

  Erle leaned back in his chair, regarding her beneath his lowered lids. ‘You’re an idealist, aren’t you?’ he commented. ‘Or an angel with a flaming sword. Could I have picked better for young Cicely’s higher education, I ask myself? Sounds as if, though, I may have to temper the cultural wind a bit by taking her out to the odd night-club or orgy. And supposing I admitted to seeing Rome as no more than a good central base for my operations, would you feel impelled to sell your enchantment with it to me too?’

  Suspecting from his tone that she was being baited, Ruth determined she would not ‘rise’. ‘It would depend on whether I was being paid the rate for the job,’ she retorted lightly.

  He laughed, confirming for her that he hadn’t been serious. ‘In other words, you wouldn’t do it for love?’

  ‘Would you expect me to?’ she parried.

  ‘Only for money, h’m? Though perhaps you might agree to payment in kind?’

  Pretending suspicion of the offer, Ruth said, ‘What kind of kind?’

  ‘Well, say dinner for two at Alfredo’s in exchange for a conducted tour of the Vatican, or a box at the Opera rating a day at the Borghese Museum. What do you say?’

  ‘I think—that we’re talking a lot of nonsense, and hypothetical nonsense at that,’ she returned.

  He wasn’t to be squashed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. What is so hypothetical about it? You may yet find me sitting in at your lectures to Cicely, saving myself either money or kind, and gaining for you two converts for the price of one!’ he retorted, and by the immediate announcement of the arrival of the flight they awaited, Ruth was spared having to find a reply.

  It was not difficult to identify Cicely Mordaunt, for she was the only girl coming through alone from the Customs Hall, and her bright fair hair lay across her shoulders like a cloak. Moreover, she ran straight to Erle, slinging her handbag far up her arm in order to embrace him and to plant a kiss firmly on his lips.

  ‘Erle darling, I’m here! I’m here!’ she announced unnecessarily, while for Ruth the thought flashed—‘People have to be sixteen, like Cicely, or as poised and assured as Stella Parioli, in order to kiss as uninhibitedly as that...’ She watched as Erle held Cicely off and tweaked her cheek.

  ‘So one sees,’ he agreed. ‘Dyed in the wool and a yard wide—’

  Indignantly Cicely smoothed her slim hips. ‘I am not a yard wide!’

  ‘All right. Just a figure of speech.’ He turned to Ruth. ‘Meet Cicely, will you, Ruth? Cicely—Mrs. Ruth Sargent.’

  They shook hands. Cicely said, ‘I’m to stay with you? D’you know, I’m awfully glad you’re young? I thought you’d be the dowager type, or governessy, which would be worse. Does Erle call you Ruth because you know each other madly well, or because he once knew you at school, as he told Mummy when he phoned about you? And how long ago would that have been, for goodness’ sake?’

  Erle answered that. ‘About when you were in your cradle,’ he told her.

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, aeons back! Anyway, may I call you Ruth too?’

  ‘If you want to, I hope you will,’ said Ruth as Erle led the way to the car park.

  Arrived there, she would have given up the front seat to Cicely, but Erle put the girl in the back, at which she giggled happily, ‘Talking to me, you’re afraid you won’t concentrate on your driving!’ to which he retorted cryptically, ‘Be sure of it, that’s it.’

  Cicely sat forward, and as soon as the featureless airport approach roads were left behind, she was rapturous over a scene where elegant cars purred, where the pavement cafes were crowded with customers, where there was busyness and light and shops still open as Rome dressed itself for its gay evening hours.

  ‘I can hardly wait!’ she crooned. ‘I’ve always heard that Rome is swinging—all those film people who live here, and all those dreamy fashions, ’way beyond beyond—Erle, d’you think you could get us introductions to a really super fashion show? Could you?’

  To which he promised laconically, ‘I daresay I could try,’ then cocked an eyebrow at Ruth.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ he murmured, scarcely moving his lips. ‘The Vatican and Borghese up against some stiff competition—no?’

  He left them at Ruth’s flat, saying he would be in touch the next day. Ruth opened the door and went in, but Cicely lingered in the doorway, looking after the car.

  ‘He’s dreamy, isn’t he—Erle, I mean?’ she murmured. ‘I’ve been in love with him since I don’t know when—’ an extravagance which startled Ruth and which she thought it best to ignore.

  She showed Cicely to her room, with which Cicely professed to be delighted, then donned an apron and set about preparing the supper she had planned. She was putting out a bottle of wine when Cicely came into the room, her face falling at sight of the laid table.

  ‘Oh, couldn’t we go out somewhere tonight—my first night?’ she pleaded. ‘Somewhere gay. Wouldn’t Erle take us?’

  ‘If he’d meant to, he’d have invited us when we were with him.’ Ruth demurred.

  ‘I don’t know. He might have thought you had something planned for me. Could I ring him and see what he says?’

  Ruth thought of the offices she had visited, and had begun, ‘I doubt if he’ll be there—’ when she realized Cicely meant to ring his apartment, the address of which she did not know. When told so, Cicely said, ‘Well, he’ll be in the book, won’t he? May I look? How do you ring up in Italy anyway? Will you do it for me?’

  Ruth got the number for her, handing her the receiver. ‘If you say “Pronto” when he answers, he’ll think you’ve begun to learn some Italian already,’ she smiled, and left the room.

  When she came back a few minutes later Cicely, looking crestfallen, had rung off. ‘I didn’t get him,’ she announced.

  ‘He was out?’

  ‘I don’t know. An Italian woman answered. She said “Pronto” and then what sounded like her name—Stella Somebody—and waited. Then, when I said—in English, of course—was Erle there, she said, in English too, but with a foreign accent, “He is not free” and hung up on me. Shall I try again?’

  ‘I shouldn’t, if I were you,’ Ruth advised.

  ‘Well, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? And who was that woman?’

  ‘Because if he’d wanted me to reach him at his private address he’d have given it to me. And “Stella”, I think, must be Stella Parioli, a famous singer who’s one of his clients. She sings mezzo-soprano roles like Carmen.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ said Cicely bluntly. ‘I suppose that makes me a philistine. But what was she doing in Erle’s apartment?’

  Ruth’s gesture was of supreme ignorance. ‘My dear girl, how do I know? Perhaps she could say he wasn’t free because she knew they were going on somewhere.’

  ‘Or were spending the evening there, just the two of them,’ forecast Cicely darkly. ‘Anyway, what do we do now?’

  Ruth said briskly, ‘I suggest we have our supper as I planned—it’s just ready. And afterwards we’ll go for a walk round the houses and you can have your first taste of Rome. We won’t have coffee here, we’ll have it out.’

  ‘Oh, O.K.’ But Cicely could not leave her grievance. ‘In Erle’s apartment at night; answering his telephone; sounding as if she owned him! “He is not free”,’ she mimicked the accent cruelly. ‘So what do you suppose that makes this Stella person? His current girl-friend at least?’

  Ruth said, ‘Again I don’t know.’ As she went to bring in the dishes she was wondering at her reluctance to feel sure just what was the relationship between Erle and Stella Parioli. Jam ...?

  CHAPTER TWO

  As Erle had warned, Cicely showed no warm interest in the antiquities of Rome. It was the city of the luxurious shops, the shabby palazzos of the district across the river, the thousand fountains, and the teeming crowds who lived a large part of their lives on the sunny streets which intrigued her most.

  Ruth was disappointed, for it was the blending of the ancient and the modern which fascinated her—the ruins of the Colosseum and of the Forum at the very heart of the city centre; the noisy scooters and the fussy runabout cars darting about on streets and squares paved and worn to pebble smoothness by two thousand years of use. Where her eyes were for the majesty and history of age-old things, Cicely’s were for people and children and the changing kaleidoscope of the ordinary street scene.

  She would watch, fascinated, the commonest of Roman sights—a street-corner argument in which gesticulating hands and lifting shoulders were as expressive as the busy tongues, and she would join the audience for a Punch and Judy show in the Borghese Gardens simply for the pleasure of watching the children entranced. After a time Ruth realised she must come to a compromise between her duty to Cicely as she saw it and Cicely’s own idea of the use to be made of her summer in Rome. But that was after a particularly disastrous morning at the Vatican Museum and following a somewhat heated argument with Erle.

  Ruth had warned that their sightseeing would involve, first, a long queue-wait outside and then at least hour-long walking through the magnificent Raphaelite galleries with the prize of the Sistine Chapel at the end of the tour. Cicely had complied, though none too enthusiastically. She took considerably more pleasure in glimpses of the Vatican gardens than she did of the myriad-coloured frescoes and paintings; she even viewed the Sistine Chapel as a duty, and by the end of the morning her relations with Ruth were considerably strained.

  She was sulky at lunch and afterwards said she was going to take a book into the nearby Borghese Gardens. Ruth had a lesson to give to a pupil, who had only just left when Erle called. They hadn’t seen much of him since Cicely’s arrival and he came unannounced today. He asked where Cicely was and Ruth, telling him, added: ‘We “did” the Vatican Museum this morning, and in consequence we’re not on the best of terms, I’m afraid.’

  Erle laughed. ‘What did I tell you? The child is only sixteen and you’ve probably been cramming culture down her throat.’

  ‘It’s what her mother sent her here for,” objected Ruth.

  ‘You should still dilute the dose.’

  ‘But if you’re going to see the Vatican Museum, you’re going to see it, and it takes hours from start to finish. I think Cicely was cross principally because her feet in sandals hurt her. Yet I’d told her to wear sensible shoes.’

  ‘And she didn’t, and now is “not amused”?’

  ‘Distinctly not. I’m in the doghouse for “dragging” her there.’

  Erle said unsympathetically, ‘It could be you’ve only yourself to blame. I wouldn’t put it past you to have made out an ironclad itinerary and a rigid timetable, and woe betide anyone who dares to upset it!’

  Hurt, Ruth protested, ‘Why wouldn’t you put it past me?’

  ‘Because, at a guess, you’re of the Boy-stood-on-the- burning-deck mentality. Give you a trust to fulfil and you’ll fulfil it to its last letter—right?’

  Knowing it abou
t herself, Ruth said, ‘And what’s so wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing—so long as it’s only yourself you’re caging inside a set of rules. Doesn’t Cicely ever play?’

  ‘Play?’

  ‘At parties, for instance. You should give one for her.’

  ‘I don’t know enough people of her age to invite.’

  ‘Then I’d better give one. And you could do worse by her than taking her to, say, the Piazza Venezia, where she’s got half a dozen streets raying out, giving her a city map and telling her to explore by herself.’

  ‘I’m supposed to chaperon her.’

  ‘Tcha! The letter of the law again. I’m not suggesting you abandon her at midnight, and the only way to learn any city is to walk about it on your own two feet. Which reminds me—can you drive a car in Italy?’

  ‘I used to, and I’ve kept my driving licence renewed. Why?’

  ‘Because it’s what I came to tell you—that I’ve had another telephone talk with Mrs. Mordaunt and she’d like me to hire a car for you to take Cicely about. So I’m laying on a little 500 for you; they’re easy to park and you can keep it at the garage round the corner.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ruth. ‘That will mean I can take her further afield.’

  ‘Exactly. Show her the Appian Way, for instance, and dare her to be blasé about driving along the oldest road in the world that’s still in use; on the original paving-stones too,’ Erle advised.

  He did not wait to see Cicely, which added to her sense of grievance when she came in. But on hearing of the projected party and the car, her black mood passed.

  Erle invited them to the party by telephone. It was to be a restaurant affair. Cicely spent the afternoon at the hairdresser’s and emerged with her hair piled high, adding at least three years to her age; Ruth always shampooed her own short hair, but treated herself to an expensive cut. Cicely wore a sunray-pleated lame dress; Ruth went in one of her two evening gowns, a peacock-green batwing-sleeved blouson over a narrow matching skirt.

  Erle called for them, making Cicely, for whom the party was given, his partner for the evening. At the restaurant they and his other guests foregathered in a big private ante-room; introductions were made, drinks were proffered, and the usual party jabber was in a Babel of different languages. Watched at a distance by Ruth, Cicely was quaintly possessive of Erle, tucking her arm into his, laughing up at him, making the most of her evening as his particular choice, possibly seeing herself, Ruth thought with a little stab of compassion, as a serious rival of all the exotic, demanding women who were part of his every day.