Table Of ContentPENNY FEENY has lived and worked in Cambridge, London and Rome.
Since settling in Liverpool many years ago she has been an arts
administrator, editor, radio presenter and advice worker. Her debut novel
That Summer in Ischia was published in 2011. She is married with two sons
and three daughters.
The Apartment in Rome
Penny Feeny
A complete catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the British
Library on request The right of Penny Feeny to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988
Copyright © 2013 Penny Feeny
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publisher.
First published in 2013 by Tindal Street,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
www.tindalstreet.co.uk
ISBN 978 1 90699 443 3
eISBN 978 1 90699 499 0
Designed and typeset by Tetragon, London Printed by Clays, Bungay, Suffolk
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Charles
Acknowledgements
This book has had a long gestation. It began as a short story which developed
into my first (rather different) novel. I am indebted to Alan Mahar of Tindal
Street Press for suggesting I resurrect and rewrite it and I am immensely grateful
to him for his skilful and attentive editing. Many thanks are also due to Luke
Brown and the team at Profile; to Madeline Heneghan and Mike Morris and all
at Writing on the Wall; to Rebecca Goss for companionship along the road to
publication; to Elinor and Elliott Elsey for help with research in Rome and to
Charles, Jack, Roisin, George and Imogen Feeny for support and inspiration.
PART ONE
JULY 2010
1
It had seemed a small triumph at the time. Gina had been teasing Roberto,
boasting about her client list until he called her bluff. Now he believed the idea
was his own: a portrait of his son appealed to his vanity.
She had pushed further. ‘Why don’t I photograph your wife as well?’
His wedding ring winked as he flapped his hand. ‘Boh! She’s far too busy.
She’s never at home. Besides, why would I risk leaving you alone with her?’
‘What do you think I’m going to say?’
He laughed. ‘I’m more concerned about what she’d say to you. She’s very
acute; she’d see through you in a moment.’
Gina felt confident she could handle Roberto’s wife, but when she arrived at
his lavish apartment complex, built around a garden as lush as a tropical rain
forest and protected by tall electronic gates, she couldn’t help a shiver of
resentment. He’d always been cagey about his wealth. Occasionally he would
overwhelm her with extravagant gifts – an expensive bottle of champagne or a
box at the opera, nothing she could usefully recycle – but in general she regarded
him as tight-fisted.
She’d considered getting Antonio Boletti to come to the studio, but she shared
the space, which was run by an artists’ cooperative, and she hadn’t made a
booking in time. Anyway, for their first meeting it would be useful to see the
boy in his own habitat. She’d already guessed at his appearance: he’d have his
father’s nose and the sleek waves of black hair that Bertie was losing. He’d
probably be wearing Prada, and a watch that would buy a year’s supply of hot
meals for one of the bundles of rags that curled up at night outside Rome’s old
city walls.
She rang the external bell and was buzzed in through the gardens. Then a
maid with broad Slavic features admitted her to the entrance hall, a glistening
arena of marble, and indicated a lush purple velvet sofa. Gina sank into the
cushions; really it was too low. Glossy magazines were fanned out on a glass-
topped coffee table; a single amaryllis bloomed in an angular pot. Evidently the
touch of Signora Boletti. The effect, she thought, was of a very expensive
dentist’s waiting room or a private clinic; a place where you were being softened
up for bad news.
As she waited she glimpsed someone flit through a doorway at the far end of
the hall, a gawky teenage figure with the long loose hair often affected by the
the hall, a gawky teenage figure with the long loose hair often affected by the
offspring of the rich. She called his name softly – she’d have preferred an
unsupervised encounter – but Antonio didn’t respond. She picked up one of the
magazines and thumbed through it until she heard the sharp tap of footsteps. She
rose.
At first she couldn’t decide what it was about the woman that disturbed her.
Everything was pressed into order: the straight silvery blonde hair, the wings of
the collar poking in a preppy way from the neck of her cotton jumper, the
turned-back cuffs, the sharp crease in her trousers running from thigh to ankle,
the narrow dainty shoes. But something was not right.
‘Signora Boletti?’ said Gina.
‘Si.’ Her handshake was limp, unenthusiastic. Afterwards she tucked her arms
behind her back. ‘Roberto said he was going to call you. I’m sorry you’ve had a
wasted journey.’
The phone was Gina’s favourite instrument after the camera, but now and
again they came into conflict. If she needed to focus she would switch off her
mobile. ‘Really? What’s the problem?’
‘Poor Antonio isn’t well. That’s why I’ve come over, to look after him.’
Come over? Didn’t they live together? Was Roberto pretending to be married
so she wouldn’t make too many demands? She’d known men who’d done that,
who’d found a wife a useful fabrication. She gazed back at Signora Boletti’s
smooth maquillage and all of a sudden made sense of what was bothering her.
The woman was not Bertie’s wife, for Christ’s sake, she was his terrifyingly
well-maintained mother. A far more daunting proposition.
Gina at once altered her demeanour, gave her widest smile. ‘Oh, what a
shame!’ she said. ‘But I was planning to do the studio shots some other time
anyway. Part of the reason for today’s visit was to get to know Antonio a little.
Establish a rapport. Which is so important with portraiture, you see. The person
has to really trust you and then you can discover what you want to draw out of
them for the image. Is he very ill?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Roberto’s mother said with a finality that Gina
immediately wanted to test. ‘An ear infection. The doctor has insisted he keep to
his bed. And both his parents are so occupied with their commitments…’ She
spread her hands. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Gina nodded, thinking: she knows about me and Bertie. She doesn’t approve.
That’s why she’s being so obstructive. I bet there’s nothing wrong with the boy
at all. ‘Perhaps he’s feeling better now? I thought I saw him.’
Signora Boletti moved her head a fraction. ‘No, that’s not possible.’
Annoyed that she was being fobbed off, Gina was determined to buy time,
investigate a little more. ‘It was quite a long journey here,’ she said. ‘Do you
mind if I sit down for a few minutes before I have to go back again?’
‘You don’t have a car?’
‘I don’t drive.’
‘Shall I call you a taxi?’
Gina had come to Parioli by bus. Her regular cab driver, Mario, was booked
to take a client to the airport and, as usual, she’d been short of ready cash.
‘Actually, a glass of water first would be lovely. If it’s not inconvenient.’
‘Of course. Ice?’
She was lucky. As Signora Boletti went in search of the maid, somewhere
behind the panelled double doors a phone began to ring. Gina hoped the caller
would be long-winded and effusive. She glided as quietly as possible across the
marble to the room she thought she had identified as Antonio’s. She gave a
tentative knock. ‘Permesso?’
She could hear movement and the low throb of music issuing from
headphones. The door was already ajar; without waiting for a response, she
pushed through it. The figure she’d noticed before was sitting cross-legged on
the bed, jabbing at a laptop. When it raised its head, a little sulkily, Gina felt
once again confounded. This was not how she had imagined Bertie’s son would
look. Freckles for a start. When did Italian kids ever have freckles? And,
although she was trying not to stare, the baggy T-shirt didn’t hide the rise of
young breasts: it was obvious the person in front of her was female.
She began to apologise. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you. I didn’t realise there’d be
anyone else here. I was looking for Antonio. Perhaps you could pass on a
message for me?’
The girl pulled off her headphones, bemused. ‘Non capisco. Sono inglese.’
‘Oh, are you?’ exclaimed Gina in English. ‘That explains it.’
‘What?’
The freckles, she meant, but didn’t say.
The girl closed the lid of her laptop and leaned forward curiously. ‘Are you
English too?’
‘Yes – at least I have a British passport; but I haven’t lived there for twenty
years.’
‘Wow. You’ve been in Rome all that time?’
‘I started off in Milan, on the catwalk, but then the agency sent me down
here. It suits me better anyway, more laid-back.’
