Just South of Rome by Judy Nunn Read Free Book Online

women, I could hear Umberto giving it all it was worth.
    ‘If he was a good conman,’ Stefano insisted, finally forced into debate, ‘the Hotel Visconti would attract more than the odd cheap package tour. But Umberto knows nothing of business. He simply likes to play the host. Annita keeps the villa functioning on a basic level and Umberto pretends that he is running a five-star hotel.’
    ‘Exactly. He pretends. That makes him a conman.’
    ‘All right,’ Stefano said, acceding that ‘pretend’ was the wrong word. ‘He believes it. He believes that his Hotel Visconti is a grand hotel and that his food is special and his wine is special and that he is host extraordinaire .’
    ‘Well, he’s certainly that,’ I muttered.
    I was intrigued. Had I misjudged Stefano? Was he one of those ‘good’ people who refused to think ill of anyone? No, he was too suave, too good-looking to be ‘nice’. Perhaps, like Rosella and Natale, he had simply fallen under Umberto’s spell. Surely not, he was far too intelligent. Perhaps, and this was the most likely scenario, I decided, Stefano was a conman himself, a conman who recognised another conman.
    ‘I have an excellent idea,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?’
    ‘Oh.’ I was jolted back to reality by the Ryan Gosling eyes.
    ‘At my parents’ place.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said again. (His parents?)
    ‘No, no,’ he laughed, my surprise at the suggestion was readable, ‘not their home. They have a little restaurant in Castel Gandalfo.’ He was waiting for me to say something but I didn’t. ‘The food is good,’ he added.
    Still I was silent, my mind rapidly adding up the data. His mother is English, I thought. She’s married to an Italian. They have a restaurant in Castel Gandalfo. Oh my God …
    ‘The food really is very good,’ he promised again, ‘and there are lovely views of –’
    ‘The lake.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The lake. You said there were lovely views.’
    ‘Yes. Of the lake. That’s correct.’
    I was right. I had to be. Stefano was Wendy and Bruno’s son. ‘Um … that would be lovely, Stefano, but …’
    I was curiously deflated. Stefano’s mystery was diminishing before my very eyes. His relationship with Wendy made him somehow ‘family’. Good God, if I went to the restaurant, not only would Bruno think I was freeloading again, we’d all end up talking about Roland and the good old London days, I could just see it. And much as I loved Roland …
    ‘No thank you,’ I said firmly. ‘I intend to eat at the Hotel Visconti.’ I was stubborn in order to hide my disappointment. ‘I’m determined to put Umberto to the test. I shall order a la carte, a huge steak, and I shall choose my own wine, which he will open at the table.’
    Stefano looked at me for a moment and shook his head, either in admiration or exasperation, I wasn’t sure which. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘may I join you?’
    What could I say? Disappointment flew out the window. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
    A few minutes later, the Americans rounded off with ‘ Quanto e Bella ’ and Umberto raced into the bar.
    ‘Come, come,’ he said, grabbing my arm, ‘the Americans go to bed. You listen to Rosella. She sing.’
    I was tired with travel, heady with wine and knew I should go to bed, but Stefano was following us into the dining room, so I decided to stay for a further half hour of his company.
    As the last of the Americans trudged up the stairs, however (I noticed none of them use the lift), and as Umberto settled me back at my old table, Stefano made his apologies.
    ‘I must talk to Father Ralph about the morning’s itinerary, please excuse me. I shall see you tomorrow, Jane. Seven o’clock, in the bar?’ There was a wicked twinkle in his eyes – he knew he’d left me stranded.
    ‘Yes, fine.’ I glared back. ‘Seven o’clock’s fine.’
    The indefatigable Sarina was scuttling in and out of the swinging doors,