You know he painted Ladybird, and all those strong-faced people in Persia, and he has this fabulous yacht called the Dolly ?’
I laid down my pencil. ‘Maurice. When I want to swap Charles for Johnson, you will be the first I shall tell. I promise you.’
Nothing ever shakes Maurice. ‘I’m so glad, darling,’ he said. ‘These small woolly men are often quite energetic. Di says he’s lovely, and I don’t think she’s even got him into bed yet.’
I wasn’t feeling witty. I got rid of him by saying that I had to go along and visit Innes, and did he want to see Poppy.
Next day I treated myself to a trip into Rome, and went and bought shoes at Samo’s, which may not seem the gesture of defiance it is if you don’t know Samo’s prices. Then I went and had a coffee at the Greco.
Di was there, which was nice. She had on dark glasses and a long coat of grey glacé snakeskin, edged from neck to floor with lime green rabbit fur, and lime green stockings to match. She was alone, and reading the Daily American with a Wodka Moskoskaya Martini in front of her. I sat down, and she turned over a page. ‘He’s gone to Naples,’ she said. Under whatever unusual circumstances Minicuccis were born, it wasn’t yesterday.
‘I know,’ I said. A tailcoated waiter brought my drinks and a glass of water, and put them on the round marble table. I said, ‘Thank God he isn’t with Johnson. Maurice had persuaded himself he’s a sex maniac.’
‘That’s Maurice’s wishful thinking,’ Di said. ‘You can just imagine all the slap and tickle he’s hoping for out of ten sittings. This paper has the most peculiar advertisements. Dynamic experienced poised bilingual executive secretary needed for financial office in centre, Italian hours.’
I considered it. ‘It sounds almost normal.’
‘Yes,’ said Di. ‘That’s just what I mean. Well, what about this one? WHO has white American Turkeys for Thanksgiving? The Zoo Farm. Order yours now .’
‘No, thanks,’ I said. Another advertisement had caught my eye. It said, fall fair, 7th Nov., 2.00 to 5.00, and underneath:
Museo Nazionale, Palazzo Barberini, Tuesday Nov. 7th. Bring the kids. Home-baked Goodies; Ready-wear Rack; Games; Tombola; Genuine Auction.
A chorus of loud cries, rending the scarlet plush baroque ambience of the Greco and causing the antico oil paintings to tremble on the silk damask walls heralded the arrival of Di’s current party on a wave of Patou and Madame Rochas. I gave Di her Daily American and lit out.
Gladioli and carnations and roses were massed at the foot of the Spanish Steps. I walked there behind two soldiers with black tricorn hats and broad red stripes on their trousers; their tailcoats beat in rhythm like blackbirds all the way past the fountain and up the first flight of steps. A group of Indians with a guitar was sitting on the steps just above, strumming and talking with a man in a brown woollen pullover who was accompanying on comb and tissue.
It was Johnson Johnson. He got up as I stepped around the pendants and said, ‘Well, Christ, at last. I take it you’ve left Di behind you?’
He was jacketless and his trousers were bagged. The bifocal glasses glittered under a lot of black hair. I said, ‘She’s at the Caffe Greco,’ and moved my skirt away from the guitarist’s expert fingering. I added, ‘Waiting for you.’
‘Hardly,’ said Johnson. He jerked his head towards the big yellow hotel at the top of the steps. ‘I’m at the Hassler. I saw you both pass from the roof terrace. If you don’t believe me, come and have lunch with me.’
‘Instead of Di?’ I looked at him. ‘Hardly,’ I added.
‘Instead of Charles,’ said Johnson politely.
That is the great thing about Rome. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.
I am not in want, but I don’t lunch every day at the Hassler, either. Among the other reasons why I accepted Johnson’s invitation was the conviction that anyone who could stand up
Angela White, Kim Fillmore, Lanae Morris