The Italian Romance by Joanne Carroll Read Free Book Online Page B

and I’ll show you a beauty I picked up at the sales last week. Two-year-old,’ he said.
    Mae began to hoist herself to her feet. The girl, watching her, stood. She felt the damp imprint of her husband’s arm on her back.
    â€˜No, love, we’ll do it,’ Vince said. ‘You lot stay here and talk. It’s early yet. You sit down, too, Lilian.’

‘Lilian! What are you doing?’
    â€˜I’m working,’ I say. I hope it hits the mark but I know very well it won’t. Margaret wasn’t born that way. I breathe heavily into the telephone.
    â€˜Listen,’ she says. ‘I knew you’d be interested in this. There’s a new woman doing archaeological tours. She’s excellent, evidently. Don’t know her. English, I think. Or maybe she’s a Yank. Anyway. Every Thursday morning for six weeks. What do you think?’
    â€˜Well, as I say, I’m working at the moment, Margaret.’
    â€˜But this won’t take long. And you might get a good idea for a book out of it, that’s what I was thinking. They reckon she points out where the bordellos were for the clergy, hundreds of years ago.’ She laughs. ‘My God! And we could go for lunch, afterwards. Oh, listen, by the way...’ she says and there is a hiatus.
    I wait for a modest pause and say, ‘Yes, Margaret?’
    â€˜I heard about that dreadful woman at your dinner the other night. I mean, we were busy as it happens. But what did you do? I couldn’t believe my ears.’
    I can see the wall socket holding the phone connection. If I were to lean over in my chair and yank it out, surely she’d be none the wiser. I could leave it out all day. All week, in fact. Except I couldn’t, because Francesca might ring.
    â€˜Johnny told you, did he?’ I say.
    â€˜No, it was ... Oh God, I can’t remember. Oh, I know who it was, it was Frank’s secretary. Even the ambassador’s wife thinks she’s a slut. Frank’s secretary, I mean. I’m not worried about it because I know good, old Frank. He knows which side his bread is buttered on, that’s one thing you can say about him.’
    â€˜Who told her?’ I say, calmly.
    â€˜God, who did she say it was again?’ She drifts off for a thoughtful moment. ‘Oh, Johnny! You’re right. She’s after him, I believe. Poor old Johnny. You ought to warn him, Lilian. She’s incredible. She’s like one of those cartoon things, garbage bin things, you know, with teeth.’ She makes a few rather vivid gnashing sounds.
    I can’t bear her any longer, not her endless prattle, and certainly not her terrifying, bulging-eyed panic. Not today. And I am enraged.
    â€˜Well, look, Margaret, thanks for thinking of me. But I really can’t get Thursdays clear for a while. I’m under pressure with this one.’
    â€˜A deadline,’ she says, perhaps seriously.
    â€˜Absolutely. So, thanks again. I’ll make contact when I come out from under,’ I say. I am ready to put down the receiver.
    But she is too quick for me. ‘But what did you do? She sounds really, really dreadful. She just walked out, did she?’
    â€˜Oh, it wasn’t like that. She arrived late, by accident. Got lost. And then had to go early. Just a little awkward for her, that’s all.’ I am so smooth these days.
    â€˜I thought there was some kind of a row or something,’ Margaret says hopefully.
    I laugh. I haven’t laughed a good belly laugh, even a pretend one, since I met Francesca. Again. ‘Good Lord, isn’t Johnny hilarious?’ I say. ‘No, no, no. Nothing like that.’ I am playing with my pen. I pick it up and, in the margin of my open writing pad, draw a noughts and crosses grid. ‘Well, do let me know how the walking tours go, Margaret, and thanks for thinking of me.’
    â€˜I just thought you might get a book out of it.’
    â€˜Very kind.