Upstairs, Downstairs Read online

  UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS

  Olivia Hart

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Upstairs, Downstairs

  Secrets on your doorstep don’t stay secret for long…

  When Daniele Bracci – a musician at Rome’s Opera Theatre arrives at his new apartment, he is surprised by the warm welcome he receives from his neighbours. Giovanna however, is more preoccupied with introducing him to her daughter Anita. But what she doesn’t know is that for the last two years, Anita has been secretly seeing someone else.

  When Anita is introduced to the new tenant, she has the shock of her life – Daniele was Anita’s first love at high school. Can she come to terms with the terrible way things ended between them?

  Anita isn't the only one with something to hide… and none of these secrets go unnoticed by Pina, the apartment gossip who writes everything down in her secret diary…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Upstairs, Downstairs

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  About Olivia Hart

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  … rose like a little romantic story

  Vinicio Capossela, With a Rose

  April 13, 2012

  Today Diego left. He’ll be away for a while. He’s going to Greece. It seems he’s rented his apartment to a friend of a friend. I’m curious to know who’ll come to live in our building… let’s hope he’s a nice guy who’ll help with the vegetable garden like Diego used to.

  1

  Do Not Say the Secret Words Out Loud

  “Do not say the secrets words out loud. Non dicere ille secrita a bboce. Do not say the secret words out loud.” Anita sings that late Latin inscription softly, whilst accelerating on her Isotta scooter as she reaches the gate of the garden dedicated to Commodilla. By now she’s like an old friend. Anita is singing, do not say the secret words out loud… passionately, with perfect pitch.

  “Damn it! Stupid pothole!” She clings to the scooter’s handlebars and braces her body for the recoil. But she regains control easily. “Sooner or later I’m going to seriously hurt myself if they don’t repair this road,” she thinks while her heart keeps racing.

  She’s almost there. She speeds up the hill, turns, stops, and parks in the usual spot. Her scooter is a glorious SH50 – a classic.

  Anita takes off her helmet, and with a graceful shake of her head a big mass of curly red hair resumes its shape. What does a ginger kid miss most about parties? The invitation! At elementary school kids used to tease her… yet, growing up, her flamboyant hair had become an asset. Slender hips, narrow waist, full, round breasts, and on top of everything her curly, luminous, rebellious red hair. She hardly goes unnoticed. The April sun, almost at sunset, illuminates her mane with a warm copper sheen that reflects on her fair, slightly freckled skin.

  She checks her hair quickly in the scooter’s mirror and adjusts a curl. Holding her shoulder bag, she walks confidently through the property’s alleyway. The dragon heads decorating the roof seem to watch her. “Watch out, Anita! If you don’t stop it, I’ll call the dragons… they can’t wait to take naughty children away.” Her mother used to say in exasperation when she was a little girl. And she, like the other children, often dreamed of those strange dragons.

  While approaching the building on the left, she sees Diego emerge from the building across the way. He’s about thirty years old and is dragging a big carry-on bag. He also has a backpack and a shoulder bag filled with photography equipment.

  “Hi Diego! Where are you going this time?”

  “Hi Anita, I’m going to Greece! Do you want to come with me?”

  “Too late… you should’ve asked me earlier…”

  “Damn! But you know I’d take you to the far end of the world, baby!” He winks.

  Anita laughs. “Always the same…”

  “I’m serious. It’s you who still pretends not to notice my adoration…”

  “Stop it and tell me what it’s about this time.”

  “You won’t believe it, I’ve had a stroke of fucking luck! My moment has come. Finally, I’m going to be the set photographer for a film – an international production. Maybe this is the one and I can say goodbye to trashy movies. Hollywood here I come!”

  “I’m so happy for you! How long will you be away?”

  “Four or five months. Not sure…”

  “And your apartment? The cat?”

  “All sorted. A friend of a friend will come and live here. He seems to be a pretty decent guy. I just made arrangements with your mother about the cat. I left her the keys and she’ll feed her until he comes.” Then he checks his watch. “Anita, I have go or I’ll miss my flight.”

  They look at each other and smile.

  “Good luck, Diego!”

  Anita stands in the courtyard watching her friend disappear. Then she heads home thinking, “If he leaves for good one day, I’ll have that apartment…”

  *

  Anita’s family have lived in the concierge’s apartment for three generations. Her great-grandmother Clelia moved there in 1936, when Borgo Pio was destroyed to build Via Conciliazione. Then the apartment was passed on to her grandmother Maria, and finally to her mother. Even when the janitor had been made redundant, the apartment, thank God, remained theirs.

  “Hi, Mum!”

  “Hi, Anita.” Her mother raised her eyes momentarily from the sewing machine.

  Giovanna, seamstress tape around her neck, is surrounded by colourful fabrics and is focused on sewing sequins onto a corset.

  “Are you still working for that eccentric lady?” Anita removes her jacket and boots.

  “Yes… Actually, come here! Try it on…”

  “Mum! I’m tired… and I’m not even half her size! Mum? Where are you?”

  “I’m making you a coffee!” She calls from the kitchen.

  “Mum, I don’t want a coffee. It’s too late, and I’d actually like to get some sleep tonight!”

  Giovanna ignores her daughter’s protests and makes the coffee anyway. In the meantime, she forces her to try on the sequinned corset while she adjusts it.

  “What a busy day!” Anita thinks, while agreeing to be a model for her mother. “From the Colosseo to Piazza di Spagna on foot with that stupid little flag in one hand, and then…”

  Her mother interrupts her thoughts. “How did it go today?”

  “Russians! I kept telling them, I’ll take you shopping tomorrow… tomorrow! I must have said it a hundred times but there was nothing I could do! It’s as if they have a sense of smell for luxury goods, better than hunting dogs! They leave Russia armed with a precise list of boutiques… You won’t believe this! At Piazza di Spagna almost all of them disappeared, one by one. Just four of us were left: a couple, an old man, and myself.”
r />   “Aren’t you being a little harsh about those poor tourists?” Giovanna asks, while putting pins around the corset’s waist. “Do you remember when I played the tourist for you and we did that long test walk, just a week before you started this job? You explained so many interesting things to me, but I confess, at some point I felt exhausted too!”

  “Mum, it’s not my fault if they want to see the whole of Rome in three days!”

  Anita is slightly annoyed by her mother’s comment. At times her work is not exactly how she imagined it, but her passion for the Eternal City remains unchanged. Her love for Rome began when she was a child and Aunt Marisa took her around the small streets of the historic centre. Aunt Marisa, her mother’s sister, had married a German and moved to Hamburg. Yet she kept returning to walk the streets she knew as a young woman. Her visits and their explorations through the city together were always a joy for Anita.

  “Alright, now I’ve had enough… I really need a shower.” Anita abruptly takes off the corset – she’s exhausted.

  *

  Getting out of the shower, Anita feels like a new woman – she’s finally relaxed. She has a white towel around her head like a turban, and she’s looking for her bathrobe. “Mum! Where’s my bathrobe?!” She yells, looking out from the bathroom door. On the wall in front of her she sees a post-it: ‘red thread’ – her mother has ran out to buy more at Erminia’s.

  “Jesus… I really need to move out.” She runs to her room naked, dripping water everywhere. It’s been a while since she thought about it, but she doesn’t have enough money or enough courage to live alone. “Where the hell did she put it?” She trips over her boots, carries on looking and finally finds her bathrobe folded perfectly on a chair, partially hidden by her own jacket. It’s fresh out of the laundry and smells good. She puts it on with a sense of pleasure. Once she’s dry, her hands move lightly over her body, rubbing on a soft, musk scented lotion. In front of the mirror she quickly double checks her bottom, just to make sure it hasn’t started to sag, then she opens her special drawer. Anita has a passion for lingerie. She has any and all kinds and colours of underwear sets for every occasion. The dilemma is always the same: which one to wear. The red one, with the brazilian panties and little bows that she wore for good luck to her job interview? The white one, with the push-up bra and sheer polka-dot panties that make her feel like a little girl? Or her latest purchase: shiny satin and flesh-coloured, that feel like a second skin? She touches them, examining each one as if the ambience of that evening would depend on her decision. Then she takes the white ones – she wants lightness tonight – and throws herself on the bed.

  Now she can finally daydream about someone in particular: Mizuki Murakami. She turns on the computer and plays some loud Japanese rock. “He should’ve called already…” But she immediately drops the unpleasant thought. She’s staring at the ceiling when she smells burnt coffee. “Mum… No-o…” She whispers, exasperated.

  She runs to the kitchen. The coffee pot is boiling and whistling and there’s coffee spilt all over the stove. The smell is strong and pungent. She turns off the gas and runs barefoot to get a sponge. She passes in front of the window, “Shit! I’m half naked! I can’t do it. Mum will have to clean up this mess when she gets back…”

  She returns to her bedroom and checks her watch for the umpteenth time: 7:20 p.m. “Where on earth are you?” She begins to roll a lock of hair round her finger.

  2

  Appointment at the Pyramid of Cestius

  Anita was in front of the Pyramid of Cestius the first time she saw him. The evening before, when the agency had asked her if she was available to guide a tour for a Japanese group, she had to go over the history of the monument for tourists rarely visited it. In front of the polyhedron, covered in Carrara marble, she would tell the story of that rich man – Caius Cestius – who wanted to be buried in a pyramid so as to be remembered like the great Egyptian Pharaohs. And, amused, she would add that his will was very clever: the pyramid had to be built by his heirs in three hundred and thirty days, otherwise they would lose their inheritance. And they made it!

  When she saw an elegant man approaching, she was curious and surprised: the formality of his dark suit contrasted with the huge camera he held, which was like those of paparazzi hunting for scoops. And after looking around for a moment, he came straight towards her; Anita thought that he was the first one to arrive. She was wrong! Mizuki Murakami was the only one in the group. He’d booked a private tour, a one-on-one archaeological visit.

  “Enough of this Japanese rock!” Anita turns off the computer and steps in front of the mirror. She examines herself, “To dress or not to dress? Assuming he calls… and provided I still want to go out…”

  This had never happened before: to be the tour guide for only one person. After a moment of embarrassment, he’d gently bowed and introduced himself. Yet in a second, Anita had already forgotten his name, so she began to tell the story of Caius Cestius’s delusions of grandeur. And, while he listened to her with deep attention, she kept asking herself how much that private tour had cost him.

  Before starting, she had asked him if he preferred the tour in English. “No, you can speak Italian. It’s good for me to practice.” He’d smiled slightly.

  Anita couldn’t help but notice his full lips and his dark, smooth hair, not short, combed back revealing his high forehead. He reminded her of someone, but she was too distracted by his charm to remember who it was.

  “Anitaaa! I’m back…”

  Giovanna’s voice interrupts her daydreaming. Anita tightens her shoulders, waiting for the blow.

  “My God, Anita! What have you done?! Didn’t you notice that the coffee was over-flowing?”

  “Yes, Mum, I did – but too late. You put the coffee on the burner and then you disappeared!” Anita yells from her room.

  “What’s wrong with you… It’s always the same, don’t worry, Mum’s always here to clean! Right?”

  Giovanna enters Anita’s bedroom ready for battle, but it only takes one of her daughter’s smiles to soften her.

  “Are you going out?”

  “Yes, Mum. Maybe… I think I told you.”

  “Will you be home late?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “What does I don’t know mean?”

  “Mum, I’m twenty-eight!”

  “Ok, ok, understood… Now, I’m off to the kitchen to fix that mess. Ah, I almost forgot! We have some funny things going on in the building…” But Anita interrupts her.

  “Tell me tomorrow, Mum. I need to get ready now.”

  Anita often wonders what her mother’s reaction would be if she found out that for a year and a half she’s been dating a forty-two year old Japanese man, and that for over a year she’s been sleeping with him. She also wonders about Mizuki’s face, if he ever saw her building with its stone dragons on the roof, the communal vegetable garden and their small apartment full of knick-knacks.

  The visit at the Pyramid of Cestius had lasted about an hour, including some time for him to photograph the colony of cats that always wander around it. At that point Anita didn’t know what else to tell Mr Murakami, when suddenly she had an idea. “There isn’t much to add about the Pyramid, but if you have time we could go to the Non-Catholic Cemetery. It’s very near, just behind the walls.

  “Non-Catholic Cemetery? What does it mean?”

  “Many well-known figures of the past, together with some less famous people, are buried there. What they have in common is that they were of a different religion or not religious at all.”

  Mizuki had accepted her offer and they walked towards the cemetery.

  Anita didn’t remember when she was last there – probably ages ago. She had almost forgotten the magic of that place and the sense of peace she felt being there. That cemetery wasn’t sad – just the opposite. The clouds disappeared unexpectedly, and in that beautiful Roman October afternoon the sun illuminated the grave stones. Mr Murakami and Anita w
andered around while she told him the story of the cemetery. He seemed impressed, reading aloud the names written on the headstones: Shelley, Keats, Axel Munthe… At Antonio Gramsci’s name, he exclaimed, “that’s the name of the street where I live!”

  He had an obsessive interest in photographing all the cats they met. The cemetery was full of them: crouching, belly up, sleeping in the sun… then he discovered the small hidden headstone of Romeo Cat, who passed away in 2006. Mizuki couldn’t hold back his enthusiasm. “Fantastic!”

  After having explored the entire almost deserted cemetery, they sat down on a bench. Anita finally found the courage to ask about him about his fascination with cats.

  “In Japan, because of residential building rules, it’s impossible to have pets at home. Now, they’ve invented – can I say ‘invented’ in Italian?” Anita had nodded and he continued. “They’ve invented Cat Cafés, where you can drink something and cuddle kittens.”

  “Do you mean that cats are included in the service?”

  Mizuki, still serious, confirmed this.

  Anita tried to restrain herself, but it was impossible, she burst out laughing. At first Mizuki looked at her with surprise, but then he joined in. At that point a lock of hair fell across his forehead and Anita finally realised who he resembled. He looked like a younger brother of Ryuichi Sakamoto, the musician. She also understood that this story wasn’t going to end at the English Cemetery, or Graveyard of the Artists or of the Poets, or whatever they wanted to call it!

  Anita suddenly opens her eyes; she’s hugging her pillow. The phone’s ringtone woke her from her daydream. She looks for it amongst the sheets. She checks the name and smiles.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” Mizuki’s tone is always very formal on the phone. They’ve been seeing each other for a long time now, but Anita still isn’t accustomed to his apparent coldness.