Follow That Blonde Read online

  “Ten-o-five,” Bert said again.

  “It can't be!"

  “Seeing is believing,” Bert told him, and pointed at his knockoff Gucci, which was of course invisible in the shadows.

  We all discussed sheepishly how this bizarre thing had happened. Both Nancy and I had been dead tired from travel fatigue. It had been hot, and we were hungry, and we'd had all those drinks. Still, I was surprised that two healthy young men had keeled over so easily. My surprise held a tinge of incredulity. Had Bert pulled off one of his stunts to keep Nancy in Rome longer? I had suspected some scheme when Nick spoke of life not being planned in too much detail. Of equal importance to me, had Nick aided and abetted him? Nick's surprise upon awaking seemed genuine. He had even been snoring a little.

  “We'll have to drive you to Naples,” Nick said.

  “On an empty stomach?” Bert asked. It was a matter of growing concern to us all.

  “How come your cook didn't wake us?” Nancy asked.

  Nick looked blank. “Cook? I don't have a cook. My cleaning lady will cook, but I have to arrange it in advance."

  “Lady? I saw a man in your kitchen."

  “That was the cocktails talking,” Bert said with a laugh. “I was seeing a few pink elephants myself. Whoa, major hangover! D.T.'s, here I come."

  “I saw a man,” Nancy insisted.

  The men exchanged a questioning look. A meaningful, questioning look. It was just a quick glance, but I caught a fleeting glimpse of fear in Bert's expression. “What did he look like?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “He was a little, dark-haired man,” she said.

  He relaxed visibly. In fact, he laughed aloud in relief.

  “Who do you think it was, Bert? The man who was chasing you this afternoon?” I asked firmly. No hint of uncertainty clouded my voice.

  “There was nobody chasing me this afternoon. I don't know what you're talking about. And there was no man in the kitchen. Don't forget it was after the Camparis and the Roman cocktails that Nancy ‘saw’ this apparition."

  Nancy rubbed her forehead. “Maybe it was just a shadow. Well, if we're going to eat, let's get going."

  “I thought we were eating. here,” Bert said. “Nick's a world-class chef."

  And he didn't want to leave the house. Was that it? Was somebody after Bert—or maybe Bert and Nick? It was Nick's house where Nancy saw the man. They had both looked startled and rather knowing when Nancy dropped her little bombshell. I studied Bert closely. Whatever had upset him, he'd gotten over it now. He seemed perfectly relaxed. Maybe I was imagining things. I had no love for Bert, and was quick to accuse. The poor guy was probably just short of money. Nancy wasn't sure she'd seen a man, and I hadn't actually seen anyone following him.

  “I have all kinds of cold meats and cheese—bread,” Nick offered vaguely.

  “Let's chow down. I'm so hungry my chest is caving in,” Bert said, and we trouped into the house.

  It was a charming old kitchen, with a white tiled counter and blue flowered tiles rising up to the cupboards. Nick got out a tray of spicy cold cuts: mortadella sliced paper thin, dotted with black peppers; pale pink prosciutto; darker salamis. The tantalizing fumes of garlic and smoked meat filled the air. Next he brought out cheeses: blue-veined Gorgonzola; a piquant Asiago; a soft cheese that looked like Gruyère, but was called Groviera. I sliced a long loaf of crusty bread. Nancy and Bert set the table in the kitchen. Everything seemed perfectly normal, even cozy.

  “Vino would hit the spot with this feast. A hair of the dog,” Bert said. He received three baleful glares. “Right, I'll put on some water for coffee."

  The makeshift meal of cold meats piled high on bread tasted better than haute cuisine. “Hunger is the best sauce,” Nancy said, reaching for the meat tray. The rest of us were too ravenous for much conversation.

  “We need vitamins. Some melons and green grapes would help,” Nick decided, and brought a bowl of fruit to the table.

  “This is fun!” I exclaimed. “I'm kind of glad we all fell asleep."

  “Even if it interrupts your schedule?” Nick asked archly.

  “Schedules are for trains,” Bert scoffed. “Boy, was I fed up with schedules when I was touring. You can take your schedules and stick ‘em where the sun don't shine."

  “We're scheduled all day by bells at school. It's the unplanned things that make traveling so enjoyable,” Nancy said. Her look said that if I'd had my way, we would have missed this adventure.

  “You're right,” Bert agreed. “You know what would be slightly terrific, if I do say so myself? Why don't you gals stick around Rome for a few days, catch up with the tour in Naples the day after tomorrow? You'd still have a morning there to see the bay."

  At last it was out in the open. I slid a surreptitious look at Nick, and caught him watching me with interest. He smiled. I stiffened. “Good idea,” he said, just as I exclaimed, “That's impossible!"

  “Oh, Lana!” Nancy said angrily.

  The three of them started persuading me. “We just agreed it's the unplanned things that are fun,” Nancy pointed out. Bert assured me Naples was so insignificant it was often left out of the tours entirely. You'd almost wonder why it was on the maps.

  Nick added his mite. “I wanted to show you my studio, Lana. We'll do some sightseeing in the afternoon—you haven't toured the Forum. You can't leave Rome without seeing it. We'll drive you and Nancy to Naples for dinner. You can sleep here."

  I leapt from my chair, much less gracefully than Nick had done earlier. “Sleep here?"

  “I have four bedrooms,” he assured me earnestly. A quick eye movement to Bert and Nancy, followed by a concentrated stare told me he was working to bring about a reconciliation between Romeo and Juliet. “It seems a shame for you old friends not to have a day together at least. You'll want to talk about old times."

  “Let's stay,” Nancy urged. “Nick has four bedrooms, Lana,” she repeated, quite unnecessarily.

  “Four? Hell, we only need two,” Bert said. He received two more baleful glares, and a curious look from Nick, not entirely devoid of interest. “What did I say? We're all consenting adults, right? Don't worry, ladies. No diseases here. Right, Nick?” Nick scowled at him. “Well, anyway, you might as well spend the night. It'll save driving to Naples in the dark."

  “We'll have to get our things from the hotel,” I mentioned. My maidenly show of reluctance had been made. I didn't really feel like driving all the way to Naples in the dark. I felt weary, and hung over. There was no guarantee we could find a hotel room, and if we had to stay in Rome, a free night's lodging would be appreciated.

  “The hotel will have packed your bags,” Bert said.

  “I can drive you over now and pick them up,” Nick offered.

  “That seems like a lot of trouble.” Even getting up from the table seemed a terrible imposition on my body.

  “I don't mind, but maybe you should come over with me, Nick suggested. “I doubt if they'd hand them over to me."

  Going with Nick lent resilience to my tired body. “All right."

  “That means Nance and me get stuck with cleaning up, right?” Bert asked.

  I just smiled.

  It was exciting, gliding down the hill with Nick in his sporty red junk-heap of a car. Rome's panoply of lights, spread below, hinted at nocturnal gaiety. I was with a handsome, fascinating stranger. This was what the trip was all about, really. Not just dusty museums, bleeding toes, and a confusing jumble of churches. I knew that tonight, despite its problems, would stand out in memory as the culmination of my trip. But I didn't lose my head completely. I took advantage of the opportunity to quiz Nick.

  “Who do you think that was prowling in your kitchen, Nick? I saw the look you and Bert exchanged."

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It's nothing to worry about. Just an angry boyfriend."

  “Which one of you's been fooling around with a married woman?"

  “Bert, and I said boyfriend. She's only e
ngaged."

  “Are you sure it was Bert? It was your kitchen he was in."

  “You were in my kitchen too, Lana. I don't have to remind you there was no fooling around. Forget the questions and just enjoy Roma. Have you noticed, Roma spelled backwards is amor, the biggest emotion of them all."

  “And La Roma backwards is amoral."

  He lifted his eyes from the wheel long enough to glare in frustration. “You're the only woman in the world who would think of that! Don't you ever just relax and enjoy your life? You're so uptight."

  “And tenacious. Who was the man?"

  He growled something, doubtlessly profane, in Italian. “Bert has an idea the boyfriend's following him. He's probably right, and the boyfriend followed him to my house. But I hope you don't tell Nancy. Naturally, he doesn't want her to know. The affair's all over now. How do you think it's going with them—Bert and your cousin?"

  “All right, I guess, but we'll be leaving tomorrow."

  He turned his head and smiled at me in the darkness. “Sure I can't persuade you to stay a little longer?"

  “Quite sure."

  “I could be very persuasive, if you'd give me half a chance.” He reached for my hand.

  I moved it away. Little did he know how stubborn I could be. “Try and see if you can persuade your car to stay off the curb.” We missed a lamppost by inches.

  Feminine heads turned when we went into the hotel. Nick didn't even notice. He actually didn't know how gorgeous he was. I took his arm possessively, cherishing every jealous glance.

  The rooms were already paid for by the tour company. Nick did the necessary talking in Italian, I produced my passport as verification that I was me. We got the bags and went back to Nick's villa. I thought he might park along the way and try his hand at persuasion, but he didn't even try, and I was a little disappointed. He was just being flirtatious so I'd stay and let Bert have his chance with Nancy. It was midnight when we got back. In spite of our unexpected snooze and the coffee, we were all dog tired.

  The bedroom that Nick showed me had a key in the lock, a big double bed with a feather tick and a bleached cotton duvet, a dark, carved dresser, and an old gilt mirror. It was charming. “Why don't we share this room?” Nancy suggested. I interpreted this to mean that she wanted to be safe from Bert and agreed.

  “There's a bathroom en suite,” Nick said, nodding to a door.

  He said good night, we said thank you, he left, and I locked the door.

  The bathroom had a shower, a new one that worked. I showered first, ostensibly to allow myself time to doctor my toe afterward while Nancy had her shower. My real motive was to get in before she made a mess of the room. One of the little unexpected annoyances of the trip was that Nancy, who turns out looking as neat as a pin, leaves chaos behind. She soon came out, wrapped in a big white towel and pulled the shower cap off, fluffing up her mane in the mirror.

  “I'm sure I saw a man in the kitchen earlier,” she said.

  I thought of Bert and the other woman, and I thought of Nick's request that I keep quiet about it. “Maybe it was a neighbor, or something.".

  “Yeah.” She began rubbing cream on her face.

  “Did Bert give you a hard time while we were gone, or why did you decide to share my room?"

  She looked annoyed at the question. “Of course not. Bert's a gentleman, even if he is ... It was just that comment about only needing two rooms—it put me off a little."

  “Do you want to talk about that engagement now?"

  “No. Bert looked good tonight, didn't he?” she said in a musing way. “It's all the weight he's lost. He works out now."

  I listened, trying to comprehend her fondness for Bert. “Maybe if I put another Band-Aid on top of this first one, making a cross...” Was I just being a snob about Bert? The collection of clichés and last year's buzz words he called conversation appalled my English teacher's soul. They were kind of pathetic really. He was like a verbal magpie, picking up tawdry tinsel adornments to enliven his speech, in an effort for approval. Wanting to please should count for something.

  Nancy put on her nighttime brassiere. She has some in a size larger than she wears for daytime, to keep her ample bosoms in form. She shimmied into her nightie, yawning. “I'd like to see Nick's studio tomorrow, too. I'm curious about the tempera technique."

  I found myself yawning, too, and rolled over on my back to examine the crossed Band-Aids. “I hope I don't get an infection in this darned blister. Tomorrow I'm wearing sneakers."

  “I told you to."

  We were asleep almost before our heads touched the pillows. When I awoke, it was daylight and the other side of the bed was empty. Nancy was an early bird. Not bothering to pick her nightie off the floor or wipe her hairs out of the sink saved her a little time, too. I had an uneasy feeling she was downstairs making headway with Nick in the studio, and scrambled into a sundress to join them. I did her wrong. She was with Bert in the living room, eating bread and figs and drinking coffee, while they nursed their hangovers. I felt like a dishrag myself.

  “Where's Nick?” I asked.

  “In his studio. Bert's going to his office to contact people who left their names at the gallery. He's getting together a retrospective show for Nick, too,” Nancy explained.

  “He's kind of young for that, isn't he?"

  “The boy's making a bit of a ripple in the art world now—we're talking tidal wave,” Bert said. “The Contessa wanted to see some of his earlier stuff. It'll bring a better price if the lady has some competition, so I'm going to put together a retrospective show."

  “That's clever, Bert,” I said unthinkingly. His chest swelled, and he smiled beatifically. I couldn't remember ever complimenting Bert before.

  “All in a day's work,” he said, and began talking about his P.R. business in a self-congratulatory way.

  After breakfast, we went to Nick's studio. Bert came to the door with us and called, “I'm off now, Nick."

  “Take care,” Nick called. They exchanged a peculiar look. Not a warning, exactly, but there was something strange, or secretive, in it. I ascribed it to the angry boyfriend. Nancy, who was more interested in the studio, didn't see it.

  She was a step ahead of me into the studio, so I hastened to her side. It was a large, square, austere room, well lit, and neat as a pin. At least Nick was a stickler about the cleanliness of his work space. On the easel there was a canvas with a picture partially sketched in. This one was of a person, an old man standing in the doorway of a mountain house. He was shading his eyes with his gnarled hand. A dog sat at his feet, gazing up at him.

  Nick was at a table, looking very continental and bohemian in a shirt the color of the Italian sky on a summer day. Like the rest of us, he was showing some signs of being hung over. The purple smudges under his eyes gave him an interesting air of dissipation. He was breaking an egg to show us how he mixed the tempera.

  “I break these and dry all the white off the yolk before mixing,” he explained. “You can buy a commercial binder now, but I do it the old way. It gives a tough, permanent film.” He broke the yolk sack and mixed up the yolk in a little dish, unscrewed a cap from a bottle of vermilion powder, mixed the powder with the yolk, and applied it to paper with a red sable watercolor brush. I know these details about the brush as Nancy asked a good many questions.

  “I didn't realize you painted on paper,” she exclaimed.

  “Actually I paint on wood, but this'll give the idea. It dries quickly, and you can apply more coats to get the shade you want."

  Nancy made noises of interest, and spoke of luminosity and opaque touches. Nick talked about emulsions, and oily and colloidal ingredients for quite a while. The most interesting thing I learned is that hens’ eggs contain oil in the yolks. When we had both dabbed the tempera mixture on paper, we looked around at other items.

  “Are these your cartoons?” Nancy asked. “Not as in Mickey Mouse,” she explained to me. “They call the preliminary sketches for paintings �
��cartoons'."

  I bristled at her condescending tone. As if anyone could get through the Louvre and the Uffizi Gallery without knowing that! “I was wondering why there were no balloons with words coming out of their mouths.” We went to the far side of the table, where there was a litter of drawings. I recognized the old man's face, his hand, the dog.

  “I hear Bert's preparing a retrospective show,” I said.

  Nick nodded. “It's a bit premature, but no harm in thinking big. Some clients have shown interest in my French Frustration period."

  “Can we see some of your older expressionist paintings?” Nancy asked.

  “Sure, if Bert can find them. I had a couple around here someplace, but they're missing. Bert's taking a look at his place. I left most of them in Paris with my old agent, Boisvert. He was supposed to forward me the money if he sold any. Since he didn't, I'll ask him to send the paintings along, if he hasn't thrown them out. It's been five years."

  They talked some more about his tempera paintings. Nancy was interested in the laborious method of deciding on the organization of the painting, doing the cartoons, transferring them to the wood and the troubles encountered with the medium, which sounded like a whole saga in itself. After half an hour, I had learned more about tempera than I really wanted to know and asked, “How long will Bert be gone? Does he live far away?"

  “He lives in the Subura, just above the Colosseum, but he took my motorcycle. He should be back any minute,” Nick said. He glanced at my watch and frowned. I wondered if the irate boyfriend had caught up with Bert. It's funny how worrying about someone can make you like him. I was worried that Bert might be beaten up, lying helpless in one of those cobblestone alleys.

  “Let's have another cup of that coffee,” Nancy suggested. “I still feel lousy. What was in those cocktails, Nick?"

  “Just gin and fruit juices and soda water.” He wore a puzzled frown, and I knew what he was thinking. A couple of gins, even on top of the Campari, shouldn't have knocked us all for a loop. “Am I imagining things, Nancy, or did you say you saw a dark-haired man in my kitchen last night?"