Sapphira grabbed her arm lightly as Kelly went to walk past her and out of the trailer. ‘The card about deception …’
‘The Seven of Swords.’
‘Yes, that one. What does it mean exactly?’
Kelly spoke slowly. She knew there was something Sapphira was hiding but she wasn’t sure what it was; it was up to Sapphira to explore and confront what the card meant. ‘It’s a fear card. It can mean there is something you fear, someone or something.’
Kelly placed her hands on Sapphira’s thin shoulders. The energy from Kelly’s body resonated through Sapphira and she felt herself involuntarily shudder.
‘Good to know,’ she said laughing as Kelly walked to the trailer door.
‘Be safe, okay?’ Kelly said as she left the trailer.
Sapphira nodded and smiled. She was trying, God knows she was trying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Hey Slapper, you want to come over and play?’ asked Rose down the phone.
‘Who is this?’ asked Kelly.
‘Haha, funny,’ said Rose. ‘Really, entertain me, let’s go out.’
‘I can’t, I feel so sick,’ said Kelly. ‘In bed, sorry, and then I have to shoot the night scenes with Calypso tonight,’ she moaned.
‘You’re a shit friend,’ said Rose.
‘I know. I aim to disappoint.’
‘You’re succeeding,’ said Rose sulkily.
‘Go out and do something, you loser,’ said Kelly.
‘I know. I will, later,’ lied Rose as she hung up.
Opening the refrigerator, she picked at the leftover spiced apple and cream but it didn’t make her feel better. Instead, she felt restless. Slumping into a kitchen chair, she decided to ‘take charge’, as her therapist said, and head into town to see what entertainment could be found there. Pulling the Frommers Guidebook to Italy from her handbag, put there by Lauren and which had remained unopened so far, she looked up Perugia. Leafing through, she spotted the Galleria Nazionale, the home of the finest collection of Umbrian art in the world. Why not, she thought and rang her driver and asked him to be ready for her in 30 minutes.
Climbing upstairs, she had a shower and dressed in a black linen Phillip Lim sundress and a pair of black and white Chanel ballet flats. Pulling her hair back into a low bun, she applied tinted moisturizer with SPF 20 and sun block on her arms and legs. Running downstairs, she threw on her Fendi sunglasses and her panama hat, grabbed her green Lavin tote bag and jumped in her car.
Driving through the countryside, Rose was enthralled by the timeless quality to the houses, olive groves and vineyards. She waved at an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow down the road. He tipped his cloth cap at her as she sailed past in the Mercedes.
Pulling up the Corso Vanucci, the car stopped and the driver told Rose she would have to walk the rest of the way on foot, as there were no cars allowed on the old roads and pathways. Entering the Galleria, Rose was soothed by the quietness and the coolness of the building. Taking a map from a sleepy guard, who did not seem to recognize her, she stood and decided what route to take.
As she stood assessing the map, she heard voices in the quiet space and looked up to see a man with three little boys trailing after him. Rose smiled as she watched the smallest one with a blue drink bottle in his hand stop and touch a marble statue in the entranceway. She watched his small hands feeling the cold stone as she looked up at the statue of a woman on her knees. The boy’s father and brothers walked away but the small boy stayed at the side of the statue. Rose walked over to him.
‘Do you like the feel of the marble?’ she asked him in a gentle voice.
‘It’s cold,’ said the boy, looking at her, and Rose felt her heart open at the sight of his little face, so earnest and trusting.
‘Yes,’ said Rose, reaching out to touch the woman.
‘Why is she so sad?’ asked the boy.
Rose read the description of the statue. ‘Assetata,’ she said aloud. ‘She’s thirsty,’ she explained.
‘She needs a drink,’ said the boy, looking at the drink bottle in his hand.
‘She does,’ said Rose gravely.
‘Milo, hurry up.’ Rose turned to see the boy’s father in the distance of the gallery standing impatiently.
Milo ran towards his father and Rose watched him run, carefully hanging onto his drink. Rose walked in the other direction of the family, wondering where the mother was. Hopefully getting some much needed rest from the challenge of three boys and a grumpy father, she laughed to herself as she wandered the rooms.
In Room Three, the earliest paintings and artifacts were housed, showing the start of 13th century Perugian art. Wandering through the rooms, drinking in the history and creativity was Rose’s idea of heaven. Her knowledge of European art was extensive, but not Italian art and certainly not as far back as the 13th century.
Facing Duccio di Buoninsegna’s depiction of the Madonna and Child, with the six tiny angels watching them from above, Rose wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. She was aware time was running out for her on the fertility front. It didn’t matter what medicine did to stop the aging process, the plain fact was that if you wanted to get pregnant naturally then you had to do it when you were young. Facing her fortieth birthday in six months, Rose was keenly aware of her biological clock ticking like a time bomb inside her.
As she turned to walk into the next room, she heard the sound of running feet. Milo ran into the room, his little round face streaming with tears. As he ran towards her, he tripped on his shoelace and went sprawling in front of Rose onto his face, landing at her feet.
‘Oh dear, what a big fall! Come on, let’s get up.’
The child was sobbing quietly, a sound Rose recognized from her niece and nephew, one that a child makes when they have really hurt themselves.
‘Ups a daisy. Come on now.’ Rose sat on the wooden bench in the centre of the room and lifted the child onto her lap. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at you then.’
Assessing the child, she saw he had blood coming out of his mouth. Opening his mouth gently she saw he had bitten his tongue but no teeth seemed to be damaged. Rose waited for his parents to arrive, assuming they would be chasing after him, but the room stayed silent. The child nestled his head into her neck and she heard his breathing slow down and his sobs quietly ease away.
‘There you are, getting better? I have just the pill to make you tip-top in no time,’ she said, remembering the packet of barley sugar she had in her bag that she had brought to suck on when her plane took off. Taking out a piece she unwrapped it. ‘Open wide,’ she said and the child obediently did so.
Popping the sweet into his mouth, he put his head back on her chest and sucked contentedly. Looking up at the
