Chapter Eighteen
Rosetta climbed out of the pool, flung on a robe and caught the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. She entered her suite and strolled down the cupboard-lined hallway, an array of white louvre doors that led to the kitchen and living area where the parquetry flooring took on an amber sheen in the morning sun. A song from the early 1980s, ‘Woman in Love’, which her mother Daniela had sung two years after Barbra Streisand made it a stellar hit, was stuck in her brain. As a kid she’d often laughed at that song, at the self-centred intensity of it, and at the way it inferred passion was a deadly serious thing. Much to her mortification, she’d found herself humming it in the car on her way to uni.
Izzie was at the dining table, breakfasting on the spinach-ricotta lasagne ser
