8
April 2019
After her time in Florence, MODA sent Aida to Venice, where she immersed herself in the vibrant energy of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. She meticulously cataloged the happiness that the museum’s modern masterpieces and serene canal-side setting brought to its visitors, noting how the bold colors and avant-garde forms seemed to lift spirits and inspire awe. The Guggenheim, with its eclectic mix of contemporary art housed in an intimate historic palazzo, had long been a sanctuary of creativity and joy, drawing admirers from around the globe to marvel at works by Picasso, Pollock, and Dalí.
From there, Aida shifted her focus to Ca’ Zenobio, a palatial residence that offered a different but equally potent form of happiness. Inside its walls, the grand Sala degli Specchi—the Hall of Mirrors—captivated her with its ornate frescoes and mirrored splendor. It was a place where Aida immediately felt transported, her spirits lifted by the sheer beauty and timelessness of her surroundings. She could imagine the many countless dancers who had been spun across the ballroom over the centuries.
With every place Aida visited, her passion for the job only intensified. Venice, with its enchanting canals and rich history, had her dreaming of a life here, wondering how she might persuade Graham to join her in Italy once her contract was up. Yet their conversations had dwindled in recent weeks. Graham pointed totime zone differences and his heavy coursework, but Aida sensed a growing distance.
At last, Erin had called Yumi to apologize for not being involved with the dress selection. She explained that work had been hectic, but she trusted Yumi to make the right decision and would coordinate directly with the dressmaker for her fitting. Aida could sense Yumi’s frustration, even though she tried to hide it. But what unsettled Aida more was that, according to Graham, Erin had been really engaged in the wedding planning lately, helping with decisions—especially with the invitations.
It didn’t quite add up. Why was Erin so involved with Graham but ignoring Yumi’s messages about the dresses? Aida tried to shake off the unease, attributing it to the natural difficulties of a long-distance relationship. Soon, she would be back, and everything would fall into place.
The week that her three-month contract with MODA was up, Aida alighted from a helicopter at the London Heliport, where she had just been whisked from Oxford, bypassing traffic on the M40. A dark blue Bentley limousine was waiting for her. She settled into the creamy leather seat and decided why, yes, she would partake of the Salon Blanc de Blancs champagne the driver offered her.
As the car zipped along the road beside the Thames, Aida sipped her champagne. She wished she could photograph the limo and send a selfie of her drinking the champagne to Yumi. Still, despite the window that separated her and the driver—which, to Aida’s amazement, had darkened by the mere touch of a button—she didn’t trust that there wasn’t some way MODA was watching her. Over the last three months, Trista had given her more than one warning that made it clear Aida’s privacy was not what it used to be, and while she wasn’t sure that it extended to the limo, she wasn’t going to risk another scolding. But, shereasoned, she really had nothing to hide. And to have this level of posh treatment was worth giving up a selfie, wasn’t it?
Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and the car slammed on its brakes, sloshing champagne all over Aida’s slacks. Despite the dampness, she was glad she always wore a seat belt because the force of the stop might have thrown her face-first into the window between her and the driver.
“My apologies, Miss Reale. But as you can see, we have narrowly missed an accident.” He lowered the window, and Aida was shocked to see a car flipped upside down about twenty feet in front of them just before a roundabout, glass sprayed across the asphalt.
“My god, what happened?”
“Probably lost control, collided with another car, and flipped,” said the driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a calm demeanor that belied the situation’s urgency.
The driver offered Aida a pack of tissues to clean her champagne-soaked pants. She dabbed at the stains, feeling a little absurd. It seemed so trivial in the face of a life-threatening accident.
A London police officer, wearing the recognizable black trousers, white shirt, and a black stab vest, with a radio attached to his shoulder, approached the limo, and the driver lowered the window. “Sir, can you stay and provide a witness statement?”
“Certainly, Constable,” the driver responded before turning his attention back to Aida. “My apologies again, Miss Reale. This may take a bit. If you don’t want to wait, I can call another car for you. But you’ll need to walk to the other side of the bridge. I will see your luggage delivered to the hotel as soon as possible.”
Aida agreed and exited the car. By then, the ambulance and other emergency vehicles had arrived, blocking most of her view, with the exception of a bloody tennis shoe that had flown far from the wreckage. She gestured to a policeman who quickly came to inspect it.
Halfway across the bridge, Aida paused to look at the Towerof London a short distance away, its staid presence in sharp contrast to the flowing waters of the Thames. The day was chilly, and the sun was well into its descent toward the horizon. She tightened her scarf around her neck and thought of how lucky she was. The accident had been a startling reminder of how quickly circumstances could change, turning everyday complaints into trivialities. If they had been going just a little bit faster, she could have been smashed up just like that car.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket and when she saw Yumi’s name flash on the screen, she happily answered.
“Yumi, you will never believe what just happened,” Aida said when her friend’s face popped up on the screen.
Yumi was standing outside a restaurant, the sun bright on her face. “Hey, do you have time to talk?”
Aida stopped and leaned against the parapet. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost. I... just...” She glanced back toward the glass pane of the restaurant door behind her.
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I met up with a friend at Barcelona.” Aida knew the place. It was a wine bar in the South End known for their Bloody Mary brunches. “And, ugh, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about Graham.”
Aida’s stomach lurched. Yumi’s tone indicated that it wasn’t something like a traffic accident. “What do you mean it’s about Graham?”
“I hate telling you this over the phone. But given all the wedding stuff, I don’t think it should wait.” Yumi sighed. “Graham is here at the restaurant too—with someone.”
“Who?”
“Erin, but not in a friendship sort of way.”
“Oh my fucking god,” she breathed. Never in a million years would she have expected either of those two people to cheat on her. She had known Erin since she was two! They had thirty-two years of history together—almost an entire lifetime.
