Mixed in with that relief was the butterflies she had when she thought of Luciano. No one had stirred these feelings in her since Graham. The wisdom of that experience had tempered her expectations, but her heart didn’t seem to know the difference.
13
September–October 2019
The deep azure of the ancient mosaics echoed the tone of the sky as Aida stepped into the cool shadows of the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia. It had been almost a season since London, since Luciano, but there in Ravenna, time seemed to stand still, suspended amid the glint of glass and stone that had watched over the resting place of an emperor’s daughter for centuries. Just as she finished recording her thoughts on the awe-inspiring beauty surrounding her, the familiar vibration of the MODA phone disrupted the morning stillness. She signaled to the photographer to continue while she stepped outside to take the call. The smell of the nearby ocean wafted on the breeze.
“Pronto.”
Her agent was ecstatic. “Aida, I have good news for you! Your book has made the longlist for the National Book Award!”
Aida looked around her, convinced she must be in the sights of a hidden camera. There were only the nearby brick walls of the church complex. “Mara, is this a joke? You can’t be serious. The National Book Award? That’s ridiculous. It hasn’t even been published yet.”
Mara was adamant. “I assure you, this is no joke. It’s possible to submit an advance copy, and we just skated in under the deadline.The Shadows of Tuscanyis a finalist.”
What Mara was saying made no sense. While she knew shewas a decent storyteller, there was no way her writing was National Book Award level.
“I think I’ll have to believe this one when I see it.”
“You better start believing it. I’ve been working with Trista to arrange for you to finish early there and head back to the palazzo to meet up with the press for interviews. A car should be there for you in half an hour.”
“Wait, meet with the press?” She was still trying to take all this in. How could she possibly be a National Book Award finalist? Even in her wildest dreams, she hadn’t seen that coming.
“You need to get back to the palazzo and freshen up. Foreign correspondents fromThe TimesandThe Postare on their way to us now.”
The palazzo Mara was referring to was an oceanside mansion MODA had rented for her. Aida pictured the main living area, with its expansive views of the sea, an elegant backdrop for these interviews.
“Call me afterward,” Mara said.
Aida watched her phone disconnect. Stunned, she went back into the little tomb to wrap things up with the photographer before heading up the path to the waiting car. On the way to the palazzo, she texted Yumi to tell her the news. Aida didn’t expect a response right away; her friend was likely still not up for her day yet.
Trista was waiting for Aida at the palazzo and quickly ushered her into her room, where a makeup artist and hairstylist were ready to transform her. “Do I really need all this?” she asked her aide.
“This is a big moment. You want to look your best,” Trista told her. “There will be many photos.”
So Aida let herself be pampered. She was reminded of the scene inThe Wizard of Ozwhen Dorothy was whisked to the beauty salon and all the attendants swirled around her. Was this what it was like for celebrities readying for movie scenesor red-carpet ceremonies? There was a perverse pleasure in all of it—that she could just lie back and let them make her beautiful.
After, Trista ushered Aida into the wardrobe. Several outfits were laid out for her, carefully selected to look great on camera. Aida’s eyes were drawn to a pale citrus-colored suit with a darker pink chemise and matching pink shoes. When she finally was allowed to look into the mirror, she gasped. She was sure Yumi wouldn’t even recognize her if they passed each other on the street. The stylist had worked magic with the length her hair had grown over the past months, sweeping it into an elegant updo that accentuated her features beautifully. Her makeup was far heavier than she liked, but it sculpted her face into a visage of sophistication she hadn’t known she possessed.
“I feel like someone else stepped into my shoes,” she said to Trista.
Trista adjusted her collar. “Maybe they did.”
“What do you mean?”
Trista didn’t answer her. Instead, she handed her a tablet.
“What’s this?”
On it was a list of talking points for the interviews: themes fromThe Shadows of Tuscany, her inspirations, her writing process. As she skimmed the notes, she couldn’t help but notice the careful omission of anything related to MODA. That wasn’t a surprise—she’d known from the start that MODA was strictly off-limits in public conversations. But seeing it so neatly excluded still made her uneasy.
“You know the rules,” Trista reminded her, as if reading her thoughts. “The focus is on the book. Talk about your writing, your characters, your inspirations. They’re here to discuss your creative journey, not MODA.”
“I know,” Aida said quietly. “But I know this book... I’m not sure I need specific talking points.”
“This is how these things work, Aida. It’s about presenting yourself as the author, the storyteller. This is to help shape theconversation so there is no need to mention how MODA helped you get here.”
Aida nodded, flipping through the talking points again. She had expected some guidance for the interviews, but this was more than that—a major narrative of her life was being shaped for her. She was being packaged, every detail of her public persona meticulously controlled. She wasn’t sure this was how most authors did their interviews. It left her feeling like a puppet on invisible strings.
