“Do not be fooled by flattery.”
She laughed. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Give ’em hell before you give it up.”
I smile at the memory before I turn and stop. The light is bright outside, and it’s touched something in one of the hang-up bags that flashes in my eyes. The bag is clear, and the dress inside of it is gold. I look behind me. The bellhop is gone. The hallway is quiet. I overheard Mr. Davies, the property manager, earlier telling Signora Faraldi, the woman who tells me what to do, that the guest in this suite would not be checking in until noon. I’ve already finished the other room I was to clean and make perfect. It’s exactly like this one but with small differences to make it unique.
Two hours then.
I bite my lip and turn back to the bag. Slowly, not to make a noise, I unzip it. My hand seems to reach out on its own. The entire dress is gold and encrusted with diamonds and pearls. I’ve seen a lot of fancy dresses come through Hotel Tre, but this one…my big dreams tell me it is made for me.
No questions asked, if I am caught doing this, I will be fired on the spot. I cannot seem to help myself as I quickly undress in the bathroom and slip the dress over my head. It has a hidden zipper, but I have no one to help me with it. I have to yank it down to get it to fit. It sucks me in and hugs every curve. My breasts are squished together and pushed up.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Until I rush to release my hair from the bun and let my dark, reddish-brown hair tumble down my shoulders in waves. I try to run my hands through it, but it only puffs out. I become gentler with it before I stand back and admire how the beads catch the light and shimmer against my skin. The inside of the dress feels like heaven. It’s lined with silk or satin, but it’s hard to take a full breath. It’s tight.
I look down.
My shoes are old and ratty.
I kick them off and wonder if a pair of matching heels came with the dress. I rush out of the bathroom and do a complete turnaround when a man walks in. All I catch is his suit and the spice of his cologne, but all I can concentrate on is getting the dress off.
I’m stuck!
I can’t get it off. It’s too tight. I’m wiggling like a worm caught on a hook when he comes into the bathroom, and we scare each other. I start to rush out words in rapid Italian, and he puts his hands up in surrender. He speaks Italian, I can hear it, but the rushing of blood in my ears is drowning out the meaning. I’m still fighting to get the dress off.
The man becomes a bit snappy with me, and I stop struggling, the dress stuck over my face. I’m breathing in silk or satin. Then magic. The constricting dress is down again, and I’m looking into a pair of eyes the color of the Ligurian Sea. The lighter shades of it right before it meets the darker ones. His hair is jet-black, and it’s parted to the side. He is taller than me, and I can tell from the fit of his suit that he has a nice build.
He’s older than me, but not old.
I realize in that moment how much trouble I’m in. I start to apologize as I start to struggle with the dress again. He stops me again.
“Rosanna?”
I blink at him. “No. My name is Canta. Canta Ducci.”
He studies my face. “The resemblance is…” He doesn’t finish.
It occurs to me then that he thought I was an actress from Italy. It was not the first time I’d been mistaken for her, but he seems truly shocked that I am not her.
His eyes are hard to meet. I have been caught doing something wrong, and I know I am going to be fired. I will be homeless. I have a little money saved, but not enough for my trip to America yet. Sighing, I apologize to him in Italian for touching his things. I would take this moment to leave, but I cannot. I’m still stuck in the dress.
“I don’t care about the dress,” he says. Then he speaks to me in Italian.
“I can understand English,” I say. “I learned working at the hotel.”
He nods. “Impressive. Are you from around this area?”
I tell him I’m from Triora. He tells me his mamma’s family is from Portofino, his father’s family is from Sicily, but he lives in America now. That’s fabulous for him, but I’m still stuck in his wife’s dress, and any minute Signora Faraldi is going to come looking for me.
It’s not her that enters the room, but Mr. Davies. He announces himself and then says that he came to check that the room was suitable for Mr. Bigatti. He stops at the bathroom and then turns quickly to shield his eyes. He’d assumed Mr. Bigatti was alone in the room. Without thinking, I slap my palms over my eyes and groan.
This is worse than I feared.
Mr. Bigatti removes my hands from my face and our eyes meet before he steps out of the bathroom and shuts the door. I clearly hear him talking to Mr. Davies from the other side. He takes full responsibility for me having the dress on. There is a pause in the conversation, as if Mr. Davies is waiting for an explanation as to why his employee has on a dress that she could never afford, but Mr. Bigatti never gives him one.
A few seconds later, a knock comes at the door, and I open it.
“He’s not going to fire you. Turn around.”
