If you were to define elegant nonchalance, it would be Sylvie Li.
Her Como house has a small terrace that overlooks the lake, with a table that seats eight people. Its centerpiece is made up of lemons, dahlias, and giant candles, which Sylvie says her wife put together usingsome things leftover in the house.
She greets us both with kisses on the cheek and her signature sunglasses hiding her eyes. She’s in a sleeveless dress tied tight around her slim waist, and her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.
“Come, come,” she tells us. “Welcome.”
Rafe pulls out a wrought iron chair for me at the table, and I sit down with a warm smile. “Thank you,” I tell him.
He smiles a little. “Of course, darling.”
It feels like two swords clashing.
Thedarlingis the least genuine thing he’s ever said, and I wonder if it burned on his tongue. I hope it hurt him to say just as much as it does to hear.
Sylvie takes the seat opposite Rafe. She introduces me to the others, and I nod and say hi, feeling more and more out ofplace with each introduction. The people around this table are legendary.
There’s Vittoria Conti, a fifty-year-old Italian designer famous for her prints and patterns. There’s a fashion journalist whose 2017 book about falsified craftsmanship in the luxury industry hit like a bomb. One of the women is a model, I’m sure of it, and there’s a minor French actress at the table. An actor and his famous wife are here, too.
I meet Leelyn, Sylvie’s wife, and I like her immediately. She’s a British stylist about ten years older than me with a quick glint in her eyes. Where Sylvie is mysterious elegance, she has a curly bob and an easy smile.
Rafe fits right in. I’m sure he’s invited to these dinners all the time. He certainly seems to know everyone here, and he talks to them in relaxed tones. He switches from English to French when needed, and at one point has a quiet conversation in Italian with Vittoria.
And then there’s me.
Anxiety is like a tight band around my chest. I hate that feeling the most. When it won’t quite let me go and the only thing I feel like doing is running. Distracting myself. Throwing myself into a project, off a precipice, or into a cool body of water to feel anything else.
Leelyn is the first to ask me about Rafe, and when she does, the table quiets. “Tell us the story,” she says. “We were all talking about it before you arrived, and I think we’ve all been patient enough. You must know we’re curious.”
I smile down at my Bellini, like I’m charmed by her question. “It was a surprise for both of us,” I say. “We were opponents for years, but I’d never actually met Rafe in person until… what was it?”
I smile at him across the table like he’s my favorite person in the world.
“Almost a year ago, darling.” He smiles a little, like he knows just how much the endearment boils my blood.
“That’s it, yes. He asked me to lunch when he was in New York, and I thought it was a business thing. I showed up with my laptop and talking points.”
“Raphaël,” Sylvie chides, and Rafe chuckles. It’s a surprisingly warm sound, and I take another long sip of my drink.
“I wanted plausible deniability,” he says. “We were locked in negotiations for the company. You understand.”
“I don’t,” Sylvie says. “When I met Leelyn, I asked her out fifteen minutes later. The look on her face was priceless. She’d never been so surprised.”
“And flattered!” Leelyn says. “We moved in together a month later. But please, tell us more about your drawn-out courtship. I so love hearing about the complexities of straight dating culture.”
Rafe shakes his head. “She’s roasting me now, Sylvie. She’s roasting me.”
“She does that,” Sylvie says proudly.
“It’s an expression of love, really,” Leelyn adds. “So you did all this in secret?”
“Most of it, yes,” I say. My smile is entirely real. I like these people. “We kept seeing each other when Rafe was in New York.”
“How did you avoid the paps?” This question comes from the journalist two seats down. “I know you have your ways, but there wasn’t even ahintof a rumor.”
Rafe smiles. It splits his stubbled face, showing white teeth and making his eyes crinkle lightly at the corners. And there’s a dimple. A single one, on his left cheek.
It’s disconcerting. The devil doesn’t smile.
