“That may well be, but Mr. Proudass over there will never bring himself to forgive her,” Bingley replies, pointing to me. “Nor to apologize for assuming Elisa would give up her life for one she didn’t remotely care about.”
“Forgive me if I’m so old-fashioned I want to give my partner a life of ease and comfort instead of letting her kill herself on the farm,” I object.
“Patience, friends,” Bingley interjects in a patronizing tone. “Michael has never understood a thing about women.”
“Oh, so you’re all professors now!” I say, taking my aim. “You, Bingley, fall in love with every woman who crosses your path.”
“Yeah, you’re a lost cause, Charles,” Sebastian echoes.
“And you, Seb, realized you loved someone else when you were one step away from the altar, while you, Ash, married someone you barely knew. We shouldn’t speak badly of those who are absent, but even Duke is no champion of discernment, given that he was helping who is now his wife get together with her former best friend.” There you are. I have something for everyone.
“What about me?” asks Harring, feeling excluded from my blacklist.
“You’re practically a primate,” I dismiss him.
“A prime mate. Thanks, friend,” he replies cheerfully.
“He saidprimate, notprime mate, idiot!” explains Sebastian.
“Until very recently, you were all human enough to have a cry on my shoulder, so don’t try to lecture me now as though I have something to learn from you.”
“You may be right, but you need to hear one last thing, Michael.” Ashford and Sebastian look at me as if they’ve arrived to the same conclusion. “Women do whatever the fuck they want.”
52
Elisa
If there remains even a sliver of hope of saving the vineyard, I’ll cling to it with all my power.
“The London Wine Fair is October 16 to 21,” I say, sitting at the long oak table in the kitchen of the villa. Now that the main house is “uninhabited,” we have started spending our evenings there again, and Foliero has joined us.
“The European wine fair,” he says.
“The most important European wine fair,” I correct him. “And we’re going.”
“Great, I’ve always wanted to see it! I know someone who works in the Langhe. She goes every year with her winery and can probably get us guest passes. Tickets cost a fortune.”
“Foliero, I mean we’re going as vendors.”
His jaw almost falls on the table. “You mean, with our own stand?”
“Exactly. It’ll be small, six by nine feet.” I’d considered how Cosimo and Andres managed to get their perfumes into Selfridges and decided to do the same. Vendor registration closed months ago, so I got on the waiting list, and this morning they told me there was a cancellation for one of the smaller stands. They needed same-day confirmation and payment.
“But it’s so expensive!” he exclaims. “How did you get the money?”
“Let’s just say my dad gave me a hand.” When I registered the winery for the fair, I took one look at the fees and put my father’s Vespa up for sale online. When bidders saw a 1973 Vespa Rally 200 Azzurro Cina at auction, offers skyrocketed.
I went to Max to have it valued. I knew it was one of the rarest models—which is why my father loved it so much—but I had no idea where to start the bidding. I certainly wouldn’t have imagined I’d get over ten thousand euros.
“I can pay for the stand, the setup, the flight, and the stay for the two of us in an almost decent hotel,” I reassure him.
“But why this year? Maybe next year would be better. We’ll have wine from the harvest from two years ago, which, if you remember, produced exceptional grapes.”
“Next year is too late.” I explain what will happen to the vineyard, and he almost cries.
“All our work ... our beautiful vineyard ...” he whispers, shaking his head.
“It’s not over yet,” I reassure him, squeezing his hand.
