It took me a while to make up my mind, but the phone call with Linda kept haunting me in my sleep.
The call itself didn’t deliver much news. Linda wanted me to write her a letter of recommendation for Westminster Boarding School.
In the most competitive private schools, there’s a sort of unofficial nepotism, and though enrollment is open to all, they tend to favor those recommended by former students, Westminster being no exception.
I’m more than happy to write the letter. I’ll also arrange an interview with the headmistress so she can see for herself how much Linda deserves to attend the school.
When saying goodbye, after being very careful not to mention Elisa, Linda said, “Do you know my mom will be in London for the London Wine Fair? She’ll have a stand there all week.”
Boom!
I couldn’t have been more panicked if a live bomb had been thrown into my hands.
I was adamant I wouldn’t set foot at that fair even if I was dead, but my pride held out for two days. On the third, after a sleepless night spent tossing and turning, I gave up, and here I am, in front of the Ricasoli winery stand.
Since I didn’t know what excuse to show up with, I dragged Sebastian along as a cover. His family owns several international hotel chains, so he can pretend to be looking for new suppliers.
“I have buyers who deal with these things,” he objected. “The excuse doesn’t hold up.”
“But maybe you’re a passionate go-getter who loves to do things yourself. Come on, use a little imagination!” I encouraged him. “And anyway, who covered for you with your scary and potentially dangerous ex while you were chasing Charlotte? Me!” I reply. “You owe me a favor.”
The result is that at this precise moment he is tasting every single vintage the stand has to offer, because when we arrived, Elisa wasn’t here. We had to find a way to wait for her without blowing my cover.
“Foliero, could you let the gentlemen taste the 2015 Gran Riserva. It’s our flagship ... Oh! Michael, I didn’t recognize you from over there.”
“Hi, Elisa,” I greet her. “How are you?”
56
Elisa
I duck into the first bathroom I can find and bless the champagne lady for her gift, because I definitely needed it.
I fix my hair and make-up—or rather, I do them all over again—and generously hose myself with perfume that may be the most expensive I’ve ever owned. Once I’m satisfied with the result, I head to our stand with the steadiest and boldest stride I can muster.
I’d started off with the equation that being on my feet all day equaled comfortable shoes, which equaled sneakers, but after a day at the fair, I realized I was the only person for whom it added up that way. Even the ticket office hostesses had heels, so I run out to buy a pair at an outlet near Wembley.
Any militant feminist would hang me by my thumbs for my eagerness to conform to the aesthetic standards imposed by the prevailing patriarchy, but I don’t want Michael to think I’m suffering because of him.
Because I’m definitely not suffering because of him—just to be clear.
Considering that the best defense is an attack, I’m going for an ambush.
“Foliero, could you let the gentlemen taste the 2015 Gran Riserva, it’s our flagship ... Oh! Michael, I didn’t recognize you from over there.”
“Hi, Elisa,” he greets me. “How are you?”
I try to decode his tone, but I can’t detect anything, to my disappointment. “Wonderful,” I reply cheekily. “We haven’t been able to catch our breath; our stand has been besieged.”
“Besieged,” confirms Foliero.
“Happy to hear it,” he comments.
“What brings you here? I thought you were more of a golf guy,” I say, unable to help myself.
“Seb asked me to come with him,” he says, pointing to his friend.
“Sebastian Bloom, it’s a pleasure,” he introduces himself with a distinguished air and a strong handshake.
