“What’s on the menu?”
He holds out his hand to invite me into the kitchen. “I’ll show you now.”
Unlike the rest of the house, the designer kitchen is dark brown, in a wood that hints of distant lands and a bill with several zeros. A world away from the villa’s kitchen, done in masonry and majolica, with its copper vent blackened by smoke from the fire.
He makes me sit on one of the stools at the counter, where he has set the table for two.
“Pici with porcini and truffle sauce,” he announces, delivering two plates of steaming pasta on which he generously grates the precious truffle.
“Did you make these?” I ask, amazed.
“They won’t be as good as your mother’s or as beautiful as yours, but I wanted to cook for you, and this is all I know how to do.”
“Actually ... they’re perfect,” I say, taking a forkful. “Just right.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that because you’re hungry?”
“I never lie about pici,” I reply with my mouth full, unladylike. “So, confess: Did you rent this apartment specifically for the evening or is it the pied-à-terre that you and your friends share for ‘special’ occasions?” I ask him.
“What do you mean, ‘special’ occasions?” he asks with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“You know exactly what I mean. So? Have I been caught in your vicious bachelor web?”
“Some of my friends might enjoy the thought of that, but no. This is my home,” he announces, spreading his arms wide.
I almost choke. “Seriously?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Did you just move in?”
“I’ve lived here since my brother died, actually. Why?”
“It just doesn’t seem very lived-in,” I reply.
“Maybe because I don’t spend much time here. I’m always at the office or the gym. I go to a lot of restaurants and clubs ... I basically just sleep here.”
“Alone or with your unsuspecting lovers?” I tease him.
“Alone. I’ve never brought a woman to my apartment.”
“Bullshit!”
“I swear,” he insists, placing his right hand over his heart. “You’re the first.”
“Look, Michael, let me explain the subtle difference between male and female languages. You men think you can make a woman feel special by telling her she’s the first, forgetting the fact that this implies others are sure to follow. We women don’t want to be the first; we want to be the last.”
He starts laughing. “That’s good.”
“Because it’s true.”
“So, you’re the last.”
“And you’re an ass.” I enjoy making fun of him. “I’ll forgive you only because these pici are excellent.”
“Oh, good, the hallucinogens I threw in there must be taking effect.”
“I’m serious, look at my plate,” I say. “I wouldn’t have known it was your first attempt.”
