“So is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes.”
64
Elisa
We closed the fair on a high note. I’m satisfied with the impression we made; we got orders. With all that in mind, I’m happy to stay another week in London.
Too bad I don’t see Michael as much as I’d like.
He works a lot, leaving at dawn and returning late at night; I spend my days basically alone. He often comes home so tired that we end up staying in, like yesterday, when we were supposed to go to seeMamma Mia!in Soho, but I ended up going alone to the early show. Then I surprised him in the office with a takeaway lunch to eat with him. He was happy to see me, but we had to scarf down the food because he barely had any time between his meetings.
He told me he almost never eats lunch, just a quick snack if he’s really hungry. I found it sad—not to mention unhealthy—but Michael doesn’t seem to give it a second thought.
I spent the rest of my time visiting all the museums, buying the usual souvenirs for Linda, Mamma, Donatella, and Giada; strolling around Hyde Park, which is a few minutes from Michael’s house; and doing little else.
It’s all beautiful, but I only enjoyed it half as much on my own.
When I tell Michael I’ve run out of ideas, he gives me his gym membership card, suggesting I indulge in a day of relaxation instead of trying to find more activities.
Maybe I need it, because I keep thinking about home, about Linda, about the vineyard, and I need to turn off my brain for a while; spending an entire afternoon in a place where cell phones are prohibited could be the cure.
Right now, in fact, I’m leaving the sauna feeling pleasantly relaxed, after half an hour of swimming against a current and a reactivating massage.
Wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe, I head to the Zen bar with heated loungers and herbal teas.
“May I have an orange cinnamon herbal tea, please?” I ask the girl behind the counter, who is the image of serenity.
“Elisa?!” exclaims a woman sitting on the stool to my right with dismay.
It takes me a few seconds to register her face. “Caroline?” It’s Bingley’s sister.
“Imagine seeing you here! What are you doing in London?” she asks, continuing the conversation in English. She’s here, it’s her house, her rules, though even in Tuscany, the few times she showed up, she always avoided speaking Italian, which she knows perfectly well.
I adapt and respond in English too. “I was at the London Wine Fair and ...”
“This is Sophia Skyper-Kensitt and Julia Bromley,” she interrupts me, uninterested in my answer, introducing me to the two women next to her, who are focused on their celery and carrots with hummus. “Girls,thisis Elisa Benetti.”
“Ah, the peasant girl!” exclaims the woman with curly hair—I don’t know if it’s Sophia or Julia.
“Yes,” I reply, getting excited, because I couldn’t help but notice she’d used the wordpeasant, which I think of as a farmer who works other people’s land—so at least she’s being accurate, given that the estatebelongs to the Bingleys—even though the word also has a negative connotation, and I have the feeling, given her tone, that’s more how she meant it. “I make wine.”
“We know,” replies the other, who is thin with platinum-blond hair styled to perfection. “Caroline told us about you.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“Oh, so many things,” she replies, giving her blond friend a strange smile. I don’t want to make assumptions, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have wanted to hear them.
“Anyway, it’s a surprise to see you here,” comments Caroline with the acrimony that’s come to define her. “It’s a very exclusive place.”
“Do you think I can’t afford an exclusive place?” I ask, stirring sugar into the tea.
“Oh no. Except that there’s a months-long waitlist.”
“I’m Michael’s guest,” I say, sparking immediate interest.
“Michael?!” Sophia and Julia exclaim in chorus. “Michael D’Arcy?!”
