“Well, thank you,” I say, moved. “I don’t know how to reciprocate.”
“Give me these, and we’ll be even,” Jemma says, seizing the two surviving bottles. “I’m having guests for dinner and want to make a good impression on them. May I?”
“Certainly! I’m not taking them home.” It seems like the least I can do as a gesture of gratitude. “Tell me, do you often meet for dinner?” I ask hopefully.
Allegra shrugs. “We try to manage a couple of times a year. We’re always on the move for work, and Jemma has a baby ... it’s a mess to schedule.”
Vanishing hope. “This afternoon I had an unpleasant run-in with Michael’s bitter exes, and I wasn’t really in the mood to go out. But tonight is the first time I’ve really felt at ease.”
“Girls!” exclaims Charlotte. “Raise your hand if you’ve had problems with your husband’s exes.”
All three shoot their hands into the air.
“As you can see,” Allegra concludes, pouring me some wine, “you’re in good company.”
65
Michael
Elisa and I have been living in a bubble, and, like all bubbles, when it bursts, it happens suddenly.
Saturday is ours alone, no work, no commitments, nothing, and we’re already in it from the moment we wake up, with breakfast in bed. We’re enjoying waffles topped with chocolate syrup when my phone rings.
“Sorry, I know I promised I wouldn’t answer any calls, but it’s Bingley. He must be back from Paris.”
“Even prisoners have the right to a phone call,” Elisa concedes. “But don’t blame me if your waffle’s gone when you get back.”
The problem is that the content of the call concerns her, so when I come back to the bedroom, she can’t help but notice my troubled expression.
“I was good. I saved you the waffle and the French ... what’s that face? What happened?”
I sit on the bed, repulsed at the thought of eating. “The Bingleys want to sell to Bogdanovic as soon as possible. They asked me to reschedule the meeting with him for this Monday so he can sign the preliminary agreement. I told him that rushing would put Bogdanovicin a position of power to dictate the terms and price, but Charles said it doesn’t matter.”
“What?!” she exclaims, dropping her still-untouched croissant. “But how? I thought I had until the end of November.”
“I know, but Charles talked to his sister, who wants to sell immediately, and ... you know how he is.”
She squeezes her eyes shut as she shakes her head in disbelief. “So everything I did was for nothing?”
“It was still worth trying,” I try to console her, though I know the right words don’t exist.
She gets out of bed and starts gathering her things and putting them in her suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Your flight is on Wednesday.”
“Sorry, but I have some loose ends to tie up.” She continues to fold clothes and put them in her case without pause. “I could be homeless by Wednesday. I have a family to think about. I can’t stay here. Not after this Bingley twist.”
“That’s exactly why you can and must stay!” I say, trying to stop her. “This is your home.”
“My home?” She looks at me coldly. “It’s barely yours, Michael.”
“I promise you won’t regret it. I swear on my parents’ grave, I want you here with me. I want Linda here; I want your mother too. I want you in my life.”
“Michael.” She takes my face in her hands. “I don’t want to be in your life. I want to share our lives.”
“And we will!” I insist. “Why do you want to go back to Italy when your security is here?”
“Because, Michael, I have nothing to do with this. It’s not my house, it’s not my pace, it’s not my lifestyle.” She sits next to me, her hands in mine. “You come to Italy.”
