“Never, ever,” decrees Mamma with folded arms. “Over my dead body.”
“What is it, Cicci?” Ferdy asks his wife.
“The servants refuse to wear the uniform with the white apron, gloves, and crest.”
Ferdy shakes his head. “How could that be?”
“I cook, I clean, I tend to the garden; it would all be impossible dressed as a mannequin.”
“What kind of counts will we be without uniformed staff?” Graziana whines.
“You’ll just have to find other staff.” Donatella would never abandon her Chanel-style suits and pearl necklaces.
The uniform battle is interrupted by a loud knock at the entrance.
Donatella, who has zero interest in a debate, goes to open the door, ignoring Graziana, who threatens her immediate dismissal.
On the doorstep there is a young man dressed in a dark suit and tie, with slightly disheveled red hair and lively blue eyes, accompanied by a woman with the same coloring and a decidedly more affected air.
“Good evening, everyone,” he greets us in an Italian that’s beyond rusty. The “good evening” is addressed to everyone present, but I notice that his gaze has fallen on my sister, who has emerged from the kitchen.
“I beg your pardon. Who are you?” asks Donatella.
Before he can answer, I beat him to it. “Carletto!”
5
Michael
I never thought I’d set foot in Chianti again, and yet here I am.
In the taxi to Belvedere, the golden hilltops undulate before my eyes and the cypresses stand thin and pointed under a rosy sunset. It all comes back to me.
To avoid an hour of small talk with the taxi driver about why I’m here, if I like Italy, the usual chitchat, I pretend not to understand a word of Italian and instead scroll through old emails.
I told Saxton I’d take a holiday, but in reality, I’ve secretly arranged to keep working through Penny, with whom I’ve set a very tight schedule of webcam meetings with all my clients. I bought her silence with a Chelsea lifetime season ticket.
When I see the sign that says “Welcome to Belvedere, Chianti,” I give the taxi driver the address of the estate, but he takes at least five wrong turns, given that there are no signposts along the main street.
As he reverses for the sixth time, I spot an unmarked private lane just off the provincial road. There, a familiar clue sparks my memory.
“Turn right,” I tell him, forgetting I shouldn’t speak Italian. I point to a little brick pillar supporting a small enclosure with a flickering candle inside. “I recognize that votive column to the Madonna.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“A long time ago,” I admit.
The driver turns, and we climb the hill up to an elaborate but ramshackle wrought iron gate that’s hanging open.
“Here we are,” he announces.
“The house is at the end of the drive,” I tell him.
“I know,” he replies. “But this path isn’t paved. It’s all rocky and full of potholes. This is a car, not a tractor.”
“How do you expect me to get there?”
“On foot, of course!” he replies, as if it were the most natural solution in the world.
