But this Fabiana? The multi-layered woman I'm seeing now? She's a different creature altogether.
“I think I do.”
“You think, or you know?” he questions.
And therein lies the million-euro question. Despite everything I thought I knew about her, everything she’s written about me, my gut tells me I can. Maybe it’s the way she looks at me, like I’m not a headline. Or the way she softens when she thinks no one’s watching.
“Just…watch your back, okay, Max?”
“I will,” I reassure him.
Rocco and Dante say good night and disappear into their respective tents, and I sit by the fire, lost in thought, when Fabiana sits back down beside me.
“How’s Pippa?” I ask.
“Doing a little better. She’s sleeping now. I had some electrolytes in my suitcase, so she’s been sipping those to rehydrate. Nicole’s been doing a great job looking after her.”
“She’s amazing.”
“Is that right, Maxie?”
She’s grinning at me, and it makes me laugh. “A childhood name.”
“I think it’s sweet. It’s obvious they love you.”
“It’s mutual.”
A log on the fire drops, sending a shower of sparks into the dark night air.
“Tell me how the program came about,” she asks.
“I started it when one of my charities took me to a women's shelter. I met damaged children and their mothers, families forced to escape difficult situations. Theyshowed the kind of strength and resilience I'd never needed in my life.”
She nods, allowing me to continue. “There was one kid in particular. Bruno. He was only twelve or thirteen, but his eyes showed experience way beyond his years. He and his mum and younger sister had been living in the shelter for about 3 months. His mum didn't speak much Ledonian, so he took it on himself to navigate the benefit system so they could get what small amount of money the government offered.
“But you know what struck me the most? It wasn't his maturity. It was the way his eyes were constantly assessing adults to work out if they were a friend or otherwise. I got the distinct impression he’d encountered too much of the otherwise.”
“Poor kid.”
I swallow, remembering how my conversation with him had stuck with me for weeks. How I’d felt compelled to do something, anything, to help him and others like him. “Kids ought to get the chance to be just kids.”
Something passes across her face. “You're right. You can never get those years back. Once innocence is lost, it's lost forever.”
I watch her for a beat. Is that from personal experience? Did something happen to her in childhood that meant she had to grow up faster than she should?
“Is there a story there?” I ask tentatively.
“No story,” she says, and her tone is a touch too light. Forced, even.
It leaves me with more questions than answers.
“You’ve learned about my past. Tell me about yours.”
“Oh, it’s all pretty standard stuff really. School, family dinners, the usual. Nothing as exciting as growing up in a palace, that I assure you.”
It’s as though she’s hiding something, but I’ve no clue what it is. “Are your parents still together?” I ask, wondering if the thing that made her grow up fast was divorce.
“My mom passed away when I was little,” she replies, her eyes concentrated on the fire.
