He scoffs as we continue moving down the thankfully noisy street. “Don’t I know it.”
2
A half an hour later our mouths are agape as Marco and I look up at a stunning apartment building in the heart of the Centro Storico District. The Mediterranean exterior pulls us right in with warm tones and romantic gothic accents as stucco and stone mix seamlessly with vines and a small flowing fountain. If I felt confident that Marco would catch me, I’d very happily swoon.
“Are we sure this is it?” I ask, in disbelief. “I feel like the poor family relation coming to stay with my wealthy relatives in a Jane Austen novel.” I glance at Marco, and he seems on the exact same page, taking in the facade of the building with unabashed admiration.
“This is absolutely it,” he answers. “And even if it’s not, we’re still going in.” He wheels his luggage toward the entrance and I don’t hesitate to follow. We cross the marble lobby and after giving our names and apartment number to the doorman, who’s better groomed than I’ll probably be on my wedding day, we’re directed to a meticulously maintained set of antique elevators. Ten floors up, we arrive at our destination and Marco knocks on the wooden double doors. They swing open seconds later to reveal Holly, who flashes us a polite if guarded smile.
“And the chaos squad has arrived,” she says. “Before you come in, you should know that this place is filled with breakables, so you might want to rein in your intensity a bit.”
The thing about Holly is that I never know if she’s joking or if she’s serious. She’s highly reserved, almost to the point of coldness, but not quite. She’s too cordial to be cold. Ever since she saw me struggling and taught me how to invisible stitch a scalloped hem our freshman year, I’ve done everything I could to finagle my way into her good graces, but I can never seem to manage it. I temporarily retreat when my attempts of friendship are rebuffed, but Marco is forever full steam ahead. “Hello to you, too,” he cheerfully replies. “And I think what you mean to say is, ‘Oh, my god, Marco and Violet, I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you both so much and I’m finally ready to become the third member in your Harry Styles cover band.’”
“Not quite,” she answers.
“I figured it was a gamble, but at least I tried. So can we come in or what?”
Holly shrugs and steps aside, leaving ample space for Marco and me to enter as we once again gasp in unison at the sight before us.
Worn down but striking terrazzo tile in the entryway transitions to richly toned parquet flooring in the sizable living room. Artwork hangs from every wall, complementing the antique rugs and vintage furniture as light pours in from the oversized casement windows, soft and stark all at once and casting a dreamlike glow. A grand set of wrought iron stairs lead to the second floor, making me realize that this is a penthouse duplex. I can’t even begin to imagine what a place like this would cost.
“So fair warning,” Marco says as we move deeper into the apartment, “I know that we’re only staying here for a month, but there’s also a solid chance that I’m going to refuse to leave and will have to be forcibly removed from the premises by the authorities. I just wanted to make you both aware.”
I nod my head, still looking around in unbridled wonderment. “I’m fully on board with that plan. Squatter life till I die.”
Holly seems the most comfortable of the three of us, probably since, from what I’ve heard, her family’s Manhattan apartment is on the same level as this one. Her parents own a shoe manufacturing company and to put it lightly, they’re very, very comfortable. Her older brother is a designer, too. He graduated a few years before us at the top of his class and just started his own label. Everyone assumes Holly will work with him when we’re done with school, but she’s never mentioned it once.
“By the way,” Holly says, “I only saw Professor Leoni for a minute before she had to leave, but she apologizes for not being here to greet you guys and says we should meet on the terrace at six for welcome drinks and appetizers.”
Marco and I look at each other with immediate smiles and I subconsciously shimmy-shake my shoulders in anticipation. Give me all the fresh mozzarella and tomatoes,per favore.
“How does a fashion professor end up livinghere?” I ask, gazing up at the exposed beams that enhance the shockingly high ceilings. “This place is the apartment equivalent of a movie-caliber Roman villa.”
“She must have inherited it or something,” Marco replies. “I know she was a buyer before she became a professor, but there’s no way her salary would cover this. But whatever the circumstances, I support it. I’m very ready for the Roman villa phase of my life to begin.”
“She seemed nice in the little time I spoke to her,” Holly adds.
I find myself nodding as I move to admire a painting of a nymph coming out of the ocean. “She must be nice if she hosts three students every year. Did you know she studied under Rocco Barocco in the ’80s? I read an interview she did forBoFand she sounds amazing.”
“Speaking of amazing,” Marco muses, “can we see the rest of this palace?”
Holly swiftly continues with her tour, taking Marco and me through the updated kitchen and bathrooms, into the tasteful dining room and then leading us to the workroom. And hot damn, when I say that tears all but come to my eyes at the sight of it, I mean never in my life has a room moved me on such an emotional level.
The first thing I notice is that it’s snug and bright. The warmth is so palpable that I can feel it seeping into my pores. Two sewing machines are tucked into the far corner, one visibly older than the other, leading me to think that our hostess simply couldn’t part with the more dated machine due to sentimental reasons. Completely relatable. I’d go to prison before I’d surrender my first sewing machine.
Vertical storage with sewing necessities lines the walls, and rolls of fabric lean into the far corner. A midsize desk is tucked off to the side with an open laptop and sketch paper abound. A bulletin board hangs directly behind it, which is, in essence, an oversized mood board. It’s divided into sections by color, each with multiple fabric samples. I want to touch all of them, hoping I can somehow become absorbed into the room itself.
Stepping into the center of the space, I run my fingers over the three dress forms, innately excited that they each differ in shape. After years of taking classes where dress forms are modeled around one outdated ideal, variation feels like a luxury when it should be readily available, encouraged and required. We want to design for all bodies, and while schools are making some strides forward, there’s so much further to go.
A few seconds later my gaze shifts up to watch as Marco swings open the balcony window that’s draped with a thin white curtain. He breathes in deep and allows the sun to brush his face before turning to us.
“I’m claiming this as my balcony. And if a gorgeous Italian man doesn’t appear on the terrace below to profess his undying love for me at some point during our trip, I will be highly disappointed.”
“I think Derek might take issue with that,” I say, reminding him of his longtime boyfriend, whom I adore more than words can convey.
“I didn’t say I would act on said love proclamation, only that I’m deserving of a Romeo and Juliet moment, as are we all.”
“I’ll pass on that, thanks. I have enough problems to deal with without adding a star-crossed lover into the mix.”
