‘The clock?’ Francesco asked.
‘Yes. You will force Vittorio Gatti into a position whereby his maximum offer – this right here – is valid for ninety days. Inclusive of today. By signing, you, or any other party who may wish to participate, would have those ninety days to beat his offer. But you, right now, Lucia, are the only one with the power to start this.’
She wanted to laugh, because the only thing she felt in the moment was disempowered. ‘Show me the contract.’ Lucia tensed from head to toe. She had built up an invisible brick wall and she was determined to protect herself behind it. She took the papers Edoardo proffered and leaned back in her chair to read each word with meticulous care.
It all checked out. It was a carbon copy of what Edoardo had explained, except for one thing. ‘And Gatti knows that the only thing for sale is Jacopo’s half of the business, andnotthe building? The palazzo is mine.’
‘He is acutely aware.’
Lucia closed her eyes and felt Francesco’s secure grip on her forearm. It was reassuring, but she knew it was not enough to stave off the onrushing memories of that Valentine’s Day in 2006.
Click.
Flash.
The rubbery thickness of her mother’s lifeless hands. Her father’s empty pupils, staring into the saturated rain clouds above. And now, Jacopo’s dead weight and that harrowing blue tinge to his skin.
L’Orfana.
The noise and camera flashes returned.
Click.Click.Flash.
The photo. That damned photo that had been splashed across the press, across the internet. The moniker she couldn’t shake, still to this day.
Then there was the tenth anniversary incident. At twenty-one, she’d had to face a barrage of resurfaced interest in her private life and her professional world, after she had finally found some peace and closure. She couldn’t have known that she was being watched –surveilled– night and day for weeks in the lead-up. She could never have guessed that behind the lace voile curtains of the second floor of La Commedia, just three metres from her window across Calle del Leone, journalists were lying in wait, preparing a story that would once again iconiseL’Orfana, throw her back in the spotlight.
L’Orfana:Venice’s Most Eligible Bachelorette.
But they were.
And she was.
She wouldn’t let anyone disempower her again.
Lucia opened her eyes, and that infamous green gaze flashed brightly across the table, aglow and renewed. ‘Give. Me. The. Pen.’
tre
What remained of that fateful lunch was a table of three untouched plates, and one that had literally been wiped clean with a crust of bread.
As soon as Edoardo had left, Lucia set to work. It was as if a fire had been lit under her. With determination, she began rummaging through cabinets, pulling papers from files, drawing together all potential avenues for extra or overlooked income. She gathered a pile of documents and scribbled some notes on a Post-it, and left it all on her nightstand. It was a small step, but it gave hersomefeeling of control until she could resume her research after lessons were over for the day.
Mariella offered to clean up after lunch, leaving Lucia and Francesco to prepare for the students’ arrival at two.
Fridays were special days at La Scuola Rosa, as they set aside the usual Monday to Thursday, 9 am to 1 pm program. The day began with Mariella, Francesco and Lucia sharing lunch and this was always followed by a planning meeting for the week ahead. The students arrived at 2 pm, and classes ran to 7 pm, at which point the weeklyaperitivogathering – drinks and nibbles – kicked off.
The learning program at La Scuola Rosa was focused on building communicative skills rather than being based on a set timeline with a textbook. It meant that students, once placed at the appropriate level, could slip in seamlessly, allowing them to join for just a week, or up to months at a time. Most came for the pleasure of learning the language and exploring Venice, but for others, the language served a purpose for their work or family life.
Fridays also signalled the end of many of the students’ study journeys. The usual cheek kisses and selfies were mixed with sadness and farewells from those returning to the reality of life. Social media account handles were shared, email addresses exchanged, and tears occasionally shed as many classmates prepared for their final day of lessons.
Given the events over lunch which had sapped so much of their usual preparation time, Lucia and Francesco had to work fast. Lucia rushed around photocopying maps and public transport tickets she had already planned to use to improvise student-led role-plays. Francesco gathered all the available cookbooks from the shelves on the bottom floor, with the intention of exploring giving commands with theimperativoform with his group. Then together they grabbed a class set of menus from local restaurants and the box of restaurant props and paraphernalia for Mariella to use with her students, including the posters on wine from the Veneto region.
By the time 2 pm arrived, despite their racing hearts and worried minds, the trio were as ready as possible for the afternoon’s lessons andaperitivoparty.
Before opening the door, Lucia turned and faced the pair. ‘Graziefor your support today.’ Some of the colour had returned to her cheeks, but her smile was still very strained. ‘Wewillcome up with a plan, I’m sure of it. We’ll think of some way to get the money.’ Francesco swallowed, and Lucia noted how his eyes scoured the floorboards underfoot. ‘Checco,’ she started, taking him by the hand. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you or Mariella. If it all goes wrong, if we can’t get the money and Gatti—’
Francesco squeezed her hand in return. ‘Lucia, we are in this together.’
