‘Lucia!Dio. . .’
‘Checco! His fashion choices are the least of my concerns right now.’
‘It says a lot about a person.’
‘I really don’t care.La cosa più importante è—’
‘La Scuola Rosa!’ Mariella interrupted, peering at her watch. ‘Not long now.’
Lucia fiddled with her sling then collected her class notes from her desk. ‘Yes.Basta!’
‘When you say dark features, do you meancioccolato fondentedark, or are we closer withal latte? Hazel, or definitively basic brown?’
Lucia snort-laughed and gave Francesco’s bottom a playful prod with her knee. ‘Stairs, you!Vai!’
Francesco picked up Foscari and tucked him between his elbow and hip. ‘You and I need to stick together,’ he said to their furry companion. ‘Otherwise I am outnumbered by these women.’
‘And consider yourself the luckiest man in Venice!’ Mariella retorted, already halfway down the stairs.
That afternoon, with the lessons taught, the students dismissed, and the doors securely shut, La Scuola Rosa’s trio made themselves comfortable in the upholstered wingback chairs on the second floor of the school.
Two and a half weeks had passed since Lucia signed Edoardo’s contract, and while there were options on the horizon, Lucia was still looking for financial back-up plans. This moment, the intimacy and quiet of the afternoon, suddenly seemed like the perfect time to bring up the latest turn of events – the book deal.
Lucia spread Edoardo’s papers on the low-lying table between them. She plucked Benedetta’s business card from the pile and passed it to Mariella.
Lucia watched as Mariella tipped her half-moon glasses to the end of her nose, scrutinising the name. ‘Del Campo, Benedetta. Who is she?’
‘A publisher.’
Francesco’s neck craned to get a better look at the two inches of embossed curiosity. ‘What does she want?’ He took a sip of coffee then set his cup down on the table by his notebooks.
‘She came to see me yesterday. Here. She wants to publish a book about me.’
For the second time that day, Mariella and Francesco’s jaws dropped in unison.
‘Why?’ Francesco asked, taking the card from Mariella and analysing every detail.
‘She thinks my story should be told.’
Mariella, who had spent the past few decades trying her best to protect Lucia and the school, suddenly inflated with concern. ‘Andwhowill write this book?’
‘Please don’t use the future tense. That makes it sound so set in stone.’
Mariella’s eyebrows rose, but she persevered. ‘Hmm?’
‘Me.’
‘You would write it?’ Francesco leaned forward. ‘No offence, Lucia, but you are not a writer.’
Lucia threw her head back and laughed. ‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘So who, then?’ Mariella looked to Francesco, eyes wide with worry.
‘I would, but with her, or someone else, I guess. But Ireallydon’t like that lack of control.’ Lucia gestured to the card. ‘She says she’s willing to pay generously for the deal.’
Mariella rose from the chair. ‘No, Lucia.No, assolutamente no. You have suffered enough. You do not need to sell your soul, the last remaining shred of privacy you have—’
‘Itcouldbring in the remainder of what we need to pay, though.’
