Chapter Twelve
The luncheon to raise money for a pediatric hospital in Mozambique is being held in the courtyard of a fancy restaurant not far from the embassy, so I’ve told Luca I’ll just meet him there.
When I check with the valet, he tells me Luca hasn’t arrived yet. I really don’t want to go in by myself, so I wait outside. It’s a mistake. I’m immediately swarmed by paparazzi. I’m starting to recognize them. There’s the middle-aged guy who wears a fedora like he’s in a 1950s cop show, and a young guy with brown hair with red highlights who has a mun and beard, and two women in their thirties who always elbow each other out of the way. The rest still blend together, though.
“Astoria, where is Luca?”
“Astoria, what was it like to meet a princess?”
“Astoria, why haven’t you made it official on Instagram? Are you going to break his heart?”
They throw their questions so quickly, I wouldn’t be able to answer even if I wanted to. I turn to the man in the fedora. “I’d like to go in now. Can you let me pass?”
“If you give me an exclusive,” he says.
“I don’t give interviews,” I tell him.
They keep at me, taking pictures and blocking my way as they hurl questions. They can only hurt me if I overreact, though. “You should ask Luca,” I say. “I believe he has a spokesman or something.”
A man comes out of the restaurant and yells at them in accented English to leave before he calls the polizia. He pushes them back and escorts me inside.
“I am so sorry, Miss Herriot,” he says. “Please, let me take you to your hostess?”
“I’d rather wait for my date, please.” How does even the ma?tre d’ know who I am?
“As you wish, signorina.”
I stand near the door and wish I had let Luca pick me up after all. It’s not like him to be late. But then a group of people comes over to me.
“Miss Herriot,” a lady says in English as she extends her hand, “I’m Giovanna Sardi. I’m so pleased you could come.” She’s slim and elegantly dressed, her blond hair upswept.
“Grazie. Piacere. How do you know who I am?” I could really use Luca’s people skills right now.
“I recognize you from the photos, certamente.”
I nod stupidly. She introduces me to the others, a man and a woman on her committee to raise funds, and a doctor from the Mozambique hospital. We make small talk, and then our hostess ushers us into the courtyard. Signora Sardi introduces me to more people. I struggle through a conversation or two and then check my phone, but Luca hasn’t sent a reason for why he’s so late. He finally shows up a few minutes later, in a dark suit with a blue shirt and emerald tie.
“So sorry I’m late,” he says as he kisses my temple. “I take it you’ve met Signora Sardi?”
They exchange hellos, and then she takes Luca and me around a bit before she moves on to other important guests who will drop wads of cash on her good cause.
We sit with a group of people who are mostly middle-aged. There’s a businessman from the UK who knows Luca, I guess through his dad because he asks after him, and his wife. Then there are some Italian doctors and professors from the local medical school.
“Do you want some oysters?” the guy from the UK asks as he offers me the plate going around.
“Story loves oysters,” Luca says out of nowhere.
I almost drop my glass as I turn to stare at him. From the look on his face, he’s realized his mistake, but it’s too late now. I turn back to the businessman and take an oyster and say thanks, but not before I kick Luca under the table. He coughs to cover his sudden jolt forward.
I set the shell with its slimy oyster on my plate. Even if I ate meat, it sure wouldn’t be raw seafood.
“Oh, but I forgot about your allergy,” Luca says.
It takes me a moment to catch up. “Oh, right, my allergy!” I turn to the business guy. “I just got diagnosed. Nothing serious, but I probably shouldn’t.”
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Should you wash your hands?” his wife asks, concerned for me.
“I’ll be fine, really, I just shouldn’t eat shellfish anymore,” I say.
Several of the doctors chime in, apparently ready to give me a tracheotomy if I need one, but I promise everyone it’s just a mild allergy.
That’s when a waiter puts a dish of chicken in front of me. Luca pulls him over and whispers to him, and he immediately takes the plate away again.
I look at the businessman and his wife and say “allergies,” at the same time I hear Luca say it. A few moments later, the waiter reappears with a vegan pasta dish, and I smile sheepishly at everyone. Thankfully, though, Luca is already maneuvering the conversation to the charity.
“Story, I’m so sorry,” Luca says when we have a quiet moment as the luncheon ends, “I totally forgot to tell them you were vegan.”
“I did the math on that when you almost made me eat oysters. What was that about?”
He grimaces. “Most people pretend to like them because they think it’s the cool thing to do. Models are always chasing cool.”
I give him a flat look. “Why were you so late?”
“Oh, sorry about that, too. I was with Jasmine and didn’t realize the time. She was making me help her choose her final outfits for the tour performances, although I’m really not qualified for that kind of thing. You didn’t have any trouble, didyou?”
I’d say yes if it wouldn’t sound petulant. “Not much. A minor paparazzi overload, but the ma?tre d’ rescued me. They were asking about my lack of posting.”
Luca raises his eyebrows to say I told you so. We ask a waitress to take our photo beside an elaborate fountain in the courtyard, Luca’s arm circling me. We decide we should both post it. That’s when we realize we haven’t even followed each other yet.
When I open my first app, I’m shocked.
“What’s wrong?”
I show him my screen. I’ve gone from having less than a few hundred followers, mostly my family in the States, to several thousand people requesting to follow me.
Luca smiles. “Astoria Herriot, you’re famous. But you need to set that to public now.”
“Great,” I say, with all the enthusiasm of someone getting off a carnival ride ready to throw up.
Luca laughs. “Use it.”
I just look at him.
“Become a brand,” he says. “An influencer. Sell your posts to advertisers. It can help you pay for that expensive school of yours back in America.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I get a sick feeling even thinking about it. “I just, that’s just not me, even if it would help me avoid student loans.”
“It’s easy money. You should take it.”
I tick my head.
He shrugs. “Well, what do you even have?”
I show him the few platforms I use, and we follow each other.
“Now, what are we going to say about this lovely photo?” he asks.
“Do we have to say something?”
“Argh, Story, you’re impossible.”
“I don’t want to say anything too sappy. First of all, it would make it less believable when we break up, and second, my cousins back home are going to have more questions about this than the paparazzi.”
Luca zeros his blue gaze in on me. “Because I’m me, or because you’re such a loner?”
I almost say “Both” because, while I doubt any of them have heard of him, his looks and fancy clothes are going to send them into a frenzy, let alone the shock of me posting. I shrug.
He laughs. “Okay, you just say something about having a lovely luncheon to raise funds for the charity, and make sure to hashtag the foundation, with me. And I’ll say the same and add something stupid like ‘with this bonnie girl.’ That should do it. We don’t need to make them think we’re madly in love, just public enough that I wouldn’t be interested in J.”
I nod and post the picture. “Okay, well, am I off duty as Luca’s latest?”
His smile drops. “I was kind of hoping you’d show me more of Astoria Herriot’s weird Roma. But if you have things to do, we don’t have to.” He’s ridiculously charming when he’s not so sure of himself. I have nothing to do, of course. But I don’t like telling him that. I try to think of something that wouldn’t be a lie, but there isn’t anything.
“Dai,” I say, which means come on in Italian.
When we’ve escaped to the Portofino, I ask Luca what he wants to see.
“What are my options?”
I shake my head at him. “This is Roma. Your options are whatever you want them to be. Creepy, sweet, frightening, silly, historic. There’s the Vespa Museum under a bike shop, or you might like the wax-enhanced skeleton of St.Victoria, or maybe you’re homesick and would like to see Little London?”
“London is not my home. Never say that again,” Luca says with mock offense. “Well, what are some of your favorite places?”
“I don’t think you’d like any of them.” Being a loner gives you a lot of time to explore.
“I loved your Porta Alchemica and the Aventine Keyhole.”
I bite my lip because my favorite places are all hopelessly romantic.
“What?” Luca says, laughing at me. “I know you have favorite places.”
“Well, there is the Pons Fabricus, which is the oldest Roman bridge in the city still in its original state. And the Ponte Nomentano is another beautiful bridge. And I like the Casina delle Civette, which is this weird kind of ode to German fairy tales. Or, just outside of the city is the abbey of Santa Maria del Piano, which they say Charlemagne built. But it’s in ruinsnow.”
“You would love where I grew up, you know that? I’ll have to take you.” He says this as if our friendship doesn’t have a shorter lifespan than a tube of Guin’s petroleum-based lip gloss. But I don’t say this. Something makes me believe that handing Luca a challenge is never a good idea.
Our first stop is Luca’s hotel so he can change, and I meet the elusive Hodges, who emails me regularly about Luca’s schedule. He’s tall and slender with a shock of blond hair that is starting to gray. His black suit is perfectly tailored against a crisp white shirt and maroon tie.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Astoria.”
“Likewise. You can just call me Story, though, Mr.Hodges.”
“I cannot, Miss Story. Although, it’s just Hodges.” He says it sweetly, while letting me know that I’m threatening to disrupt a thousand years of British composure.
“Hodges,” I say, “but not just.”
He smiles. Luca emerges from his bedroom, ready to take on Rome in a blue T-shirt and cargo shorts.
It’s ridiculous how good he looks whether he’s dressed up or down.
The day is beautiful, not as oppressively hot as Rome usually is in June. I take Luca to the river walk below the Pons Fabricus, which connects the eastern shore of Tiber Island, a tiny strip of earth in the middle of the Tiber River, to the mainland. As we stroll around, Luca suddenly takes my hand.
I look up, and he laughs. “In case any paparazzi or fans are watching. Don’t look so shocked, or they won’t believe us.”
“Of course,” I say, but the idea of some random fan taking our photo is even weirder than the paparazzi.
We spend the rest of the afternoon sightseeing, and it’s kind of fun to have a companion. After a while, I almost forget we could be on display as I get used to Luca’s hand in mine or his arm around my waist or shoulder. It’s dinnertime when we reach the village where the abbey is. You have to walk up a trail to get to the ruins, and Luca suggests we grab a picnic from the local groceria.
“Are you sure you can manage in those shoes?” he asks. “We’ve walked a ton.”
“I’m okay,” I say, although my feet have been hurting since we passed the Irish pub near the Pantheon, which was pretty raucous over some soccer game being telecast.
“Look, there’s a shoe store,” he says as we leave the groceria. “Let’s get you some proper hiking shoes.”
“It’s okay, honestly.”
“Story, it’s the least I can do. Besides, if you can’t dance tomorrow night, people will think something is wrong with our relationship. Come on.” Luca pulls me across the street. It’s a small store, but he still manages to find an expensive pair of trail runners for me.
“They cost too much.”
“She’ll take a size…,” he says to the lady waiting on us, as he looks at me expectantly.
“Thirty-six,” I say. The lady goes to fetch them.
“You really don’t have to.”
“It’s nothing.” He pulls a package of socks from a display and hands them to me. My mom makes a good living, but buying an expensive pair of shoes for convenience’s sake would still be something to us. Our worlds really are different.
“Thank you,” I tell him as the lady rings it up.
Luca smiles. “You’re welcome, Astoria Herriot.”
We drop my espadrilles in the Portofino and find the trail to the abbey. The walk is steep, and we pass only a few people, all heading down the hill. Evening shadows make it feel as if Charlemagne might come charging by on his horse. The ruins have arches throughout the remaining stone walls, and there’s a huge square tower with arched windows at every level. I pull up facts on my phone because I don’t remember enough of the history. “You’re not going to report me to the tour guide union, are you?”
“Not this time,” Luca says, draping his arm across my shoulders even though there’s no one else here.
We explore the ruins and then set out our picnic under a tree on the west-facing hillside as the sun sets.
“I wonder if Charlemagne really did build the abbey,” I say.
“Imagine the history of these hills! Home is bonnie, but different, too. You’ve never been to Scotland, have you?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t been to the UK at all.”
“You’d love Scotland.” He hands me a small carton of cantaloupe, and we have little roasted eggplant sandwiches. We drink aranciata from glass bottles, and Luca teaches me more Scottish slang, although most of their sayings “are not very polite,” as he puts it, his eyebrows creased together as he vets them, and we laugh. Crickets come out to sing, and the stars are just starting to show. A three-quarters moon crests the horizon. For dessert, we have cookies and chocolates as the dark deepens.
“This is the best thing I’ve done since I got here,” Luca says. “Thank you.” He reaches over and puts his hand on mine, but his eyes are on the stars. I should pull away.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s been ignoring it, but the calls are coming closer together, and he finally answers.
“No,” he says, “I heard it. I figured it was Andy or Adaira.”
Luca looks over at me and covers the phone. “My best friend or my sister,” he whispers.
I nod, trying not to be nosy. There’s still a lot I don’t know about him. Not that it matters, since this will be over before the days start to cool back in Maine.
There’s a pause as he listens.
“Aye, fine, I’m outside of Rome, but I’ll head back now. Story was just showing me some sights.”
I start to pack up our trash.
“Don’t be like that. I’ll be back in an hour. I didn’t know you’d end early.”
I stand and shake the crumbs from my dress, and Luca stands, too. He mumbles something I don’t hear and hangs up.
“Jasmine’s upset that I’m not back yet.” He says it more to the air than to me.
“Well,” I say, “I’d be unhappy, too, if you were my boyfriend and you spent more time with your cover than with me.”
He catches my gaze a moment before he nods. I don’t think either one of them are used to not getting their way. “Well, it was a lovely day, anyway. Thank you.”
It’s my turn to nod. “Just doing my job,” I say, and we silently follow the trail back to the car.