Chapter 11
FRANKIE
Dante’s going to pay for his comment about my “inappropriate” attire.
It’s now my mission to find out how long it takes to max out a credit card. I’m hoping a few solid hours of nonstop shopping will do it, but I’m willing to go to more extreme efforts if that doesn’t do the trick.
I’m going to make my husband regret ever giving me this platinum card.
He thinks my clothes are too outdated? Fine.
His eyes are going to cross and his bank account is going to cry when he sees the amount of clothing I bring home.
And I’m not stopping there. Oh no. He wants me to be a proper Bellanti wife? I’m going all out.
All. Out.
Because fuck him.
I change into a flouncy red sundress with a slim gold belt around the middle, a pair of Italian leather sandals, and a floppy hat, and then head downstairs to go about getting a ride to my father’s house so I can pick up my car.
If it’s still there, that is. I know my father is desperate enough to have tried selling it, but I’m not sure how many buyers would line up to make an offer on a shitty 1994 Volkswagen Golf with a sticky manual transmission.
Honestly, I’m not even sure the engine will turn over for me after three years of sitting abandoned in the back of the garage, but it’s worth a try.
With a car, at least I’d have a little freedom.
One of the staff members is dusting the sideboard in the hall, and gives me a confused look when I mention what I need.
“Mr. Bellanti has made Donovan available for all your transportation needs today, Mrs. Bellanti.”
“Great. Except I don’t know who Donovan is or how to find him. Do you maybe have a number where I can reach him, or…?”
Her cheeks go a little pink, as if she’s embarrassed on my behalf.
I mean, I’m just the wife whose husband has told her absolutely zero about how his household is run.
I’m sure there are a hundred things at my disposal that I’ll never know about until I suss them out on my own. Dante can’t be bothered, obviously.
My wedding ring should have come with an instruction manual.
“I—no. Donovan is the family driver, Mrs. Bellanti. There’s no need to call. I just saw him in the kitchen having coffee. I’ll fetch him for you.”
She hurries off before I can thank her, a man appearing much quicker than I would have imagined for a man enjoying his coffee. I suppose being at the beck and call of this family requires superhuman response times to a summons, or else.
The man gives a little bow, his dark hair graying at the temples. His face is pleasant, with deep crow’s feet beside brown eyes suggesting years of constant smiling. He looks around my dad’s age, but a bit on the sturdy side. Something about him makes me feel I’m in good hands.
“Mrs. Bellanti. Very pleased to formally meet you. Where may I take you today?”
“I just need a ride to my father’s so I can pick up my car. I have some errands to run.”
His head dips respectfully. “No need to drive yourself. I’m at your service for the day. Mr. Bellanti would insist, of course.”
Like I care. “Thank you for the offer, but I’d really like to drive myself.”
His smile tightens though his eyes are indomitably kind. “Mr. Bellanti would insist, Madam.”
I hear what he’s not saying: Don’t stir the pot, Mrs. Bellanti.
Fine. I’ll play by Dante’s rules. For now.
“Okay. I’d like to go to Union Square, please. I’m all ready to go,” I say.
“Very good. This way.”
An hour later, we arrive at the best shopping district in San Francisco.
Donovan drops me off and gives me his cell number so I can call when I’m done.
All the shops are within easy walking distance, so I can browse the day away at my leisure.
I’ve only gone a block when I find a shop full of couture, with designer names on the window that I’ve never even heard of.
One look as I step inside, and I know I haven’t heard of them because they aren’t the mainstream chic that everyone knows about.
These are the subtle designers that rich people pay huge money to wear while trying to keep it quiet so they don’t have to share with the masses.
I approach the registers and ask for a stylist. The sales associate gives me a blasé look while she slips a blouse onto a hanger, sets it down slowly, and smiles like she doesn’t mean it.
Her gaze sweeps over me and it’s all very Pretty Woman as she clearly dismisses me by picking up another shirt and hanger.
“You can have a seat and I’ll see if someone is available.” She gestures weakly to a velvet chair in the corner. “Name?”
I give my best Julia Roberts, “bless your heart” smile. “Mrs. Dante Bellanti, but you can call me Francesca.”
The hanger drops from her hand and clatters across the countertop. “Just a moment, please. Can I get you a sparkling water? Some champagne? I’m Marin, by the way.”
I don’t sit. Instead I wait by the counter, leaning against it like I own the place. If I have to be married to a giant asshat, I might as well take advantage of his name and live up to it.
A perky blonde comes over with a big to-do, air kisses my cheeks, and ushers me to a plush fitting room for measurements.
“What are we looking for today?” she asks. “Something for a special event, or…?”
I tell her I need an entire work wardrobe, and her eyes light up.
The array of outfits she selects make me giddy.
Professional suits with exactly the right details, like belted silk jackets or slightly puffed shoulder seams. Perfectly tapered pencil skirts, blouses with hand embroidered cuffs, wide leg trousers and matching vests with a hint of masculine flare.
There are dresses stylish enough for the office, but flirty enough to transition to dinner wear.
And so many scarves, shoes, and other accessories that it makes my head spin.
I spend the next hour trying things on, while my new friends—Tina and Marin—lavish me with compliments and champagne and so much flattery I have to beg them to stop.
Every time I come across an article of clothing that makes me feel like I can conquer the world, I buy it…
in two or three colors. Tina convinces me to wear one of my new skirt suits out the door, so I choose a summer weight linen and a sassy pair of snakeskin high-heeled sandals to go with it.
I have to admit, I look like a million bucks.
After I pay, I tell Marin to hold my bags until my driver Donovan shows up to collect them. She’s very accommodating.
The next uber exclusive boutique I swan into specializes in lingerie.
I’m not sure if it’s the new suit or if I’m projecting some kind of haughty, newfound confidence, but this time there’s not a moment’s hesitation from the sales staff when they see me coming.
They’re on me like flies on honey, showing me the most expensive frilly, slinky, and sexy things on the racks.
This is a whole new world for me. I’ve never gone out of my way to purchase sexy underthings.
Practical suits me better. I suppose I never understood the necessity of lace floss for underwear.
Yet as I run my hands over the frothy bras and panties, I’m starting to get it.
I stock up on the sexiest underwear and sleepwear I can find, including a gorgeous sheer dressing gown in pale lavender with yards of fluffy marabou trim.
I also get a pair of ridiculous open-toed slippers with kitten heels and a fuzzy ball on top, just because.
I have to send Donovan back to the house with all my bags and boxes when I’m done, because I’m nowhere near finished with my shopstravaganza, and I literally wouldn’t fit in the back seat with my haul.
While I wait for him to get back, I stroll through more shops, picking up a few other things here and there—a bag of chocolate-covered strawberries from a boutique candy shop, which I eat promptly, Diamonds by the Yard necklaces from Tiffany for me and my sisters, and a jaunty new hat for Donovan to express my appreciation.
The sun is out, everything is brilliant and fresh, and I feel a little content.
Happy, even? It’s the thrill of spending Dante’s money, and I’m not done yet.
Rounding a corner at the end of the block, I spy a small classic car dealership tucked in between a coffee shop and yet another jewelry store.
I wouldn’t give it a second thought normally, but I spy a cherry red Jaguar parked at the end of the lot, the crimson paint glistening in the sunlight.
It sparkles a little, like it’s calling me over. It’s a sign. I have to go look.
Turns out Ms. Cherry is a two-seater convertible with buttery soft dark tan leather, a glossy wooden steering wheel, and burlwood console accents.
“Mrs. Dante Bellanti.” I give the salesperson my hand for a firm shake, my huge wedding ring glinting, and that’s all it takes to get me a test drive.
My heart flips as I zip around, the engine purring like a content kitten.
If there’s one way to blow up a credit card, this little beauty will do the trick.
Plus, I love it. Pulling into the dealership once again, I send Donovan a text that I’ve got a ride home.
I do some paperwork, pay with my new card, and wink at my beauty of a car before slipping into the driver’s seat.
I’m about to pull away when my phone rings. It’s a customer service rep, calling from American Express. Finally. I’d been wondering how long it would take to hear from them. After the introductory spiel, I have to verify some information so they know it’s really me.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bellanti. The reason we’re calling is because we’re concerned about some recent activity—”
“All me,” I say jauntily, cutting the guy off. “I’m just having a little shopping day.”
“I see. Well, we’d just like to inform you that you’ve nearly reached the limit on your card.”
I gasp lightly. I’m such a good actress. “I have a limit?”