Chapter Five #3
She’s young. Too young to be juggling a global business and a father on the run.
Although, I’m beginning to wonder what kind of father Charlie is.
The Hennessy I knew was a wild child. I thought Charlie just couldn’t cope with her.
Now I’m wondering if it wasn’t so much that he couldn’t cope as that he wasn’t there.
I crack the eggs in the pan, add a sliver of butter and stir with a wooden spoon until they are almost but not quite set. Taking them off the heat, I add a teaspoon of ricotta cheese, a grind of pepper and then I push them onto a plate.
‘Here.’ I hand the plate to Hennessy.
She eats with obvious relish, and I wonder when she last ate or if she has simply been existing on adrenaline and herbal tea.
‘Thank you.’ She clears her throat. ‘For making this for me. It’s delicious.’
‘My mother used to cook it this way. ‘
‘Was she a good cook?’
‘Yes, she was. She was a homemaker. Very traditional.’ I see a flicker of curiosity in Hennessy’s eyes, and something else, something almost like envy.
But then it is gone, and I know I imagined it.
Hennessy is an heiress who grew up as part of the bohemian, nomadic jet set who criss-cross the globe in yachts and private jets.
My family lived in a tiny apartment in a small town near Naples, and then a different tiny apartment in Brooklyn.
Money was always tight. In Brooklyn, we often slept in our coats in the winter rather than switch on the heating.
We are opposites, and not just in upbringing. Our characters are diametrically opposed. That I allowed myself to momentarily forget that is proof that both of us need to get some sleep.
‘Right. We should call it a night,’ I say firmly, getting to my feet. Reaching down, I pick up her laptop. ‘Come on.’
We don’t speak as we walk up the stairs, but as we reach the top, she turns to me. ‘You don’t need to escort me. I know the way.’
I wait, and after a moment she sighs and turns, and I follow her slowly. I don’t have a foot fetish but following a woman with bare feet to her bedroom, following Hennessy, is painfully erotic. It is only by sheer effort of will that I am able to force my gaze up to a point above her shoulder.
She stops in front of her door. ‘This is me,’ she says softly, and for a moment we just stand there in silence that is full of ‘what if?’s and ‘why not?’s, and a shivering current of tension that makes my brain momentarily lose functionality.
‘I’m going to keep hold of this until tomorrow,’ I say after I manage to get my thoughts back on track, holding up her laptop.
‘There’s going to be a lot of people claiming to have seen Charlie and it’ll drive you crazy, trying to validate all of them.
He’ll turn himself in when he gets tired of running. ’
I expect Hennessy to argue, but it has been a long day, and instead she nods. Suddenly I am alone in the hallway, staring at her shut door, left with nothing but her teasing scent and a laptop that doesn’t belong to me.
The next few days are intense, which is unsurprising.
More surprising is Hennessy. It’s not often that I’m wrong about people but she was right: she does know how to behave.
In fact, she is a model of grace and decorum, and my remarks about the riskiness of bringing her seem over the top now—fussy, almost. And it turns out that she can speak six languages, including Italian.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re multilingual?’ I ask as she returns to my side after a conversation with a clearly enraptured Italian designer.
‘It didn’t come up.’ Her mouth twitches. ‘Are you worried you said something snippy about me to Simonetta? You didn’t, or not when I was there, anyway.’
‘You might find this hard to believe but I haven’t said anything snippy about you to anyone in any language. I’ve had some snippy thoughts, but nothing I care to share.’
Her eyes meet mine. ‘Nobody could accuse you of over-sharing. Extreme bossiness and a misplaced certainty of your own rightness, maybe, but not over-sharing.’
The room is crowded with people, I know that for a fact but for some reason I can’t see or hear them. It’s just me and Hennessy, alone.
‘The bossiness I think you’re stuck with, but I can correct my misplaced sense of rightness.’ I pause. I should be immune to her beauty, but her mouth is such a distracting shape. ‘Because I was wrong. You were right—you do know fashion. And your language skills make having you here a bonus.’
Her eyes meet mine and she gives me a small, curving smile that leaves me wanting more before turning to greet someone in flawless French.
For the next four days we are like athletes competing in timed heats.
One meeting follows another, each with a different couture house.
And then there are the shows. Unlike Hennessy, this is new to me and, truthfully, I thought I would be bored.
I took the decision years ago to relegate clothing low down on my list of priorities.
But this is true fashion. It is a magical blend of art, performance and beauty.
And nobody conjures that magic up better than Hennessy.
Even in a room chock-full of models and beautiful people, she is luminous.
And the couture crowd have a different view of Charlie’s fugitive status. Heads turn as we take our seats in the front row next to FROW’s editor, but Hennessy has that quintessential coupling of perfect bone structure and scandal, so they love her.
It helps that she has inherited a wardrobe of heirloom couture pieces and styles them with accessories that make the fashion set implode with joy and envy.
Helps too that her EQ matches her IQ. Watching her mesmerise our fellow diners over lunch, I realise that she has an entire skill set that I don’t share and might possibly have under-valued.
I’m not charming, but Hennessy turns heads and softens hearts.
Catching sight of one of the younger ad executives giving her a second glance, I feel oddly jealous.
We are not a couple, or anything like one, and I have never felt possessive about any woman—the opposite, in fact.
I like having sex, I like women’s bodies, but I can always walk away.
I have always walked away. But, as I watch Hennessy smile that megawatt smile that she has never once bestowed on me, I feel myself wanting to walk over, grab her hand and keep walking until we are some place where it is just the two of us.
Fortunately, I am not stupid or reckless enough to act on that impulse.
Once was enough. It will have to be. Hennessy might look intoxicating in that dress of dark-blue silk, empire line with an over-sized pleated cuff—and that I can reel all that off in my head is destabilizing enough—but, where she’s concerned, I need to stay sober.
‘That went well.’
We are in the car on the way back to the house after a dinner with the head of JVHM, the luxury goods conglomerate. Hennessy is effervescent, excited, and I am too. Because she’s right—the dinner did go well. The whole week has.
‘It did.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’ She bites her lip. ‘So, I was thinking we might talk about the party?’
‘What party?’
She frowns and the sparkle in her eyes flickers like a faulty fluorescent strip-light. ‘I sent you my proposal.’ Now her smile twists. ‘But I guess you didn’t read it.’
I read the tagline to her email, but there was no point in reading on. I already knew it was a no-go.
‘A party is the last thing we need to be attaching ourselves to right now. We are trying to contain the fallout from Charlie’s disappearance—.’
‘I haven’t just tried.’ She cuts across me. ‘I’ve succeeded. Or aren’t you going to acknowledge how positive Monsieur Pinault sounded tonight?’
‘He enjoyed your company, Hennessy. Most people do. But any financial commitments we secure will be based on hard, economic facts, not because you batted your eyelashes at them.’
‘That’s not fair.’ It isn’t but, no matter that she is sober now, Hennessy is still too like her father for me to trust her judgement in this instance.
‘So basically, all that stuff you said earlier was lies. You think my input is worthless.’
I think back to her effortlessly switching between languages. ‘Not worthless, no.’ I soften my voice. ‘You’ve worked hard all week, but Charlie’s partying brand is not good for our optics. Surely you can see that it won’t play well with advertisers and shareholders?’
‘I disagree.’ Her eyes are dark like plums. ‘In New York, you said to me that the building was on fire. Well, if you want people to stop staring at a burning building, Renzo, you need to set off some fireworks.’
I stare at her in confusion and admiration because, once again, I know with a sharp, unsettling certainty that she is right. Sinking back in my seat, I take a breath and meet her gaze. ‘What kind of fireworks are we talking about here?’