Chapter 8 #3
‘Jason? You have no idea.’ As he began to talk about a weekly executive meeting with his finance, human resources and marketing managers, it dawned on Michelle that she’d misunderstood Filippo’s social media posts.
Filippo wasn’t just a humdrum middle manager at the nearby Torcello Barangaroo – a new luxury tower nicknamed ‘The Smoothie’ because it was cylindrical with a big, glass dome on top, which was supposed to be a nod to St Mark’s, and a telco tower that looked like a giant straw.
Filippo was, in fact, Chief General Manager of the entire Asia-Pacific Torcello chain, which encompassed hotels in Sydney and Melbourne as well as Singapore, Beijing, Tokyo, Bangkok, Jakarta and Seoul.
Christ, Michelle thought. No wonder he needs a lot of energy.
‘And he maintained that he wasn’t responsible for the night shift report, so it had nothing to do with him.’ Filippo rolled his eyes; he had a very expressive face. ‘I should have listened to you. You told me to watch my back with Jason. You are a wise woman, my darling.’
Michelle couldn’t keep up with the torrent of information and his relentless charm. She felt as if she were back in her early weeks at Colville, unable to figure out what to say to the sleek, privileged creatures around her as they laughed and chattered, utterly comfortable in their own skins.
‘Ecco!’ He passed her the zucchini flowers. ‘Why don’t you take those out and I’ll be along in half a minute?’
Michelle was relieved to do something useful. Besides, she couldn’t think straight while watching Filippo’s glittering performance. In the dining room, she set the plates down, nervously wondering if she’d done it the right way. Was this really how Filippo approached every domestic meal?
She noticed a couple of framed photographs on the sideboard.
One showed an enormous group of people with identical noses, clustered around a stern, elderly woman enthroned in an antique chair.
The matriarch was exerting some kind of gravitational force, because everyone was leaning towards her – including Filippo, who looked young, vivid and cherished; the baby of the group. He’d developed eye bags since then.
‘You’re right.’ His voice behind her gave her a shock. ‘We should visit my mother. I was thinking about that. You’ve quit your job and I’m due some leave. What about next month?’
He chatted about holiday destinations as they settled down to eat.
How did Michelle feel about Sardinia? Or maybe the Dolomites?
He painted a romantic picture of hill towns and villas, overwhelming Michelle, who was trying not to scratch the gold leaf on her plate while she cut up her meal.
She’d been to Italy once – at nineteen, as a backpacker – and she was pretty sure the Dolomites were mountains, but she couldn’t remember if they were north or south.
Was he trying to make her feel inadequate?
Probably not. On the contrary, he seemed desperate to please her. He kept pressing her about the food: was it too salty? Al dente? Was the seafood fresh? Was the veal tender? And how did she feel about the flowers? Verdi still okay? Did she find the wine a little – how to put it – abbocato?
What the hell was abbocato? Michelle smiled, making a mental note to google it later.
‘It’s fine,’ she kept saying, as course followed course. ‘It’s great. Delicious. Beautiful.’
After a while, feeling tired and a little perplexed, she blurted out, ‘Don’t worry, I’m good. My IBS isn’t playing up at all.’
That stopped him in his tracks, but only for an instant. He quickly rallied, eyes gleaming. ‘I’m so glad to hear it. As for me, my acid reflux – poof! Gone.’
‘So the medicine worked?’
‘Like a charm.’
‘Well, that’s good news. At last you found the right doctor.
’ Michelle’s phone rang before she could steer the conversation into more normal, everyday topics.
Knowing that Katrina always texted, she grimaced.
This had to be her dad – or possibly Harold, her dad’s friend, a fellow military historian who had joined Rolf that night to recreate one of their favourite El Alamein manoeuvres. Harold was a handy sitter, on occasion.
‘Sorry.’ She flicked Filippo an apologetic look. ‘It’s my dad.’
He raised his eyebrows, then nodded and got up from the table, swanning off to attack crème br?lée with a chef’s torch or something equally esoteric.
Michelle answered her phone. ‘Yes?’
‘Michelle? What did you do with my Balvenie?’
For God’s sake. ‘You drank it, Dad.’
‘I did not!’
‘You finished it when you had that cold, remember?’
A brief pause. ‘Damn and blast.’
‘You shouldn’t be drinking alcohol anyway. Not with those pills you’re taking.’
‘Too late,’ he replied smugly and hung up.
Michelle heaved a sigh, which Filippo heard from the kitchen.
‘Everything okay?’ he called.
‘Yeah. Just the usual.’ It was time to message Katrina, who had already sent Michelle a champagne-bottle emoji. Now Michelle texted one right back.
‘Maybe we should visit your father next week. Take him out to the yacht club for lunch.’ As Filippo reappeared in the doorway, Michelle expected to see him smiling. Instead, he was looking quizzical. He probably thought her dad was part of the act.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Yacht clubs aren’t really his thing.’
‘No?’ He offered her fancy Italian chocolates in a bowl, but she waved them away. ‘You’re a good daughter. A good example. I should be calling my mother more often. Coffee?’
‘You know it keeps me awake.’
‘Limoncello? Amaretto?’
It was like being in a fancy restaurant. ‘Let me help you clear up.’
‘No, no . . .’
‘Yes. I insist.’ Michelle felt that she had to do something. She was here to be a wife, and wives didn’t sit around, being waited on hand and foot – especially if they were being paid for the privilege. She dug through the locked box of past relationship memories and pulled one out.
‘You know the rules,’ she said. ‘If you cook, you don’t clean up.’
Filippo made a theatrical gesture that somehow incorporated submission, amusement, appreciation, reluctance and resignation all in a single, full-body flourish.
Then he followed her into the kitchen, where she began to gather up all the perishable scraps.
It looked as if a farmer’s market had exploded in there.
‘So I was thinking about that problem you mentioned earlier,’ she said, searching for the bin without trying to seem too obvious.
‘Seems to me your CRM software can’t be tracking some of your key data points – or at least reporting on them.
’ At last Michelle found the bin, which was concealed behind a press-button panel and featured three receptacles for rubbish, compost and recycling.
‘Does your CRM software differentiate between data entered during the night shift and what comes in during the day?’
After scraping a plate, she straightened. Filippo was studying her, eyes narrowed, expression thoughtful. For the first time that evening, he’d fallen silent.
‘Not that I know the first thing about it,’ she added hastily. ‘But you mentioned a night audit – what’s that?’
‘Closing the books on one accounting day. Opening the books on another.’ A smile flickered across Filippo’s mouth. ‘Haven’t we discussed it before?’
‘Obviously not,’ Michelle replied tartly. ‘Though you know me – mind like a sieve. So we’re talking about balancing accounts, reconciliations . . .?’
‘Room status discrepancies, verifying no-shows—’
‘Data, in other words. But if data collection is happening at the same time, all around the hotel . . . I know it’s the next day’s data, but could there be a hole somewhere? And no safety net because the data entry isn’t differentiated? Just a thought.’
Filippo stood motionless, holding a pan full of congealed fat. ‘Remind me – what CRM software do you use?’
Michelle wasn’t using any – not for Dreamwives.
But she gave him a list of the systems she’d used in the past, and from there they plunged into a long and interesting discussion on data quality.
Michelle found herself relaxing for the first time that night; she began to see why Filippo and Ilse had clicked.
They were both very, very smart. Watching him engage with back-end operations while he sorted rubbish, Michelle felt a sense of relief, as if a blinding spotlight had been switched off; she just wasn’t a natural actor.
The cleaning became companionable – until she started stacking the dishwasher.
‘Oh, no, no, no, my darling – hand wash only!’ Filippo whisked one of the Ginori plates away from her.
‘With that microfibre cloth from Japan. You must be so tired, forgetting that – and the crystal! Dio mio, we don’t put our Riedel in the dishwasher!
Why don’t you leave this to me? The crumb sweeper’s out on the sideboard, if you want to take care of the tablecloth . . .’
It was like being a twelve-year-old in her mother’s kitchen. Sighing internally, Michelle glanced up at the clock. God, Italians ate dinner late. How did they ever get to sleep at night, digesting all that cream?
‘Will you look at the time?’ She used one of Katrina’s recommended exit lines. ‘It’s been such a long day, I think I might just head off and brush my teeth. Go to bed. Can you finish up here? Would that be okay?’
‘Of course!’ He was in full performance mode again, teeth flashing, voice caressing. ‘You must be exhausted after your terrible day. But tomorrow you should treat yourself. Facial. Pedicure. New handbag. The works.’
Michelle wondered what he was trying to say. That her handbag was shabby? That her skin looked dry?
‘Oh – and I’ll email you my feedback form,’ he added. ‘I’ll be interested to hear what you think.’
Michelle tried to work out what on earth that meant. Was he talking about the Dreamwives questionnaire or had he mentioned something during their data-set discussion?
‘Thank you,’ he went on, earnestly gazing into her eyes. ‘You’ve been so helpful.’
Michelle couldn’t imagine why. All she’d done was stuff herself and stack the dishwasher incorrectly.
‘You are my life’s treasure,’ he continued, placing a hand on his heart as he grinned at her. ‘What would I do without you, cara?’
‘Hire someone?’ It was out of her mouth before Michelle could stop it; she must have been more tired than she’d thought.
For an instant, Filippo seemed startled. Then he gave a shout of laughter. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re so right. Off you go, then. Buona notte.’
‘Same to you.’
Michelle was careful to close the front door quietly behind her, so she wouldn’t spoil the pretence that she’d gone upstairs. Crossing the road to her car, she heard her phone ping. Katrina? Probably.
Though she felt like an escapee, she was also aware of a slight sense of loss. The dark and empty street was a stark contrast to what she’d just left behind: warmth, light, arias, fragrant food – even Filippo’s theatrics.
She climbed into her car and checked her phone. To her surprise, the latest message was from Filippo, not Katrina. I appreciate your time and excellent service. Will recommend.
Clicking on the embedded link, Michelle found a document entitled ‘How Did I Do?’, which looked a bit like the kind of customer feedback form she’d often found in hotel rooms. After a moment’s confusion, she worked it out: Filippo wanted her to rate him as an at-home partner, from ‘excellent’ to ‘poor’.
She scrolled in disbelief, the categories making her head spin. How was the ambience of the home when you entered? What was your level of comfort with your host’s welcome? How would you rate the first course? How would you rate the amount of attention paid to you?
Michelle gaped at the screen. What on earth was this all about?
She should really send Katrina a text, letting her know the appointment had gone well, but which emoji could possibly sum up the experience she’d just had?