Chapter 24
ENZO
I'm trying to work but Molly’s in the bathroom and her excited squeals are hard to shut out.
I was up early this morning. Couldn't sleep. I wasn't sure how much of that was to do with Molly being in the room next door to me.
She woke up a short while ago and sauntered into the kitchen when I was making another cup of coffee. I couldn't stop staring at her sleep-rumpled hair and the oversized sleep shirt she wore. It looked ... not too bad on her.
She wished me a “Good morning,” then had a glass of water. But she wasn’t her usual perky self, and I didn't expect that.
“You're not a morning person.”
She walked out without replying and it confirmed my observation. Then she stuck her head back in and asked if it would be okay for her to run a bath.
I told her she could do what she liked. She didn't need my permission. This wasn't school.
And now, judging by the sounds I'm hearing, she took me at my word.
It’s as if the woman has never run a bath before. Though, granted, the sunken baths here are huge. Knowing her, it wouldn't surprise me if she tried to swim in it.
I soldier on with my work for a little longer, and when I glance at my watch, I see that Molly’s been in there an hour. I push my laptop away, half-considering whether to shout out and ask how long she's going to be.
Or maybe I should just check that she hasn’t drowned.
What am I doing?
I have work to do. Important decisions to make, so I pull the laptop back towards me and force myself to focus.
A short while later, Molly knocks on the door. I glance over my shoulder to see her wearing nothing but a fluffy white robe this time.
“Are you hiding from me?” she asks, before sauntering inside. She seems relaxed, as if the water therapy helped.
“I was working.”
“You're wearing a tie.”
“I’m always professional.”
“But we're at home.”
Her feet are bare. Her face is flushed and her wet hair clings to her shoulders.
I stare for too long as every muscle in my body goes rigid.
The robe is securely tied around her waist, revealing absolutely nothing, which doesn’t seem to matter to my imagination. I drag my attention back to her face.
“I can see you’re busy, so I won't disturb you.” She steps back, perhaps wary of my silence. “I was going to make some breakfast. Can I make anything for you?”
I hear her words, but I’m overwhelmed by the scent of expensive floral scents that now hang in the air.
“You smell of expensive flowers,” I blurt out.
“Oh!” She grins, then grabs the fluffy cuffs of the robe. “Did you know that there were five different kinds of bath salts in there?”
“I did not.” I sit back in my seat and observe her.
“And thick and gooey lotions and creams. I took my sweet time trying them.”
“I can smell.”
She grins. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
“Will this bathing ritual be a daily occurrence?” Because I might need to resort to noise-cancelling earbuds in order to get some work done. “You were in there for an hour.”
She sighs. “I’ve had a very demanding morning.” She stares at my laptop. “Are you going to work all day long?”
“I was going to order breakfast first,” I tell her.
“Order? I'm about to make some. I’ll cook whatever you like.” She moves towards the door.
I get up slowly. “No need. We’ll order room service.”
Her eyes widen. “This is … this is too much. Things like this never happen to me.”
I give her a menu. “I find that hard to believe. From my experience, things happen whenever you’re around.”
She opens the menu. “Maybe,” she murmurs, examining it. I have a feeling she's going to her time going through this.
“It’ll be dinner time by the time you decide.”
She closes the menu abruptly. “Okay then. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Are you sure? I can wait for you to decide. We have all day.” I don’t want her to defer to me. I’d rather she took her sweet time looking through the menu.
“No, no. I can never make my mind up when it comes to food. Why don’t you go ahead and order whatever you want, and I’ll pick at it.”
I can’t imagine Molly picking at food.
“Fine.”
She leaves the study just as I place the call to room service and pancakes, pastries, fruit and bacon. I don’t usually eat much for breakfast, but I don’t want to deprive Molly.
I hang up, but I’m not too eager to get back to work. I wander out of the study, only to find her sitting on the couch, staring dreamily out of the windows. I lower my head, engulfed by shame me for doing this to her.
“Your clothes arrived,” I tell her, hoping to cheer her up. The courier dropped the packages off earlier.
“My clothes?”
“The ones my assistant ordered.” I fetch the packages from my study and hand her hers. “Open it.”
She jumps to her feet, takes the big parcel then drops to the floor where she tears open the package and pulls out all the neatly folded clothes.
Her face drops. I’m guessing it’s because of the assortment of muted colors which, if I’m being honest, are boring. Not Molly-esque at all. Which is why I made her get them. The palette consists of light colors—stone, taupe and charcoal.
She holds a shapeless oatmeal colored sweater against herself.
“Enzo.” Her dull eyes settle on me.
“That’s nice.” I try to sound enthusiastic.
“I look like porridge.”
She does have a point. “The look we were going for is ‘forgettable’.”
Not amused, she pulls out another one.
“That's taupe.”
“I’ve become the curtains in an old people’s home.”
I stifle a laugh.
“And that’s exactly why we chose them. We don’t want to draw attention to you,” I remind her.
Her eyes slide over me. “You're always so smart and stylish. Like you belong on the cover of a magazine.”
Is that what she thinks?
“Thank you for the compliment.”
“It’s the truth.” She reaches for the other items and quickly looks through them. “I’m warning you. I’ll be dull and boring for a few days. It might kill me, but I’ll try to stay strong.”
“I appreciate your sacrifice.”
But she’s right. These colors and style of clothes don’t fit her personality. They’re too formal and stuffy. How can I ask her to hide, when it's impossible for someone like her?
Molly shines, exactly how she was meant to. Me muting her personality feels wrong, but I remind myself that I’m trying to keep her safe.
“You add your own … “ I struggle for the right word. “… you add your own flavor to things.”
Before I can say anything, the elevator pings. “Would you look at that, breakfast is here.”
A server wheels in a small trolley laden with dishes covered by big silver domes.
“Can I open these?” Molly asks , referring to the silver covers.
This is the second time she's asked for my permission and it doesn't feel right. “Do whatever you want, Molly. You don’t need my permission.”
She squeals with delight every time she uncovers a dish.
“So many pancakes! Oh, and look at all these croissants.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes please.” She fills her plate with everything while I pour coffee in two cups.
“I was starving.” She eats ravenously, eliciting appreciative sighs with every mouthful. I watch her over the rim of my coffee cup.
She stops, a forkful of pancakes stopping short of her mouth. “Are you not eating?”
“I usually only have coffee.”
She sets her fork down, looks at her heaped plate, then stares at me. “So … you ordered all this for me?”
“Anything wrong with that?”
She tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to keep doing nice things for me, Enzo. You’re too nice.”
“There’s no such thing as too nice.”
“It doesn’t seem right, after … after everything I‘ve put you through.”
“It’s just breakfast, Molly. Just breakfast, nothing else.”
But I start to wonder if she might think I’m after something. What with the penthouse, the clothes and this breakfast, she might mistakenly believe that. The thought startles me enough that I need to say something.
“I don’t know how to say this, but we’re staying here because you and I will be overrun by the paparazzi if we go out on the streets. That’s all. That’s why we have to stay here and do this.” I wave my hand between us.
She frowns, staring at me intently. “I know that. We’re just friends.”
I sit back, slightly perturbed by the decisiveness of her tone.
“Good.”
Of course we are.
We sit in silence for a while, but I’m curious to find out more about her. “What do you normally do when you have a free day?”
She picks up a glass of orange juice. “I read. Wander around thrift stores. Go and lie in the park with a picnic blanket and read.”
“You have a picnic?”
“No. I just read.” She breaks a piece of croissant off. “I usually end up buying way too many craft supplies and plants, and sometimes I go and watch a movie.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Don't you?”
“No. Haven't so far.”
“I play Jenga alone.”
I lower my coffee. “By yourself?”
“That’s what alone generally means.”
I don’t understand. “Jenga—the game with the wooden blocks?”
“Exactly that.”
“How does that work, if you play alone?”
“I build the tower. Then I remove the pieces.”
“But it’s always your turn.”
“That’s one of the advantages.”
“Isn't that a problem, because you know when every piece has been moved because you moved it?”
“But I never know when it's going to fall.”
I almost spit out my coffee. “But ...”
“It's suspense.”
This. This is what makes it fascinating to be around her. I burst out laughing.
She stops eating. “It happened.”
“What?”
“You laughed. Out loud. Like your entire body was cheering you on.”
“It’s not unheard of,” I retort, indignant.
“You've never laughed like that. You usually exhale loudly through your nose. It's not the same thing.”
I sit back, perplexed and amazed at the same time. “You’ve known me for less than a fortnight.”
“And I’m already making important discoveries.”
I can't remember the last time anyone watched me laugh as though it were an accomplishment. Molly treats my laughter as though it’s a rare, fine thing. Something she wouldn't mind hearing again. I find myself wanting to give it to her again.
“What about you?” she asks, helping herself to another croissant. She breaks a piece off and puts it into her mouth. “What do you do for fun?”
“I like to read.”
“Fiction?”
I wrinkle my nose.
“Work-related books?”
“Sometimes.”
She breaks off another piece of croissant, then slathers some butter over it. “That's homework.”
I adjust the cuff of my shirt. “I also exercise.”
“That's torture.”
She has a delightful, if insane, way of looking at things. “I also follow the markets.”
She nods.
“I like to travel.”
“For work?”
“Usually.”
She sits back. “That's a lot of work.”
She's summed me up like a textbook. I must come across as boring and dull to someone like her.
“I also enjoy good food.”
“You do?” she asks, as if she doubts me. “Because I’ve only seen you pick at your food.”
“I still enjoy the bits I pick.” Why am I suddenly feeling defensive?
“That's the first rung of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, not good food but still ... it’s food.”
“Maslow?” She knows about Maslow?
“Yes.” She sees my surprise immediately. “What? You thought kindergarten teachers only know about finger painting and how to stop children from eating glue?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. She saw right through me, right through to my bias. I stare at her.
Nothing about this woman fits neatly into the categories I keep trying to put her in. She wears blindingly bright clothes, talks to complete strangers, and plays Jenga alone as if it's normal.
I can be an arrogant ass sometimes, but now I’m ashamed of myself.
“Sorry.”
She breaks off a piece of her croissant, and chews slowly. A few moments pass. I keep my mouth shut.
“I always liked school, and studying, and finding out more about things. I was lucky enough to get scholarships and financial aid so that I could go to college. Once there I worked every job I could squeeze in around classes. I came out with some debt, but I got my degree in early childhood education, and that was all I cared about. I love teaching kindergarten.”
I’m reminded of our astronaut conversation back in Venice. Of the casual way I dismissed the idea when she told me she could have been an astronaut, and the way she challenged me.
What a jerk I must have seemed.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
“For being surprised. I shouldn’t have been.”
She studies me for a moment, then smiles. “It’s okay. People usually are surprised by me. For the wrong reasons, mostly.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No. But you’re learning.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. If there’s one thing I should understand about Molly by now, it is that she will always make me smile.
“What do you do when you’re sad?” Her question catches me off guard.
“I work.”
She rolls her eyes. “That W word again. And when you’re angry?”
“Work.”
“Worried?”
“Work.”
“And when you’re happy?”
I hesitate. She's drawing things out of me so easily, it’s unnerving.
“Do you work then too?” she asks softly.
“I'm not working now, am I?”
“This makes you happy?” She throws a hand between us. “Me taking up your productive day?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. It’s not a difficult question. I know what makes me useful, productive and successful.
But what makes me happy?
Molly sits in front of me, in an enormous fluffy robe, eating a pastry, waiting for my answer.
I don’t have one to give.