4. Esmé
4
ESMé
I placed my rather full glass of wine on the table and studied the white cloth in front of me. Gio Romano and I had been “tête-à-tête” as Maria had joked for the last forty-five minutes.
She busied herself in the kitchen, her voice carrying through the door as she hummed a tune. I didn’t know what she was cooking, or what she was singing, but my mouth watered at the smell filling the lodge.
Gio and I had spent our time looking over figures and projections for the new gallery. He was studying a page of financials Iris had put together. It turned out my best friend’s new wife wasn’t just an all-round lovely person but also had an amazing head for business.
She’d worked with my father, too, learning about winemaking at break-neck speed, breathing new life into his winery’s brand.
I tapped my nail against the pale cotton cloth, drumming out a manic beat. Gio’s steely eyes snapped to my hand, and I froze, drawing it back into my lap. I pulled my lips into a tight line, wishing I could read his mind; work out if he thought investing in me and my new gallery was a good proposition .
Since the chairlift debacle, we hadn’t had a chance to talk. After being rescued, Maria had clucked over me like a mother hen. She took me down the mountain for a hot drink and to return my single ski. I’d kept an eye out for my saviour, but with no luck. Our meeting and accidental kiss would have to be filed away in the history books.
He was probably at one of the local fairy-light decorated bars right now, charming his ski students like he’d charmed me. I wouldn’t forget his smile for a while, though, or the soft press of his lips.
Clearing his throat, Gio lay the papers down on the table. He ran his steady gaze over my face. “I can see you’re a shrewd businesswoman, Esmé. Coupled with your obvious passion for art and your ability to spot and champion new talent, I believe you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
My cheeks heated. Similar words had been said about me before, but only in journals or newspapers. Those compliments had felt disconnected from the way I saw myself. With Gio Romano sitting opposite, and my future resting on his decision, his words meant everything.
“Thank you. I hope I’ve given you all the information you need?”
He settled back in his chair, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “I’ll be honest. I like what I see. Your business proposal is shrewd. I’ve always considered opening my own gallery. Investing in you would let me enjoy the kudos while you do all the hard work.”
Something fizzed in my chest, and I straightened. Would it look a little desperate for me to vault over the table, get down on my knees, and beg? I was happy to work hard. But I wanted this man’s reputation, and more importantly, his money, behind me. If it meant I had to perform a double backflip and swing from the overhead light, I’d give it a red-hot go.
Before I could capitalise on his praise, or pull a ligament, Maria appeared through the door, carrying two large bowls of steaming pasta. She laid one in front of me and my mouth watered anew. Since risking my life on the chairlift dressed as Ski Slope Barbie, I’d only had some biscotti and an apple.
“Your food smells incredible, Maria. Thank you so much for inviting me to stay.”
The apples of her cheeks lifted. “Our pleasure. I know Gio has been keen to talk. He wanted to get to know you and discuss your proposition in more detail.”
She looked at her husband. His face remained impassive. With a little incline of her head, she backed away towards the kitchen. “I’ll bring the rest of the food.”
When she returned with another bowl of pasta and a huge salad, she sat down, settling her napkin in her lap. With a flourish, Gio opened a bottle of wine, pulling the cork.
Neither Gio nor Maria spoke. Not even casual niceties. Usually, I was happy with silence—people chattered too much at the best of times—but something about the too careful staging of this meal set my teeth on edge. What was I missing?
I cast my eyes around the room. Everything looked normal. Not too fancy, but comfortable with a hint of opulence. The large leather couches took up most of the room, only rivalled by a large wooden cabinet sitting against one wall. It held some pieces of sculpture and a few family photos.
There was one of Gio as a young man, looking unnervingly like Marlon Brando, and one of his and Maria’s wedding day.
Another showed a couple outside a church. The woman’s white dress screamed late 80s, so it couldn’t be Maria.
One last picture was of a little boy with sleek dark hair and a cheeky grin. He was missing a front tooth, and I had no doubt he'd been up to no good. The thought stopped me cold, and I squinted in the dim light. Something about his smile seemed familiar .
“Your meal will get cold, Esmé,” Gio said. “Maria will never forgive you.”
Leaving the photographs behind, I turned back to my bowl—and my hosts. Laying my napkin on my lap, I picked up my fork. Maria watched closely as I twirled it through the mountain of fettuccine, the rich aroma setting my senses alight.
I lifted a perfect bundle to my mouth, careful not to drip sauce on my new sweater. The moment it touched my tongue, the flavour burst across my palate—a velvety, indulgent mix that was, without a doubt, the best pasta I’d ever tasted.
“This is delicious, Maria. Do you have a cook?”
One dark eyebrow rose. “Most people assume I have help, but I like to cook myself, particularly up here in the mountains. The kitchen is the heart of an Italian home.”
I considered my little apartment high above my Paris gallery and smiled. My kitchen was cramped and dated, filled with endless cupboards, quirky eaves and angles. I had nowhere to keep staff, unless the chefs folded themselves into flat packs between meals.
“Well, I can wholeheartedly say this is the best thing I’ve eaten in a while.” I gathered another fork full.
“I’m glad,” she said. “As a business owner, you need to look after yourself. Eat well.” Maria paused, taking a sip of wine. “As far as I can gather, you’re running your Paris gallery alone now. Do you miss your partner?”
I lowered my fork into the bowl, my gut twisting. Everyone knew Didier Durand and I had parted ways. He’d been my business partner and, at one time, the love of my life—or so I thought.
We built the gallery together. He ran the business, and I focused on buying artworks and building relationships. But when our passion faded, so did his interest.
I still loved him, though only as a friend. When he wanted to sell me his share of the business, my first reaction wasn’t heartbreak—it was how I’d lose the shield he provided against Parisian art-world gossip. We only talked rarely, now.
“I manage,” I replied, hoping my smile was convincing.
She let out a low, “Hmm.”
“Still,” Maria continued. “It must be a loss not to have a man helping you. Hanging all those paintings and moving boxes must play havoc with your nails.”
I chose my words carefully. “It’s true, the art world is traditionally male dominated. But I feel, as a woman, I offer a different perspective. It’s taken me a while to build respect and standing in the community, but I believe, even with chipped nails, women are more than capable of standing on their own two feet.”
My inner feminist gave me a high-five.
Maria blinked three times, her mouth forming a thin line. Were my words a little pointed? A little too harsh? Maybe. I didn’t doubt she meant well, but I had every intention of one day breaking through the glass ceiling in my field.
“But, if you can recommend a good nail salon in Turin, I may organise a manicure on my way back to Paris,” I said gently.
She returned my grin. My shoulders dropped. I truly liked Maria. I hoped to get to know her better once I opened in Rome.
Gio topped up our wine glasses with a smile of his own. “I hoped our grandson would join us this evening, but he’s not arrived.”
I glanced at the picture of the gap-toothed boy on the dresser.
“I’m not surprised,” Maria muttered, taking a large sip of her wine. “He’s probably too busy playing with his friends or throwing himself off a mountain somewhere.”
Gio raised a palm in his wife’s direction. “Maria, we don’t want to frighten Esmé. ”
I snapped my gaze to meet my would-be investor. “Why would I be frightened?” Was their grandson an international terrorist or a serial killer? If that were the case, I was glad he hadn’t shown up.
Gio eyed me steadily, fingering his tie. “Esmé, you should know I admire ambition. I wish more young people would demonstrate it. But there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
Butterflies danced in my belly. Was he going to pull the pin? Let me down gently? Based on my afternoon, I wouldn’t blame him. If I couldn’t even keep my skis together in one place, why would he trust me with his money?
“I have a counter proposition for you,” he said. “I’ll invest in your new gallery—shout you from the rooftops—but as part of the deal, I need a little something in return.”
I swallowed. “Like?”
“It’s about Matteo.”
I stared at Gio. “Is he a new artist you want me to promote?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Matteo is our grandson. I’d like you to take him on at your Paris gallery”
I almost choked on the sip of wine I’d taken. “Sorry?”
“Oh, you might be,” Maria murmured.
Gio widened his eyes at his wife before returning to me with his professional smile fully in place. “I want you to take him under your wing.”
A prickle ran over the back of my neck, like fingertips dancing across my nape.
“He’s a lovely young man, but if he’s ever going to take on my business, he needs to settle down and actually learn something about art. About the cut and thrust. The hustle.”
I ran my fingers along the stem of my wineglass. Hustle be damned. “What do you mean ‘take under my wing?’”
“I want you to teach him about the business side of things. Show him how to talk to clients, how to appreciate quality art, and discern it from the second rate. ”
I narrowed my eyes a touch. Gio was one of the most respected art dealers in Europe. Why couldn’t he teach his grandson those things? I opened my mouth, ready to ask him exactly that question. But before I could speak, Gio shrugged.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but Matteo won’t listen to me. He only ever does the opposite of what I expect. He’s intent on spending his time skiing and travelling with his friends. He won’t settle down to anything.”
“That’s not strictly true,” Maria said.
Gio quirked his eyebrows. “Anything useful . Matteo is young and impetuous. Has some crazy ideas. Unfortunately, he’s charming. Never had to work hard for anything. He spends most of his time jumping out of planes or climbing mountains.”
I swallowed. Neither of those sounded like fun.
“I want him to have a proper job before even thinking about taking on the family business. I’m sure you understand.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, studying Gio’s face. He seemed serious. “How old is he?” I asked, picturing him as barely out of his teens. A wayward adult-in-training.
“In spirit or reality?” chuckled Maria.
Gio dabbed at his lips with his napkin before laying it next to his bowl. “I’ll be candid. If you can take Matteo on in Paris for six months, I’ll invest in your new gallery.
You don’t need to worry. He’ll have an apartment. You won’t even have to see him outside business hours. But with your passion and talent, I hope you can spark his interest in the art world. It’s what I do. It’s what our family has always done.” He smiled at me, his eyes sparkling in the light. “It would mean a lot to me. To us.”
I turned the idea around in my head. How bad could Gio’s request be? My current assistants bickered like cats and dogs. I had a lot on my plate with Luc’s next exhibition, not to mention my plans for Rome. Another pair of hands couldn’t hurt .
So, he was young and a little green. If he could take instruction and hang a painting correctly, we’d get along.
And what choice did I really have? I wanted Gio’s seal of approval in Rome. I needed his investment. And he was only asking for six months. What would be the harm in having their grandson working in my gallery for that short amount of time?
I gripped my napkin, hoping neither Gio nor Maria could hear my raging heartbeat. “Okay,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
A huge grin spread over Gio’s face, and he stood to shake my hand. “Wonderful. Thank you. I’ll have my lawyer contact yours. The draft of your contract may need a few tweaks.”
Tweaks, freaks or creaks; I didn’t care. I’d secured my investment without tapping Luc or my father for money.
Maria stood too, opening her arms and pulling me into her crepey chest for an embrace. It was like being locked in a room with a thousand bottles of perfume. Mid-hug, she brought her lips to my ear. “I apologise in advance, dear. You may have your work cut out.”
At her words, I clamped my teeth together. Were those alarm bells I could hear? I let out a slow breath. It was too late to turn back. For better or worse, I’d agreed to show Matteo Romano the ropes of the art business.
Why, then, couldn’t I shake the feeling that this decision was the start of something I’d come to regret?