7. Matteo
7
MATTEO
T he morning passed in a blur. True to Esmé’s request, Lola gave me a thorough—borderline brutal—induction. Her voice echoed through the gallery, laced with giggles and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a hint of flirtation.
She was fun, but I had my doubts that all our conversation was strictly work-related. Still, despite Lola’s warmth, I found it impossible to ignore my boss’s presence in the room.
Esmé’s ivory neck—the delicate curve where it met the wisps of hair at her nape—pulled my attention like a siren’s song. And those legs—long, smooth, effortlessly elegant—crossing and uncrossing in ways that sent my thoughts in the wrong direction.
She’d hum softly, staring out the window, the pale sunlight catching the chestnut waves of her hair, teasing out shades of copper and gold.
She rarely looked for me—not the way I looked for her. But occasionally, she glanced my way, and it was like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud.
I approached her desk bearing an empty coffee cup. As I arrived, I reached out to stroke Claudette’s smooth tummy. Contrary to her earlier exit, she’d come back around lunchtime, meowing at the door to be let in.
Esmé had playfully muttered something about being ungrateful, and as a reward, she now lay stretched out across the incoming mail tray. Of course, she’d chosen the most inconvenient place to settle, but then … cats.
“Somebody’s made herself at home,” I said.
Esmé chuckled, and the sound curled around me like soft fingers.
“I’ve been debating if I should move her for a couple of hours now. She’s lying on some important paperwork, but it’s rare for her to come back after breakfast. I don’t want to spoil the moment, you know?”
“Well, I’m here to improve the moment.”
One of her brows curled.
“Lola sent me to offer you more coffee. According to my new handler, you’re an addict and we’re your suppliers.”
She rolled her eyes—not unkindly. “Then I’m grateful. Caffeine addiction is real, and trust me, no one here wants to see me go cold turkey.”
I fought the curve of my lips. “It’s good to get your heart rate up every now and again.” My voice came out quieter and far huskier than I planned, and a hint of pink grew on her cheeks as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
That gesture had become familiar to me. To anyone else, my remark might seem perfectly innocent, but I’d loaded it with as much intent as I dared.
“What’ll it be then, boss?” I asked.
She leaned toward Claudette, running a finger over the beans of her toes. “Surprise me.”
“I just might do that,” I said, wishing I could undo the clip in her hair and watch it tumble around her shoulders.
Her eyes snapped to my face, but before she had the chance to ask me what I meant, the bell above the door tinkled. Both Esmé and I looked up—as did Lola and Maurice, who’d materialised from the storage room at the back of the gallery.
A collective sigh went up between the three of them. They all wore the same pained expression.
“What?”
Lola moved to my side, speaking under her breath. “Marianne Rossi, the gossipiest operator on the Paris art scene. She lives to torment us. Exists in a bubble of cloying perfume and entitlement. She and her husband have deep pockets and enormous influence, so Esmé insists we be nice.”
“Of all the days,” Esmé muttered, standing up and straightening her blouse.
Marianne Rossi took her time circling the gallery, her gaze skimming over the artwork with practiced interest. It was impossible to tell if she was truly admiring the pieces or simply making a performance of it. Eventually, she turned her attention toward Esmé’s desk, her stride purposeful.
“Your turn,” Esmé said, speaking to Lola. “I spent almost an hour with her last week discussing the finer points of picture framing. I’m not sure she’ll ever use the info, but at least she knows how to stretch a canvas should the need arise.”
Lola looked at her boss as if she’d just asked her to master Japanese in a week. “I’m busy, sorry. Washing my hair,” she said, turning on her heels, heading back to her desk.
With a scowl, Esmé looked at Maurice. His face resembled a man asked to perform open-heart surgery with a spork. He shook his head. “If Lola’s washing her hair, I’m getting my nails done.” And just like his co-worker, he made himself very scarce, very quickly.
I gaped. What the hell? Didn’t she pay these people good money to help her? That salary must include dealing with painful customers.
“That was rough,” I said, drawing alongside her.
She moved her head in my direction, dropping her voice. “ Welcome to the team. As Lola said, this is Marianne Rossi. Charming, rich, and very nosey. Keep your wits about you. She takes no prisoners. But I need to keep her on side, so please try not to lose your temper or your charm.”
Warmth crept over the back of my neck. “You think I have charm?”
Esmé shot me a look before Marianne’s voice grated across my ear drums.
“Esmé!” The woman approached, arms outstretched, staring at me . Her blood-red nails resembled claws.
“ Bonjour Marianne. How lovely to see you again! What brings you back to our humble gallery so soon?”
She continued to stare at me as she spoke to Esmé. “I was at a loose end, and I always enjoy the haven you’ve created here in the middle of our bustling city.”
“Well, you’re always welcome,” said Esmé. “Is there anything in particular I can show you today?”
Marianne’s eyes lit up.
She gave Esmé a fleeting look before returning her gaze to me. “Who’s this? Such a smart-looking young man. A budding artist, perhaps? Maybe an artist’s model?”
Her tinkling laugh ground against my nerves. I glanced at the door to the storage room. Was it too late to escape? I should’ve followed Maurice or Lola when I had the chance. But seeing the stoic look on Esmé’s face, my heart twisted. Surely, she deserved backup. A bit of support.
“Marianne, this is Matteo, my new assistant. Matteo, this is Marianne Rossi.”
The woman trailed her eyes over me, from my head to my toes. Her lips bowed. “How delightful. I can see from your shoes that you’re Italian or have a special place in your heart for leather.”
The way her eyes bore into me, I wondered if she was talking about footwear. Undeterred, I smiled. This could be my chance to ingratiate myself with Esmé—to gain her approval. Take the load off her shoulders like a knight in shining armour.
She’d already said I had charm. Like a champion of old, I’d wield it like a sword for her.
I smiled at Marianne. “Enchanted. And you’re right, I’m Italian.” I leaned in and took her hand, kissing her knuckles. Surely there was no harm in “over-charming. “I’ve come to work with the legendary Esmé Laurent. To bask in her general splendour and hope a little of her genius rubs off on this poor, humble farm boy.”
Esmé raised her eyebrows. Okay, so my expensive suit and the gold on my wrist and may decry my claim to be a farm boy. But my family did own a lot of land. We probably had a farm or two amongst the orchards and vineyards my grandfather was so proud of.
“How delightful,” Marianne said, her cheeks blooming. “Perhaps you can impart some of Esmé’s wisdom to me, then. I’d be happy for you to show me around the gallery, give me some titbits of information.”
Esmé snapped her gaze, first to me, then back to Marianne. “Oh, there’s no need. I always have time for you, Marianne, you know that.”
Marianne glanced down at Claudette, who still lay stretched out across Esmé’s letter tray. “But I can see how busy you are. Your big exhibition is coming up soon. You must have a mountain of work to do in preparation.”
Esmé’s eyes tightened a touch, and she opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her.
“My pleasure,” I said, earning a glare from my boss. “Esmé has taught me so much already. I’m sure I can pass on some insights into the beauty hanging around us.”
Marianne’s smile blinded me. “Wonderful. And your French is so good. Though I speak a little Italian, I’m grateful. Now. Where shall we start?” As she spoke, she linked her arm through mine.
Esmé stepped forward, eyes as wide as plates.
I held up my hand in protest. “I’ve got this,” I mouthed to her, wishing she didn’t look so panicked.
With the slightest wink to my boss, I guided Marianne through the gallery. Lola had been right. The smell of her perfume was as thick as treacle. She clung onto me like a limpet.
“Tell me,” she said. “What’s your favourite painting here?”
My gut lurched. I’d been so knee deep in and trying to stay awake under Lola’s information onslaught this morning, I hadn’t had a chance to really look at the artworks. I glanced around the gallery, settling on a large abstract piece resembling a tablecloth after a toddler ate tacos.
“This one,” I said with all the conviction I could muster. “It’s stunning.”
“It is?” Marianne asked, her voice wavering.
“Absolutely. It’s titled, ‘Barren Earth.’ This watercolour was inspired by the artist’s battle with an avocado tree in his orchard.”
Marianne tightened her eyes as she ran them over the picture. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s said that each year the tree would only bear a single fruit. His family reportedly starved. Do you see the artist’s use of the splatter technique? Pure rage.”
Marianne shook her head slowly. I glanced over her shoulder to see Esmé staring at me with her mouth wide open.
“Oh, my goodness,” whispered Marianne. “How awful.”
I nodded. “ Si . You think Van Gogh was bad for cutting off his ear? This man pulled up his entire orchard. Olives, peaches, lemons. They all died under his bloodlust. Eventually, the authorities removed him from his village in a straitjacket. ”
A loud “tut” rang out across the gallery. Esmé sat down in her chair with her arms firmly crossed over her chest.
“Can you show me something less … violent?” Marianne asked.
“Of course,” I said, guiding her over to a minimalist painting that looked like someone had smeared a boiled egg over the canvas. “Behold,” I said, sweeping an arm towards the artwork.
“This picture may look simple, but the technique used is very intricate and time-consuming. It’s known as ‘the whisper of the brush.’ A remote community of monks in the Southern Alps perfected it.” I stepped toward the painting, hovering my hand over a lurid patch of paint. “The monks meditate for days before each stroke of their paintbrush.”
“That’s amazing,” Marianne said.
“Yes. This work took years to complete. And I believe they nominated one abbot for canonisation.” I stepped back, throwing my arms up theatrically. “Saint Marcus, Patron Saint of Bristles.”
Marianne’s eyes widened. “Bristles?”
“Absolutely. He used the finest squirrel’s tail gathered from the forests around the monastery. They even set up a rodent sanctuary in his name. Devout art lovers make a pilgrimage every year to pay their respects.”
A scrape of wood against wood rang in the quiet. Both Marianne and I looked toward Esmé. She stood in front of her desk, her chair pushed to the side. She’d drawn her brows tight together and her eyes flared bright enough to flay the skin off a man’s back.
“How tragic,” Marianne said, her eyes wide and serious.
“Well, as you know, beautiful art is often driven by great suffering.” I swept my gaze around the gallery once more, landing on a small portrait of a woman who looked on the verge of tears .
“Take this piece, for example. It’s very powerful. Look at the expression of longing in the subject’s eyes. It was said she ordered a croissant at a cafe, but it never arrived. Devastating.”
I could feel Esmé’s glare, the crackle of her discomfort in the air. I didn’t want to upset her, but who knew art could be so much fun?
Marianne stared at the portrait alongside me for almost a minute. Finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “How do you know so much about art? I thought Esmé was the expert.”
I nodded, guiding her away from the croissant picture. “I studied French provincial new wave medieval art at university. I’ve published several papers on?—”
Before I could finish, Esmé’s voice broke over mine and she linked her arm through Marianne’s, pulling her away. “I’m sure Marianne doesn’t want to hear about your research, Matteo. It’s a little dull, don’t you think?” The steel in her voice wasn’t lost on me.
I followed the two of them to a spot in front of the door. “Don’t underestimate the power of research. You’d be surprised what a good nude teaches you.”
Esmé’s eyes widened, and Marianne let out a chuckle. “Perhaps we shouldn’t ask.”
“Speaking of nudes,” Esmé said, her voice lofty and strained. “I have something to show you.”
Esmé led Marianne to the other side of the gallery. As she walked away, she gave me a blistering look, and my gut twisted. I’d tried to help entertain her customer and give her some down time. Only, I’d probably driven a bigger wedge between us.
With a sigh, I walked over to Esmé’s desk, sitting down next to Claudette’s makeshift bed. I longed for the easy conversation we had this morning before anyone else arrived.
Then, while we sipped our coffee, it felt like I’d known her my whole life. There’d been excitement, an unspoken tension in the air between us. But I’d stupidly reached out and brushed her skin. I didn’t know why I did it, but standing so close, my body had burned to touch her again.
She reacted like I’d bitten her.
Claudette stood, arched like a bridge, and let out a small meow, weaving around the objects on Esmé’s desk. I tickled the soft fur behind one of her ears.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” I said to her. “Maybe you can give me some tips. How do I make your owner like me?”
A throat cleared behind me and I spun round to see Marianne and Esmé. Marianne had a smile on her lips. Esmé just stared at me.
“Oh, how gorgeous!” Marianne said. “I love a man who adores animals, don’t you, Esmé? They’re the kindest. So considerate and gentle.”
Marianne brought her fingers to my chin, tilting it up and around as if she was sizing me up for a portrait or a facelift. “I think it’s your eyes. Animals love big eyes.”
I shot Esmé a triumphant look, but she only narrowed hers, her jaw clamping. A flicker of something—irritation, maybe—skittered across her gaze. More penance for me, it seemed.
“It’s been lovely to visit,” Marianne said. “I must come again. And you, Matteo? You are a treat for the soul. I’d love to hear more about your research papers. Where would I be able to read them?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I wracked my brain, trying to think of somewhere so obscure that she’d never attempt to track them down.
Esmé, probably on the same wavelength, guided Marianne to the window, looking into the sky. “I think there’s a storm building. You should probably leave. You don’t want to ruin your hair in the downpour. ”
The woman touched the back of her up-do and looked out of the window alongside Esmé. “I think you’re right.”
“ Au revoir , then,” Esmé said in a sing-song voice. She turned back to her desk.
Marianne glanced around the gallery. “Oh, okay. Perhaps Matteo could order me a taxi in the street?”
“He can’t.”
“Why?”
“Honestly? I need him here.” Still hovering in the doorway, Marianne wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. After the longest and most awkward pause known to man, Esmé leaned forward and pressed a finger to her lips, as if she was soothing a fractious baby.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to embarrass Matteo, but he has a natural curl to his hair. Any exposure to rain could play havoc with his ringlets.”
She sent Marianne a cheeky grin, and my heart pulsed. In that instant, the armour of the woman I called my boss cracked to reveal a glimpse of the woman on the chairlift. The funny woman who wasn’t concerned about her gallery and her reputation.
After a little more discussion about the weather, Esmé bundled Marianne out of the door. When the gallery fell silent, she turned to me, arms folded across her chest.
“Well, I think that went well,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since I’d arrived in the gallery. She tipped her head to one side. “Define well. If you mean you told ridiculous lies to one of my clients in the run up to the most important exhibition of my life, then yes. You did well. Bravo.”
Her words ripped at my chest like a rusty can opener. But she was right. I’d played fast and loose with her baby. Her livelihood. She had every right to be angry.
“Esmé, I’m … I’m sorry. ”
She ran her eyes over me; her face was stony and guarded.
Claudette let out a meow by my side, head-butting my elbow.
“At least someone likes me,” I mumbled, reaching to tickle behind her ear.
Esmé huffed a wry laugh and shook her head. “Oh, I like you, Matteo. I just don’t know if I can trust you to be alone with anyone. We’ll talk about this later. I have a headache.”
Without another word, she scooped Claudette in her arms and stalked towards the coffee machine.
As she walked away, heat spread through my chest and I sent a prayer of thanks to the soon-to-be St. Marcus, Patron Saint of Bristles. “Did you hear that?” I whispered. “She likes me.”
I grinned, picking up my boss’s old coffee cup, following her through the gallery.
Esmé Laurent liked me. I could work with that.