8. Matteo
8
MATTEO
M y phone rang in the gallery’s quiet. I know Esmé preferred the artwork to do the talking, but I swear a touch of ambient music might lighten the crypt-like atmosphere consuming the space.
I picked up my phone. It lay on the top of Esmé’s desk. Had I spent some time sitting in her chair this morning?
Yes, I had. I liked to think I was keeping it warm for her. As I breathed in the faint smell of her scent, I smiled. I was a terrible liar. I just liked to exist in her orbit, plain and simple.
Antonio’s name flashed on the screen, and I picked up the call, leaning back in the chair. “ Ciao , Antonio. Is everything okay?”
He huffed a breath down the line. “Apart from me not knowing where you are these days, or where your head’s at?”
“And the Oscar goes to …,” I said, shifting on the leather chair with a creak.
“I’m not joking. I feel like I’m always chasing you down. Where the hell have you been? And don’t tell me, Paris. That, I know. But I expected you on a video call yesterday at five p.m., and you didn’t show. ”
Invisible fingers crept over my shoulders, skipping across my tense muscles like they were dancing a military two-step. I’d been in the gallery, staring at my boss, studying the way she gripped her bottom lip with her teeth when she concentrated.
“Sorry,” I said. That word was becoming my new catchphrase. I’d said it to Esmé, repeatedly, after my spontaneous gallery tour with Marianne Rossi a few days ago.
Now it was Antonio’s turn, and only last night I’d delivered a gushing apology to my grandfather. He called, asking me why I was missing in action. He wanted to check in with me twice a week. So far, I only called once.
“You’re always sorry, Matteo. You’re lucky I keep you around.”
I chuckled. We both knew that without me and my reputation, we’d struggle to make our venture a success.
After a long beat, he spoke again. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” His voice dipped, lifting the hair on the back of my neck. “Look, I know this gig at the old woman’s gallery is something you have to do, but you seem to spend an awful lot of time doing it … whatever ‘it’ is.”
At Antonio’s description of Esmé as an old woman, I closed my eyes.
I hadn’t clarified the situation. He didn’t know how beautiful she was, how maddeningly smart and sensible, or that she was anything but old.
“Hey, are you still there?”
I sighed. “Yes, I’m still here. I’m sorry. I’ve been preoccupied.”
At that moment, Claudette jumped onto the desk with a clatter of claws. The two of us had hung out most of the morning. Esmé was out meeting her friends for coffee.
Luc du Comtois and his wife had arrived that morning to prepare for his exhibition. That left me, Lola, and Maurice to hold the fort. Lola had spent most of the time on her phone with friends and grinning at me over the top of her computer. Maurice sulked in the back somewhere as a result. He was completely in love with his co-worker.
“Preoccupied? With what? What could be more important than our business?”
I pulled a hand through my hair. How about pleasing my new boss?
“That gallery owner must have you working hard. Is she a ball breaker? A little eccentric?”
A smile played at the corner of my lips. Esmé was eccentric, alright. Now that I’d observed her for a week, I’d discovered three things about Esmé Laurent:
Number one—she was ridiculously organised. I could set my watch to her.
Number two—she was very careful about how much of her personality she allowed others to see.
And number three—outside of my actual gallery work and the plans for my business, she was all I could think about.
Seeing her every day, her formal facade fully in place, drove me crazy. I lived for those moments when our eyes would meet across the gallery and the tiniest blush of pink would hit her cheeks. Or the way she let her guard down when she thought others weren’t watching. The other morning, I’d even caught her singing as she opened her mail.
“Let’s just say I’m pretty busy.”
Silence greeted me from the other end of the line. Finally, Antonio spoke. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Are you seeing someone?”
At his question, all the moisture left my mouth. Antonio couldn’t know—shouldn’t know—the hefty crush I had on my new boss.
“I’m waiting …,” he said.
Claudette’s purr was the only thing breaking the silence. She head-butted the top of my arm with a meow-squeak, and I smiled. “I might be.”
Antonio chuckled. “You sly devil. Why am I not surprised? Tell me, who’s the lucky woman?”
I drummed my fingers on the desk and Claudette immediately attacked them.
“Claudette,” I said.
Antonio gave a low whistle. “Damn. I love French names. Where did you meet her?”
I chewed on one side of my lip. “I met her hanging out in the square outside the gallery. We shared coffee one morning. I offered to warm her up.” It wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Slick. What’s she like?”
Claudette currently had her teeth wrapped around my thumb. “She’s definitely playful. She knows what she wants, and she’s smart. So smart.” Warmth crept through my chest. It felt good to be able to talk about Esmé, even in code.
“Is she blonde or brunette?”
I ran my fingers over the white fur of Claudette’s belly. “Blonde. Short hair. Soft.” At that second, she went in for another attack on my fingers. “But I can tell you she’s got claws.”
Antonio’s laughter flooded my ear. “Ha. Sounds like a challenge. I hope she’s not too distracting, though. I need you fully onboard at the moment. We’re in sight of the finish line, my old friend.”
“I know, I know. We have a big exhibition in a couple of weeks. After that, I’m all yours.”
“Promises, promises,” he muttered. “Well, I look forward to meeting Claudette. Just don’t let her get her claws too deep into you. We’ve got work to do.”
A smile spread across my face as the little gallery cat wrestled with my forearm. If only Antonio knew how far Claudette, or Esmé, had already clawed her way into my heart.