Chapter 8
After her time in Florence, MODA sent Aida to Venice, where she immersed herself in the vibrant energy of the Peggy Guggenheim
Collection. She meticulously cataloged the happiness that the museum’s modern masterpieces and serene canal-side setting brought
to its visitors, noting how the bold colors and avant-garde forms seemed to lift spirits and inspire awe. The Guggenheim,
with its eclectic mix of contemporary art housed in an intimate historic palazzo, had long been a sanctuary of creativity
and joy, drawing admirers from around the globe to marvel at works by Picasso, Pollock, and Dalí.
From there, Aida shifted her focus to Ca’ Zenobio, a palatial residence that offered a different but equally potent form of
happiness. Inside its walls, the grand Sala degli Specchi—the Hall of Mirrors—captivated her with its ornate frescoes and
mirrored splendor. It was a place where Aida immediately felt transported, her spirits lifted by the sheer beauty and timelessness
of her surroundings. She could imagine the many countless dancers who had been spun across the ballroom over the centuries.
With every place Aida visited, her passion for the job only intensified.
Venice, with its enchanting canals and rich history, had her dreaming of a life here, wondering how she might persuade Graham to join her in Italy once her contract was up.
Yet their conversations had dwindled in recent weeks.
Graham pointed to time zone differences and his heavy coursework, but Aida sensed a growing distance.
At last, Erin had called Yumi to apologize for not being involved with the dress selection. She explained that work had been
hectic, but she trusted Yumi to make the right decision and would coordinate directly with the dressmaker for her fitting.
Aida could sense Yumi’s frustration, even though she tried to hide it. But what unsettled Aida more was that, according to
Graham, Erin had been really engaged in the wedding planning lately, helping with decisions—especially with the invitations.
It didn’t quite add up. Why was Erin so involved with Graham but ignoring Yumi’s messages about the dresses? Aida tried to
shake off the unease, attributing it to the natural difficulties of a long-distance relationship. Soon, she would be back,
and everything would fall into place.
The week that her three-month contract with MODA was up, Aida alighted from a helicopter at the London Heliport, where she
had just been whisked from Oxford, bypassing traffic on the M40. A dark blue Bentley limousine was waiting for her. She settled
into the creamy leather seat and decided why, yes, she would partake of the Salon Blanc de Blancs champagne the driver offered
her.
As the car zipped along the road beside the Thames, Aida sipped her champagne.
She wished she could photograph the limo and send a selfie of her drinking the champagne to Yumi.
Still, despite the window that separated her and the driver—which, to Aida’s amazement, had darkened by the mere touch of a button—she didn’t trust that there wasn’t some way MODA was watching her.
Over the last three months, Trista had given her more than one warning that made it clear Aida’s privacy was not what it used to be, and while she wasn’t sure that it extended to the limo, she wasn’t going to risk another scolding.
But, she reasoned, she really had nothing to hide.
And to have this level of posh treatment was worth giving up a selfie, wasn’t it?
Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and the car slammed on its brakes, sloshing champagne all over Aida’s slacks. Despite the
dampness, she was glad she always wore a seat belt because the force of the stop might have thrown her face-first into the
window between her and the driver.
“My apologies, Miss Reale. But as you can see, we have narrowly missed an accident.” He lowered the window, and Aida was shocked
to see a car flipped upside down about twenty feet in front of them just before a roundabout, glass sprayed across the asphalt.
“My god, what happened?”
“Probably lost control, collided with another car, and flipped,” said the driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and
a calm demeanor that belied the situation’s urgency.
The driver offered Aida a pack of tissues to clean her champagne-soaked pants. She dabbed at the stains, feeling a little
absurd. It seemed so trivial in the face of a life-threatening accident.
A London police officer, wearing the recognizable black trousers, white shirt, and a black stab vest, with a radio attached
to his shoulder, approached the limo, and the driver lowered the window. “Sir, can you stay and provide a witness statement?”
“Certainly, Constable,” the driver responded before turning his attention back to Aida. “My apologies again, Miss Reale. This
may take a bit. If you don’t want to wait, I can call another car for you. But you’ll need to walk to the other side of the
bridge. I will see your luggage delivered to the hotel as soon as possible.”
Aida agreed and exited the car. By then, the ambulance and other emergency vehicles had arrived, blocking most of her view,
with the exception of a bloody tennis shoe that had flown far from the wreckage. She gestured to a policeman who quickly came
to inspect it.
Halfway across the bridge, Aida paused to look at the Tower of London a short distance away, its staid presence in sharp contrast to the flowing waters of the Thames.
The day was chilly, and the sun was well into its descent toward the horizon.
She tightened her scarf around her neck and thought of how lucky she was.
The accident had been a startling reminder of how quickly circumstances could change, turning everyday complaints into trivialities.
If they had been going just a little bit faster, she could have been smashed up just like that car.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket and when she saw Yumi’s name flash on the screen, she happily answered.
“Yumi, you will never believe what just happened,” Aida said when her friend’s face popped up on the screen.
Yumi was standing outside a restaurant, the sun bright on her face. “Hey, do you have time to talk?”
Aida stopped and leaned against the parapet. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost. I . . . just . . .” She glanced back toward the glass pane of the restaurant door behind her.
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I met up with a friend at Barcelona.” Aida knew the place. It was a wine bar in the South End known for their Bloody Mary
brunches. “And, ugh, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about Graham.”
Aida’s stomach lurched. Yumi’s tone indicated that it wasn’t something like a traffic accident. “What do you mean it’s about
Graham?”
“I hate telling you this over the phone. But given all the wedding stuff, I don’t think it should wait.” Yumi sighed. “Graham
is here at the restaurant too—with someone.”
“Who?”
“Erin, but not in a friendship sort of way.”
“Oh my fucking god,” she breathed. Never in a million years would she have expected either of those two people to cheat on
her. She had known Erin since she was two! They had thirty-two years of history together—almost an entire lifetime.
“I’m so sorry, Aida.”
“Are you sure it’s them?” Aida asked, though she knew Yumi would never make such an accusation without being sure.
“Yeah, I took a video. But . . .”
“Send it, please.” Aida knew she would regret it, but she had to see for herself. She ended the call, her fingers trembling
as she lowered the phone. Her mind raced back over the last two months, a time spent immersed in cataloging—rather ironically—happiness,
all the while a subtle tension brewed between her and Graham. From a distance, she’d felt him grow increasingly resentful
of her time in Italy, a sentiment that seemed to shadow their conversations. In response, Aida had redoubled her efforts to
show him how much she missed him, sending thoughtful messages and arranging video calls at hours that better suited his schedule.
He reciprocated with loving, familiar words, yet carried a tone that didn’t quite fall right. It was a dissonance she hadn’t
wanted to acknowledge.
A minute later, the phone chimed. Aida opened the message to find a video that stole her breath away: Graham and Erin in a
booth, unmistakably together, lips locked in an embarrassing public display of affection against the backdrop of the crowded
bar. It was like a physical blow, confirming her unspoken fears. Resisting the urge to hurl her phone into the river below,
she watched it again, to be sure, she told herself, although she knew the image didn’t lie. She wasn’t sure whose betrayal
was worse—her fiancé’s or her childhood friend’s. She was so stunned she couldn’t even cry.
Her phone buzzed again. Yumi.
“What are you going to do?” she asked as soon as her face appeared on the screen.
“He’s still there, right? Well, I’m going to call him.” She hadn’t known what she planned to do until the words were out of
her mouth.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Very,” Aida said, anger firming her resolve.
“Oh my. Okay. Then call me back.”
Aida nodded and ended the call. Before she lost her nerve, she hit the picture of Graham’s face in her recent calls and waited
for him to answer.
He didn’t.
She hung up and called again. No answer. She tried once more, her patience fraying. This time Graham answered, but not with
video, just voice, which was unusual for him. “Hi, Aida, is everything okay? It’s a bit loud here. I met Sully for lunch.”
“Sully? Really? Don’t you mean Erin? No, wait, don’t answer that. The wedding is off, Graham.”
She hit the button to hang up and heard him call out her name before the screen went dark. Upstream, the Tower of London stood
resolute and ancient, its stones a silent witness to her private turmoil. Her fingers tightened around the cold metal of the