Chapter 7 #2
I push this rogue thought from my mind. I’d be crazy to start imagining there could be anything more between me and Sandro.
He’s made it clear he loves his free, non-committed lifestyle and I need someone steady in my life, not someone who’s going to forget I exist the moment I walk out of the door.
* * *
Sandro
For the first time in my life, I’m wishing that time would slow down instead of speed up.
To my surprise I’m really enjoying having Juno here with me in Florence.
Things come to life when she’s around and she has a way of brightening up the room whenever she’s in it, as if she emits some kind of positive force.
It seems to be infecting me too because I find myself smiling all the time.
And the sex is incredible. I’ve never been with anyone so openly and honestly responsive.
There’s no pretence with her. No acting cool.
No game-playing. She finds such joy in learning new things. It’s inspiring and refreshing.
And I don’t want it to end.
I’m also having a hell of a job maintaining my determination that she should lose her virginity to someone else.
I’ve come close to giving in a couple of times, when she’s had her hand wrapped around my cock and all I can think about is how amazing it’d feel to be inside her hot, slick pussy.
But I don’t want the responsibility of being her first. No matter what she thinks, there’s would always be an emotional attachment between us because of it, and I don’t want that.
It could make things way too fucking complicated.
Speaking of complicated, my father calls me that night in a good mood to congratulate me on the successful job I’m doing of rehabilitating my image.
Apparently there’s been a lot of interest in his social realm about Juno and I, which surprises me, but then I suppose we’ll be viewed as a pretty unlikely couple, and people are always curious about that sort of thing.
I’m actually really regretting the tip-offs I’ve been giving to the paparazzi now, after getting to know Juno better.
I’m hoping she won’t see any of the pictures that my father tells me have come out in the Italian press.
Luckily, she seems completely uninterested in reading gossip pieces or looking at social media so she should miss them.
But I’m worried about any possible backlash when she gets home.
I’ll feel like shit if the press starts to hound her there.
So we’ll need to be more low key from here on in.
No more communication with the paparazzi.
The only trouble with that is there’s a new gallery opening in the city tomorrow night, which I’d really like to attend, and they have a famous, well-respected Italian artist exhibiting so the place will be crawling with press.
But there’s no way I’m going to sneak out and leave Juno at home. I don’t want to lie to her about where I’ll be. I’ve already done enough skirting around the truth as it is.
I’m walking towards the kitchen to fetch myself a stiff drink when I hear the sound of Juno’s voice coming from her bedroom. She’s left the door slightly ajar and through the small gap I can see her sitting up against the headboard, talking to someone on her mobile.
I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, and begin to walk away, but the sound of my name stops me in my tracks.
‘…having a really amazing time. He’s not at all what I expected.’
There’s a small pause and I take a couple of quiet steps back to her door and peer through the crack again to see a frown cross her face.
‘Maya, don’t say things like that! You clearly don’t know a thing about him if that’s all you’ve got to contribute.’
There’s another pause, where she taps her fingers restlessly against the bedspread while she listens to her sister’s response.
‘Actually, he’s an incredibly astute, sensitive and generous person. And oh my God, Maya, is the guy talented!’
Another pause and a frown.
‘As a sculptor!’ She shakes her head at what she clearly feels is her sister’s crass misunderstanding.
‘He’s shown me some of his work and it’s knockout. I mean, the man is incredibly talented. He should be exhibiting it. I know people would fall over themselves to buy his pieces.’
A warm feeling is rising through me, beginning deep in my belly and rushing up through my chest. Her praise is like a drug, rushing through my veins, making me high on happiness.
I listen in for another minute, unable to tear myself away now, but when the talk appears to turn to a discussion about their father I slowly back away and go to fix myself that drink.
Though strangely, when I get to the kitchen, I realise I don’t need it any more.
* * *
Saturday night rolls around and I leave it to the last minute to tell Juno about the gallery opening.
‘You don’t have to come,’ I say, trying to make it sound as if I don’t care either way.
‘No, no, I’d love to go with you,’ she says, her eyes shining.
‘Hey, you should take some videos of your sculptures so you can show them to people there. There might be some useful contacts you can tap up. My father always says he makes his most important deals outside of the boardroom. It’s probably the same for artists.
You need to meet socially with the people who could support and promote you. Dazzle them with that Ricci charm.’
She gives me that heart-melting, warm smile of hers.
I try to smile back but my facial muscles seem to be frozen. The idea of failing in front of her makes me feel sick.
‘No. I’m not ready to show them to anyone yet,’ I say gruffly.
She looks a little shocked at the forcefulness of my tone.
‘I’ll do it soon. Just not tonight,’ I add to save her feelings.
‘Sure. Okay,’ she says, giving me what feels like a pitying smile.
I bristle, but don’t react, though I’m aware of a familiar shame sliding through me.
* * *
We get to the gallery an hour after it opens its doors. I’ve deliberately made us fashionably late in the hope we’ll miss the photographers – not that I think Juno would recognise it as such. As she’s come to discover, I’m a terrible timekeeper.
Juno smiles at me as we step inside, giving my hand a squeeze, and we make our way through the throng of people standing around chatting and clutching flutes of champagne.
I smile back at her, marvelling at how well she fits in with this crowd.
She’s wearing a simple but elegant forest-green slip dress, which she bought on one of our excursions a couple of days ago, and she’s pulled her hair into a loose knot on the top of her head with her fringe clipped up away from her eyes for once.
She’s not hiding here tonight and is actually making eye contact with the other guests. I know how hard she finds it to socialise with people she doesn’t know, so this behaviour both surprises and gratifies me. She’s doing it for me. I know she is.
We tour the gallery, looking at the art and making small talk with one or two of the other people there who are doing the same thing.
‘There’s the gallery owner,’ Juno whispers into my ear a few minutes later, nodding first at the information programme she picked up at the door, then towards a lean, balding man who is holding court in one corner of the room.
I feel a tightening sensation in my chest.
‘Yeah, I see him,’ I mutter, but don’t make a move that way, and I can’t look at her in case I see disappointment in her eyes. I really can’t handle that right now. But this isn’t the right time to try and push for an exhibition of my work. I need more time to prepare.
‘I’m going to find the ladies’ bathroom. Back in a mo,’ she says, handing me her glass to hold and striding stiffly away.
I watch her go, frustration swirling in my gut, then turn to scope out the room to distract myself from the gnawing feeling of guilt that joins it, smiling at the women who turn to look at me.
For the first time in my life, their interest leaves me cold.
* * *
Juno
I walk up to the gallery owner with my heart in my throat.
I so desperately want this to go well, but I’m afraid of making a mess of it and consequently making Sandro angry.
But I have to do it. It would be an absolute travesty for his talent to go to waste.
For him to let his father’s prejudice get in the way of what could be a really successful future as a professional sculptor.
He just needs a break – for someone to give him an opportunity to prove himself – and, after that, I know he’ll fly.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the guy, who is surrounded by a throng of arty types, all crowded round listening to him talk.
He turns to look at me and my stomach gives a horrible swoop of nerves. If this doesn’t work, Sandro’s going to be furious with me. But it will work, I tell myself. It has to.
‘It’s a beautiful gallery you have here,’ I say with a smile. ‘Juno Darlington-Hume,’ I add when he gives me a perplexed look. ‘I’m here with Sandro Ricci. I’m his manager.’
He nods, clearly recognising the name. ‘Have you seen Sandro’s sculptures?’ I ask, bringing my phone out of my pocket and opening the video app where I’ve stored some short videos that I took of the sculptures when Sandro was taking a shower.
‘I didn’t know he sculpts,’ the owner says, bending to take a look at my screen.
‘He’s really good,’ I say, ‘And he’s looking for somewhere to exhibit them.’
The guy nods and takes my phone from me, peering down at the video of my favourite sculpture, then clicking through to look at more of them.
I hold my breath as I wait for his reaction, crossing my fingers and praying for good news.
‘These are very interesting. I’d like to see them. Give me a ring next week and we’ll set up a meeting,’ he says, handing me a business card.
My hand shakes as I take the card. ‘Thank you. We’ll do that.’
I walk back to where Sandro is standing, my legs wobbly with relief. He watches me approach with a dark expression on his face.