Chapter 11 #5
She hadn’t laughed so much in years. She laughed until she was on the floor, crying and moaning.
Bent double, Filippo had to support himself by clutching a kitchen benchtop.
Finally, he also slid to the floor, gasping for breath, occasionally blurting out comments like, ‘Over-anxious? You think so?’ and ‘They had a fifteen-for-the-price-of-one deal . . .’
‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’ Though Michelle’s ribs ached, she couldn’t help noticing that Filippo’s kitchen floor was spotless. No doubt he borrowed Torcello hotel cleaners.
‘Should we sample them?’ Filippo asked, when he’d finally stopped hiccupping. ‘Let’s sample them.’
Staggering to his feet, he yanked open a cutlery drawer. Michelle started pulling out tubs. She lined them up in front of her, wrenched off the lids, ripped the seals . . .
‘On the floor?’ said Filippo with a touch of surprise. His hands were full of mismatched teaspoons.
‘Why not? You could eat off this floor. Literally.’ Michelle wanted to try the Matcha Yuzu Swirl, but first they had to work out a germless delivery system, using coffee mugs and so many spoons that the tubs bristled with them.
Filippo threw himself into the challenge.
Soon he was sitting cross-legged, shirt untucked, sleeves pushed up, smacking his lips over the Chipotle Chocolate Cherry and Pandan Coconut flavours.
‘I don’t understand people’s brains,’ he said, waving his spoon.
‘Did someone open their pantry door, watch the rooibos and wasabi peas fall out, and think, “I’m going to put them in an ice cream?”’
‘I don’t understand your brain,’ Michelle retorted. ‘Who doesn’t buy plain old chocolate or strawberry?’
‘I did buy strawberry.’ Leaning across her, he nudged the flavour called White Chocolate and Alpine Strawberry Shortcake.
Michelle, who would have described herself as a forearm gal, couldn’t help but notice Filippo’s: strong, with just the right amount of dark hair.
There was something about a man’s forearm revealed by a casually rolled-up sleeve that made her breath quicken.
To quash these decidedly unprofessional thoughts, she said quickly, ‘That’s not strawberry. That’s strawberry-adjacent. What’s wrong with the classics? Chocolate chip? Caramel?’
‘You think I should have bought more flavours?’
‘Why not? There’s plenty of room.’ The fridge was enormous, with an outsized freezer. ‘Nice fridge, by the way. Very swish. Is it from Italy?’
Filippo shook his head. ‘From Vargo Electricals, through my ex. Bianca’s family owns the chain.’
His eyes were on a spoonful of Gianduja Honeycomb that he was trying to scoop out of its tub, so he didn’t see Michelle’s expression change.
Filippo’s ex was Bianca Vargo? Pest-o Bossybitch, who’d snubbed Michelle at the gala?
For God’s sake, what were the chances? Did all rich people in Sydney know each other?
Did they live in a gilded bubble where everyone was connected through personal trainers and opening nights and yacht clubs?
It was awful to think of Filippo, with all his sweetness and charm, entangled in Bianca’s iron web. No wonder he had bought fifteen flavours of ice cream, if he’d been living with Pest-o. She probably would have turned up her nose at every tub and demanded gold-leaf soft serve instead.
‘Speaking of my ex, I wish she could see me now,’ Filippo continued thickly, closing his eyes as he savoured the flavours on his tongue.
‘If I’m capable of sitting on the floor and eating ice cream straight out of a bucket, I can certainly put up with water rings on furniture or a curling wand in an antique ginger jar.
She would realise I’ve come a long way.’
Michelle made a non-committal noise, which was all she could manage.
‘But I know I still haven’t finished my journey.
’ He straightened suddenly, fixing Michelle with an earnest look.
‘I know I still have a problem with wine, and acceptance, and boundaries. I know I need another appointment to smooth out some of those rough edges. What about next Wednesday? Wednesdays are good for me . . .’
‘Sure.’ The only rough edges that Michelle could see on Filippo were traces of stubble along his jawline – she wondered how it would feel to run her fingers along that jaw – but she understood what he meant. All at once she was tired, glum and disappointed.
But she couldn’t let him see that, because she was still on the clock. At $400 an hour, you didn’t deflate like a balloon in front of your client.
‘Next Wednesday it is,’ she said brightly, scrambling to her feet. ‘And next time, I’ll arrive before you do. To prep for dinner.’
‘Again?’ He frowned. ‘But—’
‘I’ll shop for it.’ A training scenario was starting to unfold in Michelle’s head. ‘You need to trust me on this. As a professional.’
A cautious smile tugged at the corner of Filippo’s mouth. ‘If you say so.’
‘No allergies?’
‘No.’
‘You eat Asian food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’ll see how things pan out.’ Michelle took a deep breath as she scanned the kitchen. ‘We’d better put this ice cream away before it melts. And clean up. I’m guessing you won’t want that skillet in the dishwasher?’
‘No.’ Filippo’s eyes were still on her face. He looked puzzled. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course!’ But she wasn’t. Even though she briskly and cheerfully scraped plates, binned plastic wrappers and wiped down benchtops – even though she exchanged jokes and sang another duet with Filippo (‘The Drinking Song’ from La Traviata) – deep down inside, a low-key fear was gnawing at her gut.
She couldn’t figure out what it was. Only after she’d picked up her bag, confirmed the next appointment, waved off Filippo’s gratitude and slipped out the front door while pretending she was off to floss her teeth did she have the time and space to work out what was wrong.
Walking back to her car, she thought about snooty Bianca and her careless disregard for Filippo’s heritage. Then she thought about Filippo’s flashing eyes, gleaming grin, infectious laugh. Fishing about for her car keys, she asked herself, with a sinking heart, Am I falling for a client?
Jesus. How sad was that?