Chapter Seven
The Gucci Garden – a museum, art installation and boutique in one, apparently – sat at the far corner of possibly one of the most impressive squares I’d ever seen in my life: the Piazza della Signoria.
It was huge, lined with the cobbles I was getting used to walking on and flanked by a combination of restaurants with outside terraces, palaces, arches and statues.
I wanted to stop and take some pictures, to refer to my map to see what was what and why it was significant to Florence’s history, but Rosamund and Sophia – who were walking arm in arm like teenagers on a school trip – were hurrying us along.
‘Daisy, keep up, darling!’ called Sophia, looking over her shoulder at Daisy, who was lagging behind with me.
Nick and Peter were somewhere in the middle, following orders as instructed.
I was tempted to catch Daisy’s eye to see if she was on the same page as I was (i.e.
I’d rather snatch a few hours to myself and sit at a pavement café reading my book and sipping cappuccino), but her moods were so unpredictable that I didn’t want to chance it.
One minute it felt as though she was on my side and the next, she was glaring at me as though I was public enemy number one.
‘Look at that delightful pink!’ exclaimed Rosamund, looking up at the Gucci Garden logo, which was printed on a dramatic candy-pink banner tumbling down the side of the palazzo.
Rosamund and Sophia marched straight through the entrance as though they owned the place and the rest of us followed at varying degrees of speed.
I – of course – felt completely underdressed in my summer dress and flat sandals combo.
I mean, I should have thought, really, that people might dress up to go to a Gucci museum, and also that people who loved Gucci were generally going to be much more fashion-conscious than I was (not to mention have a considerably higher level of disposable income).
Rosamund had ditched her trademark twinsets and jewels for something altogether edgier – in the way rich, older women did edgy: straight-cut jeans in the deepest indigo blue, a plain white T-shirt, huge Jackie-O-style sunglasses and a classic navy blazer that looked as though it might be Chanel, although that was just a guess.
I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone actually wearing Chanel in real life, but her jacket was definitely not something you’d find on the high street. She looked great, I had to admit.
As for Sophia, she had really gone to town with ripped designer jeans, some sort of jazzy bomber jacket covered in sequins and patches and sky-high heeled boots.
Nick was channelling his inner Italian and had on a shirt (always) with a jumper tied around his shoulders, jeans which he’d rolled up to his ankles and tan suede loafers that I swore I’d never seen before.
And Peter, well, he was just wearing what seemed to be his staple uniform (i.e. tweed).
Rosamund had reserved us all tickets, so we swept through the foyer and up an enclosed, white-walled staircase daubed with the chicest-looking graffiti I’d ever seen, seemingly in French (I wasn’t sure why, given we were in Italy and I was pretty sure Gucci was an Italian brand): words like liberté, égalité and sexualité were thrust provocatively in our faces.
Rosamund and Sophia gushed over it and I couldn’t help thinking that if they’d seen this graffiti on some random London wall, they’d have been turning their noses up at it.
Sophia was very keen to get Daisy enthused and kept calling her over to look at things.
‘Darling, this is a name you must remember. Alessandro Michele! He’s the artistic director of Gucci and an absolute genius.’
Although Daisy had her arms crossed tightly across herself in a defensive stance, I could see that she was vaguely interested in her surroundings.
And, actually, I was too, if I hung back so that I could discover it for myself instead of hearing Rosamund’s running commentary.
I managed to lose them for a few minutes in a room full of mirrors that gave the illusion of being in a sort of trippy maze, with the central point being a video of one of Gucci’s cruise collections.
I didn’t know what a cruise collection was, exactly, but the clothes were beautiful and for a second I longed to be able to afford a pair of emerald green sequinned trousers (that I’d clearly never wear and probably cost about ten grand).
I caught up with the others in the Gucci Collectors room, which I didn’t understand until I read the blurb and then I thought it was quite cool. The room was inspired by Gucci’s Fall/Winter 2018 collection, which in turn had been inspired by collectors of weird and wonderful objects.
Rosamund stood beside me as I looked at a collection of 182 cuckoo clocks and watched birds popping out all over the place. I remembered a school friend’s parents had had one in their hall and I’d been fascinated by that, too.
‘How are you finding Florence?’ asked Rosamund, cocking her head to inspect the clocks.
‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Thanks so much for inviting me along.’
‘Well, we thought it was about time we met you. We suspected Nick was going to propose at some point.’
I hid my surprise. ‘What made you think that?’
Rosamund laughed lightly. ‘My son is a romantic, as you’ve probably worked out by now. No idea where he gets it from.’
‘Well, being married to the same man for forty-five years is pretty romantic,’ I said.
Rosamund shook her head. ‘It’s different with Nick. He never holds back when it comes to love, to his detriment at times. And he hasn’t stopped talking about you since you met. I could tell he was head over heels for you a long time ago.’
This was nice. Rosamund was making an effort, which was promising. And she seemed to love Nick very much, so surely there was no reason why she couldn’t also learn to love me. I wondered, though, why Nick had waited so long to introduce me to his family if they’d known about me all along.
I followed Rosamund across to the next display, which was a collection of hundreds of pairs of trainers stacked neatly in a cabinet.
There were mirrors on the floor and ceiling so that if you looked up or down, you could see versions of yourself getting smaller and smaller and further and further away.
Rather disconcertingly, I could also see Rosamund’s reflection, about a hundred identical versions of her, no matter which direction I looked in.
‘What about Gucci for your wedding gown?’ suggested Rosamund.
‘Um, I don’t think I could afford it,’ I said, taking a photo of a particularly bling pair of customised trainers.
‘Or you’d look lovely in Prada.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’ve got your own ideas, of course you have,’ said Rosamund. ‘Feel free to tell me to mind my own business. I love weddings and have a tendency to get a little overexcited.’
I smiled at her. ‘I’m sure I’ll be very grateful for any help you can offer,’ I said, reassuring her.
‘Good,’ said Rosamund, looking pleased with herself. ‘This may not be the first time my son has got married, but presumably it will be the first time you have. Remember that. You deserve to have a big fuss made of you.’
I watched her go through to the next room, wondering about the fanfare that must have accompanied Nick and Sophia’s wedding. Did she wear Prada?
‘What do you think?’ whispered Nick in my ear, sliding his arm around my waist.
‘Of what?’
‘The museum.’
‘It’s amazing, actually,’ I said, feeling the need to whisper back. ‘It’s crazy when you think about what inspires fashion designers. I mean, wig collectors? Clocks?’
Nick laughed.
I checked Rosamund was out of earshot and then said to him: ‘I think me and your mum might finally be bonding.’
Nick did a double take. ‘Why, what’s she said?’
‘Oh nothing major. Just talking weddings and stuff. But it’s a start.’
Nick kissed me on the top of my head. ‘That’s great, Mads. See? She’s not as scary as she likes people to think.’
I wasn’t totally sure about that, not yet. But what mattered was Nick, and if getting along with his family made him happy, then I was going to have to make it happen.
‘Your mum thinks I should wear Prada on our wedding day,’ I said to him.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Ignore her. Anyone would think she wears designer clothes twenty-four/seven the way she and Sophia are prancing about. Let me tell you, her wardrobe is ninety per cent Boden!’
Another group came into the room and it seemed like the right time to move upstairs.
As I followed Rosamund up a level, I was greeted by a vision: Sophia posing in front of a giant Gucci campaign poster.
She had put herself into the same pose as the three models behind her and was absolutely loving the attention as we formed a crescent around her.
‘Oh darling, you look fabulous,’ said Rosamund. ‘Let me take a photograph for Instagram.’
I tried to hide my surprise and whispered to Nick, who was standing in front of me: ‘Your mum’s on Instagram?’
‘She doesn’t really understand it, but she likes to feel down with the kids,’ he said under his breath.
‘Come on, Maddie, your turn,’ trilled Sophia, waving me over.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, shaking my head. Absolutely not. Not in front of this lot.
‘Go on, darling,’ said Nick. ‘I want to take a photo.’
I sighed, realising that they were only going to go on about it until I caved in. I stood self-consciously in front of the poster, my hands hanging by my sides.
‘Hands on your hips, Maddie,’ instructed Rosamund. ‘Like this!’
She demonstrated what she meant, popping out her hip so sharply that I was worried she was going to do herself an injury. Everyone except Daisy and Peter (who looked as though he didn’t know how to use a mobile phone, let alone take a picture) clicked away. Honestly, this was mortifying.
‘You next, Daisy,’ said Nick, nudging his daughter.
‘No fucking way,’ retorted Daisy, walking off.
‘Daisy! Language!’ Nick called pointlessly after her.
She’d said it now, hadn’t she, and I didn’t imagine a half-hearted telling-off from her dad was going to make her think twice about saying it again.
After we’d finished in the museum, I skirted around the periphery of the Gucci boutique, marvelling at the exquisite hair clips and bejewelled clutch bags and the changing room that was like something out of Bridgerton with its frilly curtain and chaise longue.
Nick was fussing over Daisy, who was pouting sulkily until he pointed out a beautiful leather bag to the sales assistant and the two of them followed her over to the till, where Daisy unsurprisingly perked up as Nick got his Amex card out.
I’d heard there was a more reasonably priced section of the shop and headed across to it, wondering whether I could afford to treat myself to a little memento.
I picked up a beautiful, hexagonal case housing a pad of Post-it notes with an illustration of a tiny cat in the corner.
That would look quite nice on my desk at work, I thought, until I turned it over and saw that it cost one hundred and forty euros.
One hundred and forty euros? For a pack of Post-its?
! I hurriedly put them down and carried on browsing, slightly shell-shocked by the thought that if Post-its were that much, how much would an A4 notepad be?
Nick made his way over to me. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked.
Everyone was waiting outside – Peter, who looked bored to death, Daisy, who already had her new bag on her shoulder, and Sophia and Rosamund who were each holding a beautiful olive-green Gucci carrier bag (if you could call it that – carrier bag didn’t seem to do it justice).
‘What did you go for?’ I asked.
‘A purse,’ said Sophia smugly. ‘I’ve already got it in black, but they had the most beautiful purple.’
‘And I got a sun hat,’ said Rosamund, opening her bag so that I could peek inside.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, although in truth, it looked like a slightly more robust version of any generic sun hat you could get from a beach shop in the Costas.
‘Perfect for Saint Tropez this summer,’ she added.
I didn’t know why everything they did had to be so showy.
I was glad that Nick hadn’t inherited this particular trait.
He never flashed his wealth around, although, thinking about it, he had introduced me to a different type of life.
We ate in restaurants with the sort of phenomenally expensive wine lists that I’d previously have taken one look at and laughed.
And he regularly bought me huge bunches of flowers from Jane Packer, a florist I’d only ever read about in glossy magazines.
But it was subtle and Nick’s attitude didn’t bother me in the way that Rosamund’s and Sophia’s did.
I thought that what annoyed me was that they weren’t in touch with reality, not at all.
I bet they had no concept that most people struggled to pay bills and worked jobs they didn’t love to make the rent and had to shop in Aldi rather than Waitrose.
I would bet my life on the fact that Rosamund had never set foot in an Aldi.
I thought briefly of Aidan: I’d never met his parents, there hadn’t been time, but I knew, just knew, I wouldn’t have felt like this with them.
‘You didn’t want anything did you, darling?’ Nick asked me.
I shook my head. ‘Not at those prices.’
‘Quality costs, Maddie,’ said Sophia, giving me a sweeping look up and down.
I was seriously beginning to question if I’d ever fit into this family and even whether I’d want to.