Chapter Fourteen #2
With their partners at hand, everyone’s much more polite to begin with.
I learn Don is in Italy for two weeks on business, but they’re doing a week on a yacht next, sailing from Venice to Split.
Alan and his wife have a summer home in the Italian Riviera, and he commutes to and from his office in London via private jet.
Marco recently purchased a plush penthouse in Porta Nuova, Milan’s bougiest neighborhood.
Sutton, for her part, is renovating her flat in posh Kensington. “I’m in dire need of a décor overhaul,” she says, fiddling with the gold feather ring on her right pointer finger as she speaks. “It’s 2014 twee-tragic in there right now.”
Don slurps his wine before chiming in. “Make sure it’s not too girly—I have a feeling Benito here will come crawling back sooner rather than later.” He makes a jeering face at Benito as if he’s in on the joke.
Sutton stretches her hand across the table to gently tap Don’s arm. “From your lips to God’s ears.” Benito merely shakes his head.
I’m so tired of the elitist mood to the day.
It’s no wonder Benito’s default state is “grumpy” if these are the types of people he’s been surrounded by his whole life.
It makes sense now that Anita and Lucia are much more upbeat, left out of Raffaello’s reign of terror and free to live their unimpressive lives.
“Maybe you’ll end up in La Musa, Sutton,” I say.
“It’s well on its way to becoming a bustling tourist destination. ”
Eyes shift among the business companions at the table and uneasiness seeps into my gut. Alan clears his throat. “Yes, well, with one of our properties in town, it’s our goal to make La Musa the luxury standard in Umbria.”
One of his properties? I’ve stayed in a hotel from the same chain before, and while the towels were soft and the bed cozy, it was well over $1,000 a night, not accessible to the everyday traveler.
He must be joking. “Sure, add a SoulCycle and an Erewhon and we’ll be well on our way,” I say, and more shifty eyes erupt in response.
The vibe is weird. I look to Benito, who’s equally confused.
Raffaello gestures for a server to replenish his wine glass and sits back. “Izzy, Alan’s company is interested in buying and renovating the old estate on the south end of town into a five-star resort.”
My stomach drops. While the hotels are nice, it’s the kind of luxury that exudes convenience: complimentary designer water, state-of-the-art fitness studios, Netflix on every 60-inch TV instead of syndicated sitcoms dubbed in Italian—none of that goes with La Musa’s old-world charm.
Benito interjects, “Villa Maria was built in the 15th century, you cannot tear it down. As mayor I will not allow it.”
“Not tear down—” Alan waves his hands in front of him like he’s presenting. “Renovate.”
“Villa Maria is a private property, and if the owner wishes to sell”—Raffaello points to himself—“which he does, then he may do so. Just like he wishes to do with the dozen other properties he owns in town.”
Don leans in. “And that’s where we’d come in with a complete redesign of La Musa’s main commercial district. Mixed-use spaces with modern amenities.”
I look back and forth between Raffaello and Benito—what happened to our conversation the other day, when Raffaello acted amenable to the plan to emphasize La Musa’s history?
I could concede that one luxury resort in town wouldn’t be so bad, but they are talking about destruction.
They sound like, well, they sound like Benito when I first met him.
“And again”—Benito sits up straighter—“you cannot do any of this without the town’s approval.” I toss him a quick smile. I’m so glad he’s changed his tune.
Raffaello blatantly rolls his eyes, making no attempt to disguise his disdain for his son in this moment. “The people in town know that revitalization is necessary to keep it from becoming a ghost town.”
“Revitalization, yes,” says Benito. “Not obliteration.”
“No one wants La Musa to look like Silver Lake,” I add.
“But they are interested in the town that was so special, Isabella Rhodes abandoned her old life to up and move here,” says Don.
A smarmy grin wipes across his face as if to charm me, but my blood starts to boil.
He takes out his phone. “You laid the groundwork, Izzy, we plan to take this attention to the finish line.”
I look to Benito, confused, but he shrugs back at me.
Don searches for something on his phone and after a moment, flips it around to show me.
It’s my face. Or specifically, it’s my face superimposed onto an ad that reads La Musa, the perfect place to run away to.
I blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing it correct. “The fuck is this?” I ask.
“Our ad campaign, with you at its center, if you’ll come aboard.” Don grins at me like there’s any possible world in which I say yes.
Sutton sighs. “Don, I wanted to present this to her in a more official capacity.” She looks to me sympathetically. “I made a pitch deck.” She sits back and crosses her arms. “It was very convincing.”
My eyes dart around the table. Everyone is watching me, waiting. “You want me to be the face of the new La Musa?” I ask.
“You already are the face of La Musa,” Don says. He scrolls through his phone and shows me another mock-up. It’s my face, again, but this time it says: La Musa, better than sexting.
The rage I feel is too overwhelming for me to find words but too paralyzing to punch Don square in his piggish nose, so I sit and silently fume, counting the seconds as I breathe.
This is even more insulting than having my texts leaked in the first place.
This is using the most embarrassing moment of my entire life to bulldoze the town I love.
This is making me the face of the development that would drive half the town out of business.
“What makes you think I’d ever agree to this?
” I ask, using every muscle in my body to keep my voice even and without any shake.
Don lets out an exhale that sounds like a laugh. “It’s good PR for you, Izzy. You’d be paid famously, of course. Think about it. You own the scandal; it makes it look like you are above it.”
Sutton, perhaps noticing the rage building inside of me, reaches her hand out in front of me. “Again, the deck goes more thoroughly into the cross-functional benefit analysis.” She reaches for her phone. “What’s your email? I’ll send it to you.”
“I don’t want to see the deck!” I yell. “And I don’t want to be the face of this PR scheme. It makes it look like I am proud of it. That it’s what I want people to remember me by.”
“Was this your idea?” I turn to see Benito staring down Sutton.
She shakes her head. “It was Don’s idea, but I said I’d make the proposal to at least see if she’d say yes.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Benito says, and Sutton’s eyes widen in response.
“Son,” Raffaello bellows, “you are the one responsible if La Musa fails. If I were you, I’d listen to Don. He knows what he is doing.”
Benito turns to his father. “It is my responsibility. Not Izzy’s. She should not be pulled into this.” My heart warms hearing him defend me. If I weren’t so pissed off, I’d reach across the table and grab his hand.
“She brought herself into this!” Don yells, obviously frustrated by the hostility. “You think it’s a coincidence that her location is outed and all of a sudden every major U.S.-based publication is talking about La Musa?”
Benito turns to me. I take a deep breath. “My former campaign manager made a few calls,” I say. “But I only did that to redirect the attention away from me and to La Musa. If this offensive ad campaign goes forward, my face will be associated with my failure forever.”
Don huffs. “But at least we’d all be slightly richer.”
Benito inhales sharply but I gesture for him to back off.
I can handle this. “And that’s the problem with people like you,” I say.
“You can’t imagine doing anything if it’s not in service of making yourselves richer.
Well, unlike you, I didn’t get into my field of work for the money.
I did it for the people. I did it because I looked around my community and saw that members of it were suffering.
I looked around the world and saw the inequality that prevails no matter how many times people in your class claim to be charitable.
“When I see struggle, my first thought is not how I can profit off of it. When my entire life went to shit, I didn’t say yes to exclusive articles or book deals because I did not want the world to spend another ounce of energy on something so inconsequential.
Unlike you, I am not a sellout. I am not an opportunist. I do not take advantage of the poor, or the weak, or the sick so I come out looking like Daddy Warbucks.
There are good people in this world who fight for what’s right, who fight for humanity, for the environment, for the world, who are truly selfless in their pursuit of a better society and while you might not be one of those people, I still have hope that I can be.
” I take a long sip of wine. The table is completely silent.
I look across to Benito, who’s smiling at me.
“Now, hang on—” Don starts.
“That’s enough,” Raffaello says calmly. “I think we can all agree that we’ve talked enough business tonight,” he says. “Why don’t we enjoy this lovely meal and excellent view for the remainder of dinner?”
“Hear! Hear!” Sutton says, raising her glass. The rest of the party follows suit. Benito points his glass toward me and gives me a slight nod. I wink back at him.
Conversation for the duration of dinner stays surface level. I excuse myself after dessert, when the men split off for cigars and the women retire to the parlor inside for amaro while the waitstaff cleans up outside—it’s all becoming a little too Downton Abbey for me.