Chapter 15
EMILY
Lorenzo’s car picks me up after lunch as promised.
I’m surprised to find it’s the same driver who brought me here from Boston.
Ernesto.
I’d recognize that thick neck anywhere. And his eyes that always seem to be watching me from the rearview mirror.
No. Not watching.
Studying.
“Have you been with Mr. Lorenzo long?” I ask his reflection in the rearview mirror. “I imagine you must drive a lot of his women around?”
I don’t know how that leaped out of me.
Seems I lost all sense of my usual Bostonian restraint since I came to this city of tease and temptation.
Though Lorenzo may not be consciously trying to tease or tempt me, he does so regardless.
Clarification. No teasing.
Only temptation.
And I hate that I’m falling into the trap of being tempted.
A man like Lorenzo is the last man I’d want to marry for real. He’s an egomaniac. A chauvinist.
A prig.
Yes. If he was Darcy living in Jane Austen’s era, the marriageable women flirting around him would call him a prig …
… but at the same time, they’d also fight one another with their satin slippers for the honor of being the chosen one he’d wed.
Go figure.
When the chauffeur doesn’t answer, I ask him again.
“Drive Mr. Ricci’s women around? That is something you should ask Mr. Lorenzo,” he snaps gruffly.
Frustrated, I fall back into the buttery soft leather seat.
How many other women have reclined against this same buttery soft seat, wondering the same exact question?
Once we arrive at Saks, Ernesto tells me to call when I’m “dolled up.”
“You must be Emily Ricci,” says a tall, handsome man as I enter the fancy department store.
He’s a fashionable man of the old style, judging by his jaunty Fedora hat and pocket square.
He kisses me on both cheeks in the French style, then steps back as if to take a more analytical look at me.
“It’s a genuine delight to meet you. Fresh from New England, I see.”
I stiffen. “Am I that obvious?”
“Not at all. I saw your wedding pictures in Manhattan Social,” he says as he walks me to an elevator. “We will begin the transformation.”
Transformation? Antoine’s attire and the way he speaks reminds me of some long ago daytime TV show. I can’t imagine a well-dressed, sophisticated man like Lorenzo hiring him.
Antoine escorts me into a room that feels borrowed from another era. It boasts ivory walls and a narrow catwalk that ends beneath an ornate chandelier.
A smiling middle-aged woman stands at the entrance holding a silver tray with two flutes of champagne.
“This is Bertha. I’ve asked her to find and reserve items that would be appropriate for Mrs. Ricci.”
“You speak as if she’s a separate person. A person outside of myself.”
“You are correct.”
I frown. “Correct in what?”
“Mrs. Ricci’ had an established persona before you even entered the picture.”
“Lorenzo had been married before?”
“No. Yet the idea of ‘Mrs. Ricci’s’ style, personality, and how she would be viewed in society was long established.”
“So I’m stepping into a prescribed role,” I say slowly. “Funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Usually it’s the woman who has to live up to the saint-like traits of a late wife. Now I’m expected to match a fantasy.”
Antoine smiles. “Either way, you’ll see that clothes make the woman. You must dress in a way that complements his stature.”
“Stature!”
This Antoine speaks as if Lorenzo’s a famous Bostonian statesman, not a nightclub owner. Then I realize that in Manhattan society, a man whose family owns the trendiest club in the city is probably more important.
“We won’t change the ‘you’ you,” says Antoine. “We’ll just modify your background.”
“You’ve googled me?”
“Of course. And what an illustrious background! Quite worthy of a Netflix multi-generational saga.”
I bite my lower lip. Just how much does he know?
“What part of my life will I see on the big screen?”
Antoine puts his finger to his smoothly shaved jaw. “That’s an excellent question. I see us going in two different directions.”
“For the Netflix series, or for my life as Mrs. Ricci?”
“If you know the entertainment business,” he says, like he’s some hot shot producer instead of an overinflated fashion consultant to the stars. “You’ll know you can’t pack too much in at once. And your life has quite a bit of ups and downs.”
Mostly downs, but I don’t tell him that.
“Tell me what you consider the ‘ups’ to be. The element that would make my life story binge-worthy?”
“Easy, my dear. Not every young woman is an active member of the Massachusetts Society of Mayflower Descendants.”
I grimace. “I wouldn’t call myself an ‘active’ member. The organization is elitist. And rather boring. Viewers would fall asleep.”
“Right,” he says, making a note in a leather-bound notebook with his initials etched in gold. “So let’s use that for the Mrs. Ricci character instead.”
Now he’s talking about me like I’m a character!
“We’ll use your family’s Fisher House restaurant and the popular Fisher House rolls for the show. Everyone knows them. There’s probably a frozen package of them in every freezer. Your family must be rolling in dough. Excuse the pun,” he says with a little laugh.
“Not quite,” I say stiffly. “A recipe can’t be trademarked. Our family lost the restaurant when my parents were killed and nobody stepped up to run it.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he says, genuinely concerned. “But you must admit it gives your persona backbone.”
“Antoine, let’s get one thing straight. I won’t have you manipulate my family’s history to conform to Lorenzo’s twisted vision of ‘Mrs. Ricci.’”
He holds his hands up in the air, as if to show he’s not carrying a gun.
“Fine. Then how would you characterize your family’s history?”
I look him in the eyes.
“What you say is true. My family was once among the most respected in Boston. But we’ve been living on the financial edge for years now.”
I pause, thinking how much I want to tell him.
“And you make me sound like some sort of socialite. I studied restaurant management at Boston University for the last three years. Next year I’d be applying to graduate school. But then Uncle Eton …”
“Then what?”
My thoughts darken. No need to get into the Uncle Eton business now.
“Just family drama. So go ahead, Antoine. Let’s start the transformation.”
Antoine settles me into a comfortable-looking chair. He snaps his fingers. Within a few seconds, several girls walk down the catwalk.
“They all look to be exactly my size. How did that happen?” I say, turning to Antoine.
“Mr. Lorenzo described you.”
“What?” I instinctively wrap my arms around myself.
What is Lorenzo doing describing my body so accurately to a stranger?
Was he sneaking peeks at my body when I wasn’t looking?
An odd sense of being violated washes over me.
The fashion show begins.
True to Lorenzo’s vision for my persona, the dresses modeled are not scandalous at all.
Elegant and subtle, they’re a style even Aunt Jane would approve of.
“They’re all gorgeous,” I say of the chic, mostly black or neutral-toned dresses. “How do we decide on which ones to purchase?”
“No need to choose between them. Take them all. And expect me to send you more when various events pop up on Mr. Ricci’s calendar.”
I feel overwhelmed. This is not real life.
“Ah, but it is,” Antoine says, pouring himself another glass of champagne. “Welcome to your new reality.”