Chapter Four #3
After nearly four hours in their company, she had relaxed enough to enjoy the process, and been talked into a suitcase full of clothes that she would never be able to wear in England but had been informed were mandatory while in Italy.
But, of all the things that had happened that afternoon, it was her hair and make-up that actually struck her the most. She’d taken the time, in the privacy of the dressing room, to close one eye and inspect herself closely.
The make-up was perfect. A smoky eye that the artist had made her copy until Ivy was accomplished to their satisfaction.
And a stained lip that was more durable for the day to early evening, Ivy had been assured, than lipstick.
But it was the soft highlights put in her hair, which enriched copper undertones she’d not even known were there, that really caught her attention.
Instead of drawing on the cooler tones of the blue in her eyes like the grey top had, now even she could see the gold flecks that glittered in her irises.
They made something so damaged look so beautiful.
She swallowed. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Antonio, sitting across the table from her, flicking his gaze between her and the menu.
‘For?’ he said, almost dismissively.
She bit back a sigh of impatience. He’d done this. He’d given her something. That it didn’t mean anything to him was fine, but it didn’t give him the right to diminish what it did mean to her.
‘For supplying me with the accoutrements required for the job you have hired me for,’ she bit out impulsively. She was blaming the dress. Apparently, the red was impacting her self-control.
Antonio raised an eyebrow, and honestly Ivy was half convinced she heard a female customer behind her sigh, enraptured by the sight.
‘You don’t like it?’ he asked, pushing the menu aside.
‘I love it,’ she insisted truthfully.
‘Then what is the problem?’
It was a good question. But how could she even begin to explain the twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on in the last twenty-four hours?
Was it normal for a librarian from south London, used to storebought clothes and charity shops, to feel overwhelmed at being transported to the most beautiful places in Tuscany, styled and clothed by creative geniuses and forced to eat with an Italian billionaire who looked like some Adonis?
She rubbed at her temple, her left eyelid flickering unconsciously.
‘Nothing,’ she said, shaking her head and forcing a smile to her lips. She stared at her hands, hoping to reduce the visual stimuli from her field of sight.
The waiter appeared and Ivy let Antonio order for her without intervening.
He hadn’t asked her what she wanted for dinner, but that hadn’t mattered at any other point so far, so why would it now?
And besides, she reluctantly admitted, she would really very much like to have the gnudi , ever since she’d seen the spinach gnocchi on a cooking show at home.
She could probably do with something in her stomach as she’d only been able to nibble at the salon. And not much before that either. She told herself off. She knew better than that. She had to take care of herself better.
She reached for the basket of bread and dipped a piece into the small bowl of oil and vinegar, sighing, almost exactly the same way as the woman behind her had, from the pleasure of the soft yeasty bite of bread and the sharp tang of the balsamic. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy it.
Antonio cleared his throat. ‘Did you have fun?’
She opened her eyes but kept them narrowed, considering his question. ‘I’m not sure fun would be how I’d describe it, but the people from the salon were lovely,’ she insisted, worried that he might not approve of their choices. ‘And now I have an ensemble fit to be seen in.’
The slash of brow shaded Antonio’s gaze. ‘That’s not what…well, it’s not entirely why I sent you there. We will be attending events and places that you weren’t prepared for, and I wanted to make sure that you didn’t feel uncomfortable.’
‘Oh,’ Ivy replied, blinking at the explanation of her visit to the salon.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before she forced herself to ask, ‘Did you have a nice day?’
The question was perfunctory even to her own ears, but they couldn’t sit there in silence for the entire evening.
‘I’m not sure nice would be how I’d describe it,’ he said, mirroring her words, and she smiled, this time easily and genuinely.
‘Are you going to make the deal between the Chinese and the Americans?’
The surprise across his features told her she’d revealed too much.
‘It was in the papers,’ she said to explain her knowledge of him. His fame, surely, enough to cover the fact that, in reality, she’d always looked out for information about him. Even after the accident.
He looked around them at the public place and replied, ‘Maybe.’ She understood his inability to answer in a place where they could be overheard.
‘Top secret work stuff,’ she said, and he nodded, the smallest curve pulling at his lips.
The waiter brought their plates, topped up their glasses and left.
A waft of sharp Parmesan rose from the ricotta and spinach dumplings sitting on a bed of rich tomato sauce, her stomach grumbling loud enough for Antonio to hear.
She cut into one of the three mounds and luxuriated in the tangy comfort of the delicious mouthful.
Distracted by the food, she reached for her glass, missed and knocked it from the table, the smash echoing around the diners in the square, causing a ripple of sarcastic applause from the tourists on nearby tables.
Shock and embarrassment painted her cheeks in red slashes as the waiter rushed over to clear up the mess. She was half out of her chair, reaching for the shards of glass, when Antonio’s hand wrapped around hers, pulling her back from the sharp edge of a piece that would have cut her.
‘No, no, no, signora , allow me,’ the waiter said, efficiently brushing up the broken glass into a pan while another waiter replaced her glass without fuss.
Ivy sank back into her chair, rubbing her hands together, feeling instantly vulnerable in a way that even the red dress couldn’t combat.
The restaurant diners slowly resumed their conversations and Antonio waited for the waiter to leave.
But she was still rocked from the shock of the accident and the distinct air of tension between them.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, not at all,’ she tried to evade.
‘I mean, is there an issue with your sight? Last night you thought it was dark when it was not. Today you were unsteady as you walked between tables similar to those I saw you navigate perfectly six years ago, and now you just nearly cut yourself on a piece of glass that was right in front of you. So,’ he said, before repeating, ‘is there an issue with your sight?’
Any trace of hunger fled. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed.
She was proud of how she’d coped, what she’d overcome to live as she did, to continue as normally as possible.
But his question reminded her of before she’d been that way.
Of when she’d been in the hospital, terrified and alone.
It reminded her of when the nurse had informed her that they’d left a message with her next of kin: that they’d called her husband .
Of the way she’d felt relief. Hope even.
Until she’d tried to call him herself.
‘Yes. From the accident,’ she said.
‘The accident? What accident?’