Chapter 60 Elisa
Elisa
“You need a gown just to enter this elevator,” I observe, noting the rose gold–plated walls molded into the texture of an elaborate brocade. “I hope you booked the right date this time.”
“Pinchiorri’s was a lesson I’ll never forget, but they always keep a table for me here.”
“Modest.”
“Knowledge is everything in life, and as I told you, it’s a very exclusive circle.”
It’s finally dawning on me that this must be one of those exclusive clubs that posh English people like. “Let me guess: members only?”
“Highly selective.” We arrive at the right floor, and Michael enters a code on a keypad fixed to the door, which opens the lock.
We enter an apartment that can only be defined one way: white.
“May I?” he asks, removing my jacket. “You’ve been hiding a secret weapon.”
“What?”
“You’re wearing the most revealing gown I’ve ever seen,” he comments, staring at the back, which is cut so deep it stops an inch above my buttocks.
“Too revealing?”
“Never.”
“I can change if you want.”
“I want you to give me a second. I’ll be right back.” Michael disappears, leaving me alone in a sea of white.
White mohair sofas on which it seems no one has ever sat; a white carpet from which I immediately move away, terrified at the idea of staining it; furniture that reflects the lights to the point of blinding me; and a polished Carrara marble floor that looks like an ice-skating rink.
No sign of a life lived. It looks like a house in a real estate catalog.
The sound of two sliding doors behind me draws my attention, so I turn.
“Welcome to Chez Michael,” he announces, wearing a black chef’s apron, on the threshold of a kitchen that is the size of a small village.
“If I’m your only customer, business must not be going so well.” I tease Michael to distract myself from the sight of him, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his haute cuisine apron, which is enough to short-circuit my hormones.
“It’s our opening night. I only wanted the most important guest.”
“So you’re depending entirely on my reviews?”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
“What’s on the menu?”
He holds out his hand to invite me into the kitchen. “I’ll show you now.”
Unlike the rest of the house, the designer kitchen is dark brown, in a wood that hints of distant lands and a bill with several zeros. A world away from the villa’s kitchen, done in masonry and majolica, with its copper vent blackened by smoke from the fire.
He makes me sit on one of the stools at the counter, where he has set the table for two.
“Pici with porcini and truffle sauce,” he announces, delivering two plates of steaming pasta on which he generously grates the precious truffle.
“Did you make these?” I ask, amazed.
“They won’t be as good as your mother’s or as beautiful as yours, but I wanted to cook for you, and this is all I know how to do.”
“Actually . . . they’re perfect,” I say, taking a forkful. “Just right.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that because you’re hungry?”
“I never lie about pici,” I reply with my mouth full, unladylike. “So, confess: Did you rent this apartment specifically for the evening or is it the pied-à-terre that you and your friends share for ‘special’ occasions?” I ask him.
“What do you mean, ‘special’ occasions?” he asks with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“You know exactly what I mean. So? Have I been caught in your vicious bachelor web?”
“Some of my friends might enjoy the thought of that, but no. This is my home,” he announces, spreading his arms wide.
I almost choke. “Seriously?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Did you just move in?”
“I’ve lived here since my brother died, actually. Why?”
“It just doesn’t seem very lived-in,” I reply.
“Maybe because I don’t spend much time here. I’m always at the office or the gym. I go to a lot of restaurants and clubs . . . I basically just sleep here.”
“Alone or with your unsuspecting lovers?” I tease him.
“Alone. I’ve never brought a woman to my apartment.”
“Bullshit!”
“I swear,” he insists, placing his right hand over his heart. “You’re the first.”
“Look, Michael, let me explain the subtle difference between male and female languages. You men think you can make a woman feel special by telling her she’s the first, forgetting the fact that this implies others are sure to follow. We women don’t want to be the first; we want to be the last.”
He starts laughing. “That’s good.”
“Because it’s true.”
“So, you’re the last.”
“And you’re an ass.” I enjoy making fun of him. “I’ll forgive you only because these pici are excellent.”
“Oh, good, the hallucinogens I threw in there must be taking effect.”
“I’m serious, look at my plate,” I say. “I wouldn’t have known it was your first attempt.”
“Thank you very much,” he replies with a hint of a bow. “Of course the bar is so high with you . . .”
“I don’t want it to go to your head. But in reality I’m not that surprised. You’ve always been good with your hands.”
“I hope to show you what else I can do with my hands,” he replies, winking.
“Are you exposing your ulterior motives?”
“I don’t know what you heard, but I was referring to dessert.” He gets up from the stool, takes two cups from the fridge, and hands one to me with a teaspoon. “Deconstructed tart.”
“You made this too?”
“I did . . . thanks to YouTube,” he confesses with that sly smile of his.
“I appreciate the honesty.” Oh my God! Honest or not, this dessert is out of this world.
I’m shoveling in a second spoonful before I’ve even swallowed the first. The coulis of berries blends beautifully with the custard layer below, and with the crunchiness of the shortbread pastry crumbles on the bottom.
“You know, Michael, I have to admit you really know your way around the kitchen. You should keep it in mind as a second career if you get bored of finance.”
“There’s another thing I have to confess: The tart was supposed to be in one piece, except that it broke when I took it out of the mold, so I reassembled it in the cups.”
“That’s why it’s in cups! I thought you were trying to be creative and contemporary.”
“The truth is, I didn’t even know where the dessert cups were.”
“You don’t know where things are in your own house?” I ask, amazed.
“I told you I’m never here.”
The way he plays with my fingers, intertwining them with his, sends shivers down my arms. “And tell me, how much is the bill for this dinner?” I ask.
He shakes his head, giving me a heart-stopping smile. “It’s going to be pricey.”
“Luckily I brought my credit card.”
“How unfortunate, the machine’s down.” Our faces are getting closer and closer, and our voices have gone soft.
“I only have fifty pounds with me,” I reply, curious about his reply.
“I don’t think that will cover it.”
“Are you going to make me wash the dishes?” I ask, when the tips of our noses are touching.
“The chef says he’s willing to tear up the bill in exchange for a kiss.”
“The chef is very cheeky,” I say, tugging on his tie. “Does he really think I’d kiss him in exchange for dinner?”
“Oh, no.” The deep notes of his voice vibrate inside me. “He’s the one who wants to kiss you.”
“I can give him a kiss on the cheek.”
“Not just on the cheek.” He touches his finger my lips.
“Where else would he like to kiss me?”
“Everywhere.”