Chapter 62 Elisa
Elisa
After long sleepless hours, Michael and I collapse just before dawn, my head in the crook of his neck, his face buried in my hair, our legs intertwined in a tangle of sheets.
When I’ve reached my deepest sleep, I wake up with a start to the high-pitched sound of a cock-a-doodle-doo at six o’clock.
“What’s happening?” I ask, sitting up in bed. “Is that a rooster?!”
Michael grabs my elbow, pulling me back to him. “It’s my alarm clock. I got so used to Renato coming to my windowsill to sing me good morning, I can’t wake up without it anymore.”
“Look, if you miss him, we’ll gladly send him to you.”
“Do you know what I’m missing?”
“What?”
“You.”
“I’m right here,” I object. “How can you miss me when I’m so close?”
“Not close enough.” He squeezes my hips, pressing me to his belly, making me understand that he wants to be even closer.
“Oh, come on,” I say, jumping out of bed.
“What?” he asks, confused.
“Not with morning breath,” I say, retrieving a toothbrush and toothpaste from my handbag.
“I’m not comfortable with my mouth tasting like a truck stop bathroom.
” They should stop making romantic films with protagonists who kiss as soon as they wake up, as if their breath smells of roses. Does anyone fall for it? I don’t.
Michael follows me by picking up his electric toothbrush. “You’re right, in my defense I admit I’ve never woken up next to a woman, so I’m rather new to morning sex.”
“You mean you always left on the sly while the girl was sleeping?”
“More like I’ve never stayed over.”
“How did you manage to get out of it?”
“Work: deadlines, early morning meetings, paperwork . . . Luckily it all sounds so boring that no one ever asked me for details.”
We brush our teeth, floss, and double rinse with mouthwash, after which Michael picks me up and kisses me.
“How’s that?” he asks, blowing a puff of air at my nose.
“Peppermint and licorice. I like it.”
“Good, because it’s time for a shower, and I don’t intend to take it alone,” he says, entering the stall and activating a showerhead that mimics a monsoon rain.
“But I’ll be late for the fair!” I object. “It takes an hour on the tube.”
“I’ll drive you later. You’re mine now. I’ve waited so long for this moment, I don’t want to give up even a second of it.”
“I don’t have a change of clothes,” I insist, resisting his hands.
“Go naked, the stand will be mobbed.”
“Would you really like the whole fair to see me like that?”
He scrutinizes me with a long lascivious look, in which I read all his bad intentions. “On second thought, no, that’s a privilege I should reserve for myself.”
“Then I’ll need a change of clothes.”
“You could skip today. Foliero’s there,” he insists with a kiss, his caresses also succeeding in their intent to convince me.
“But I can’t,” I reply with difficulty. “I have to go now.”
But when I feel him inside me, my last glimmer of reason is extinguished. “Are you sure?” he murmurs in my ear, his pelvis still as I writhe with the need to feel him move.
“Michael . . .” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Are you really sure?” he tortures me by pushing deeper inside, and the moan he manages to extract from me provokes a smile that announces his victory.
“To hell with it! We can stop at H otherwise, I’ll pass out. Is there a café nearby where we can go?”
“There’s no need; we can order in on the app. What would you like? Sweet or savory? Why am I even asking? I’ll get a bit of everything,” and in two clicks, he sends the order.
We use the delivery time to continue our exchange of affections, which, if it weren’t for the buzz on the intercom, would have become inappropriate for minors.
We dive into the avocado toast, and between one bite and another, I look around, noticing details I hadn’t seen last night when I was wrapped up in Michael.
One thing in particular strikes me: On one of the shelves there’s a framed black-and-white close-up of a beautiful girl.
It seems like a very personal photo, and even though I trust Michael and the fact that there’s no one else but me, if he keeps a photo like that in his house, then that person must have been important to him.
I don’t know if I’d be able to hold up against an immortal beloved. In the end, I give in to my fears and ask him. “Who’s she?”
“She who?”
“The girl in the photo.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, so I point to the frame. “Ah, her! No one.”
His response is worrying and hints at a long and difficult history. “Don’t you want to talk about it?” I insist, trying not to sound invasive.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t put that photo there.
It’s the stock image that was in the frame when they gave it to me.
” And to demonstrate his absolute good faith, he takes the photo out of the frame and shows it to me, pointing out the writing on the back with the references to the site from which it was taken. “See?”
“Why didn’t you put a photo in there?”
“I always meant to, but I never found the time. Maybe if you send me one, I’ll put yours in there.”
“I’d rather you take it of me.”
“That’s a good idea,” he replies with a wink that makes me understand what kind of photo he has in mind. “Let’s go. The sooner I get you there, the sooner I can see you again this evening.”
“When did we plan to meet tonight?”
“We’re planning to now. How’s nine?”
When I arrive at our booth, Foliero is already rushing toward me, distraught. “Good thing you’re here! We’re in trouble!”
“Oh God, why? What happened?” I’m already alarmed.
“The wine! We ran out; we don’t have a single bottle left at the stand.”
Holy Christ! They warned me there might be people who try to sabotage competitors’ stands, but I didn’t think it would go this far.
It’s one thing to steal merch, but bottles are a new low!
It’s like taking away our oxygen. “Have you already reported it to the organizers? Did you ask them to start an investigation?”
“No, but . . .”
“No buts, I’ll go. You look outside in the bin area to see if they dumped them there.”
But before I take a step toward the organizer’s area, he grabs me by the shoulders and stops me. “Nobody took anything from us. We sold them.”
I’m stunned. “We sold them?”
“All of them.”
“Just a minute. Who the hell bought thirty cases at once?”
“It wasn’t all at once. There was one man from Harrods, then a very elegant lady from British Airways, a chef, and even a couple in uniform from the cruise line . . . We have three bottles left at the stand.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Wonderful?! How are we going to last until Monday?!”
“Let me think . . . The reserves! You remember those two cases we have at the hotel?”
“Yeah, but that’s just twelve bottles. And it’s not even our best wine.”
“For now, go and get them. Giada’s coming today, right? I’ll call and tell her to bring ten more cases. It will cost us with the airline, but there’s nothing else we can do. Now go—”
“Excuse me, are you Miss Elisa Benetti?” interrupts a woman of indeterminate age, wearing a suit that highlights every defect of my own makeshift jacket and trousers.
“Yes, that’s me,” I reply.
“I’m Mary Glenfield from Wine Spectator. Could I disturb you for a short interview?”
I pinch myself. A journalist from the most important magazine in the sector wants to interview me?!
“Ma mi garba abbestia!” I involuntarily spurt out a Florentine expression of enthusiasm as the journalist stares at me, confused. “I mean, for sure,” I say.