16. Live a little
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
live a little
AIDEN
“This place gives me Wes Anderson vibes,” Linnea says.
She’s across from me in the banquette section of a Mediterranean slash Middle-Eastern restaurant by Kensington Gardens, eyes darting around at the interior while cradling her goblet of gin.
“Wes goes Turkish?” I ask.
“Yes. The pistachio walls, these lilac pillows, the wood tables, and that side with all the kitsch details on the wall.”
The only thing I’d noticed in this room until she started pointing it all out was her. Linnea with her flowing waves, spilling over her sun-kissed shoulders. How stunning she is in that green summer dress. But I have to drag my gaze away from her and follow where she’s gesturing.
The wall is covered in things: from soup cans a la Andy Warhol to traditionally painted ceramic plates to—
“Is that a flamingo?” I ask, squinting.
“Yes. There are more over there.” She points to the far side where birds of various colours and shapes cover the wall.
Linnea treating me more as a friend than a client is quite something. She’s so vibrant. Constantly smiling, talking, observing the places around us and pointing things out to me, musing about what she sees.
And it’s even clearer to me.
I’m entirely fucked.
It’s been a week since I saw her. Her team is running the show at Grafton Street and she’s been with Venetia every day.
In a moment of weakness after the brunch last Sunday, I went back to Le Lounge. I’d promised Linnea not to be with anyone else, but fuck I needed a release.
It’s rare that I bump into the same people but the blond woman was there again.
That hair and those hips.
But this time I couldn’t even stand close to her. Her scent was wrong, her posture too stiff, her arms not Linnea’s lean, silky arms.
So, I sat there, sulked into a glass of whiskey, ignored anyone who tried to talk to me, and went home and beat off in the shower so hard I thought I would blister.
“Did I tell you we lived in Cuba for five years?” she asks and sips her gin.
“No?”
“When I was eleven or so. It was boring being in the secured expat compound, but when we got to venture out….” She sighs. “That’s when my inner designer sparked to life. Have you ever been there?”
I shake my head.
“Cuba is so vibrant and fun. Bold colours, dark woods, palm trees.”
“Like the Pink Room?” I ask.
“Inspired by Cuban style, indeed.”
“The under-lit bar as well?”
“No, that’s all me.”
“Where else have you lived?”
“Indonesia, Canada, Norway, and then here.”
“From sixteen, right?”
“Yep, after Cuba.”
“Did you leave a trail of broken hearts on your travels?”
She looks at me for a second, as if contemplating whether I’m joking. I love this quirk about her. She answers all my questions—rhetorical or not. I’m not sure if she just doesn’t get my jokes, or if it’s a Norwegian thing, but it’s consistent, and it’s rather charming.
“No, I didn’t,” she responds.
I stifle a smile. It’s clear she’s not aware of her own power. Especially over me.
“I made some good friends here and there,” she continues, “but it wasn’t easy. We were all expat kids and didn’t really bond deeply. I made my best friends once I got to uni here in London.”
“Jamie and Sophie?”
“Exactly.” She grins. “Have you been back to Sicily where your mum’s from?”
“Marzamemi. No, I haven’t.”
“Anywhere else in Italy then?”
I trace my lower lip with a thumb.
“I went to a fashion show in Milan with a date, but it wasn’t the best night. I’ve not travelled as much as I’d wanted, to be honest.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “No one I enjoyed travelling with enough, and my friends and I have worked most of our lives.”
“What’s the point of all your money if you can’t take the time to enjoy it?”
I bite down. That’s what I’ve always said to Mark. What happened to me in the last few years?
“Let’s go,” I say.
“What?”
“Let’s go to Italy.”
She shakes her head. “But, what, I mean, I’ve got work?”
“It’s noon on a Sunday, I’m your client, and I decide we need to go to Italy for inspiration for my new project. How’s that? You can charge me for your time.”
“No.”
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “Okay.”
She closes her eyes for a second and breathes in. Then her eyes blink open. “I meant, no, let’s go as friends. Not work. I don’t want to charge you for my time.”
“You really want to go?”
“Sure, why not? I mean, I can think of about a hundred reasons not to go, but…” She does a one-sided shrug. “Let’s live a little.”
A huge smile breaks free across my face, and I’d love to say her eyes widening is because she likes it.
Or it’s too much? I try to make it stop, tucking my lips in, but her eyes grow even wider.
Okay, I’m losing it, she’s probably just realising what she’s agreed to.
I better get on it before she changes her mind.
“Alright, I’ll make some calls.”
Three hours later, we’re on a jet I’ve chartered to take us to Florence. Champagne in hand, Linnea has a baffled expression on her face. Her eyebrows have been raised since I asked her to simply send a scan of her passport to my staff and it’ll all be taken care of.
Too easy.
“This makes me feel guilty. Just flying for the heck of it. What about the environment?”
“Don’t worry, it’s electric.”
“Seriously?”
“No, I wish. But if it helps, this isn’t something I do regularly, and how about we promise to take the train for our next three holidays?”
“Next three holidays?” She smirks, quirking an eyebrow. That playful expression suits her better than her stoic work face. I’m making it my mission to get to know all the expressions she makes. Every little quirk, twitch, and smirk.
As a good friend, of course. Just learning how to read her. Banking it for a potential future. Being hopeful. Thinking of what she told me her grandfather said: if you can do something, just go and do it.
So, what can I do? I can be her friend, trust Mark’s words, and keep an eye out for an opening.
Isn’t that what hope is all about?
I shrug. “Mum’s wedding is in Devon. We can drive down in my EV.”
Linnea relaxes back in her beige leather seat across from me, looking out the window. The glow from the sunny afternoon lights up her face.
She’s angelic.
It feels wrong, but so right, taking her in like this. Allowing myself to appreciate every detail of her.
The tiny hairs on her skin shine like a bright aura outlining her perfect profile. I mentally trace a line down her forehead, over the little scar on the bridge of her nose, following the curve of her cupid’s bow and along the fullness of her bottom lip.
If I didn’t have to look at anyone else ever again, I’d be content. Mmm, she’s stunning.
She turns back to me abruptly and catches me staring.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“What?”
“You made a sound.”
“Did I?” I ask. Oops.
She gives a little shrug. “Where should we eat? I’m getting hungry already.”
“There’s a Michelin restaurant there I’ve been meaning to check out.”
“Oh?” She cocks her head at me. “How did you decide on Florence, by the way?” Clearly she’s forgotten I told her that’s where my dad’s from.
I’ve wanted to go there for a while, but haven’t taken the time out. Going with Linnea will make it special. For me, at least. She might have a different opinion.
“Had to tell the pilot something, and it was the first place that came to mind.”
“Can I wear this to a Michelin restaurant?” she asks, brushing a hand over her green dress.
“You can, but I can’t wear this,” I gesture to my jeans. “We’ll go shopping.”
Her eyebrows go even higher now and I laugh.
The flight takes another hour and a half, and I spend the time sneakily observing Linnea while she talks about Oslo and her grandfather and answers all my questions about expat life in Indonesia.
The taxi from the airport is only twenty minutes, and we arrive at the southern end of Via de’ Tornabuoni and the Florentine designer shop Casa Aurato.
A voice in the back of my head is screaming at me, but I muffle it. I’m ready to check it out.