10. Chapter Five Georgia Philips
Chapter Five: Georgia Philips
A s I climbed onto the back of George Devereaux’s motorcycle and wrapped my arms around his surprisingly muscled torso, I questioned every decision that had led me to this wild, thrilling moment.
I’d been known to get my hands dirty or hair messy in pursuit of adventure, so the adventurous part wasn’t new for me. But why had the forces in my life conspired to sprinkle romance into my life? How I had gotten so close to an artist whose work I’d only been admiring for the past few days? Why had fate or God or whatever higher power allowed me to meet him... and put an automatic time constraint on us forming a relationship?
Not only did the end date of my vacation make me hesitate to start anything with George, but also my fake boyfriend waiting for me, back in New York. Sergio Cavalli, a fellow model and the socialite cousin of the famous entrepreneur, Sebastian Cavalli.
My publicist and my agent had both assured me that dating Sergio would put me on the map. So far I’d only been a catalogue model, landing roles in small campaigns and modelling clothes for department store flyers.
But after this, my agent, Claire, assured me I could expect Vogue covers and money and freedom to pursue whatever artistic whims struck my fancy. I might be able to branch out from modelling to acting or music, or whatever I wanted. Claire had promised me that during the meeting we'd had a few days before leaving for Italy.
The only problem was, I wasn’t so sure what I wanted to do as a creative pursuit. Even though I was attracted to the allure of money I’d earned myself, especially money that hadn’t been provided by a trust fund from my wealthy uncle, I didn’t know what career path called me.
Acting was too similar to modelling for me. I had never relished the idea of having cameras on me at all times for a career. Which made my modelling career so ironic, because I never received attention for anything except my looks.
I’d been raised with my mother’s adoring praises whispered in my ear as she brushed my hair, our eyes locking in the mirror as she murmured, such a pretty face . She always gave me compliments on my appearance— you have your father’s eyes, so striking.
One year, when I wanted to dress as Wonder Woman for Halloween one year, she’d suggested Rapunzel instead. That was before the frying-pan-wielding heroine of Tangled had been created in the Disney film. So, I knew I was being slotted into the role of superficial beauty, not capability. But, my mom had insisted that it was because I was blonde, like Rapunzel, and Wonder Woman was brunette.
We took a sharp turn over the cobblestoned streets, the motorcycle pitching so far to one side that I could have sworn my side would have scraped the ground if not for George’s quick righting of the bike. My stomach lurched, bringing me back to the present moment .
The resulting swoop and flip of my insides might have been due to the rumble of the motorcycle beneath me and the whoosh of the summer breeze ruffling my dress… But part of me wondered if it was because of George Devereaux.
As the wind whipped past me, I was keenly aware of how exposed we were to the elements. It wasn’t like we were riding through harsh weather, but every sensation was magnified. The cool of the breeze; the rumble of the bike; the goosebumps rising on my bare arms; all of it felt a thousand times sharper and clearer than any car ride with the windows down. I could get used to the sensation of being vividly alive.
The bike pulled to a stop next to a smaller, but more whimsically detailed fountain, with two basins. The smaller, uppermost basin sprayed water toward the sky. Four bronze statues of men stood at awkward angles beneath the upper basin, with their feet resting on fishes’ heads. Streams of water flowed from the fishes’ mouths into the pool. Each statue had one muscular arm extended upwards, barely touching the small bronze animals that rested on the upper basin of the fountain.
“Are those turtles on the fountain?” I asked. Then I remembered I had the helmet on with the visor down, and George probably couldn’t hear me through the motorcycle’s rumble anyway.
George shut off the motorcycle. He reached out, unbuckling the straps of my helmet. His calloused, rough fingers were surprisingly gentle on my skin, his touch featherlight as his fingertips skimmed my face. A shiver ran down my spine as he pulled away, hanging the helmet on the handlebars of his bike. “What was that?”
I repeated my question. “Turtles. You brought me to see a fountain with turtles on it? ”
“Hey, this isn’t just any turtle fountain. This is Fontana della Tartarughe— it’s a turtle fountain that’s been mistaken for one of Michelangelo or Raphael’s creations.”
I cocked my head to one side. “Is this fountain why they’re called the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”
The pained expression on his face made me burst into laughter. “Georgia, that’s the artistic equivalent of serving Chef Boyardee’s macaroni to Gordon Ramsay.”
“Are you also going to start swearing at me in a British accent?”
“I might, if you told me you found British accents attractive.” His grimace softened a touch as he quirked an eyebrow. “Do you?”
I find you attractive , I wanted to say, but I’d never been one to show all my cards to a man. Even a man for whom, I had to admit, a British accent would only be the cherry on an already-sweet cake. I was a fan of Mr. Darcy, after all. “So who’s the real sculptor if it’s not Michelangelo or Raphael?”
His hazel eyes lit up as he took in my question and began rambling about what was probably his favourite subject. He sat on the low railing wrapping around the fountain, stretching his long legs out in front of him and watching the water as it danced. “It was designed by Giacomo della Porta, an architect. Although, the artist who carved the men holding up the basin is the sculptor, Taddeo Landini, and it was commissioned by a nobleman, Muzzio Mattei.”
I smiled to myself, enjoying his musical lilt of the Italian names as I sat next to him, leaving a respectable gap between us.
“I’m boring you with all these names, aren’t I?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. You haven’t told me who designed the turtles yet, though.”
“It’s said that Bernini, who created the turtles, used casts of a real turtle to make them lifelike. Isn’t that cool? Originally, instead of turtles, there were dolphins, but because the fountain was having problems with poor water pressure, they had to remove them. So they added the turtles later, about a hundred years after the fountain was first created.”
“What else do you know about the fountain, Mr. Tour Guide?” Tipping my head back, I stared into the peachy glow of the sunset.
I marvelled at how a week ago, I’d been in New York. My mom had said goodbye to me in our shared apartment, over the hustle and bustle of city traffic through our cracked-open windows. She’d hugged me too tightly, kissed me on the cheek, and wished me a tearful goodbye. Now, I was in one of the most romantic cities in the world with a man who I hadn’t laid eyes on until this morning.
“Well, it was rumoured that the fountain was built in one night. A nobleman, who had gone bankrupt due to gambling debts, made a promise to his potential—and rich—father-in-law that he would look out the window and see the fountain there the next morning. His promise came true and he was allowed to marry the wealthy man’s daughter.”
My lips set in a thin line, and I rested my hands on the rail, pursing my lips as I examined the fountain more closely. “I don’t know if I love that story.”
“Not the most optimistic fairytale, is it?” George rubbed the back of his neck. “It definitely seems unwise to sell your daughter’s hand in marriage to a man who’s bound to waste all the money he gets in the bargain.”
“Mm-hmm.” I didn’t want to think of New York and the man waiting for me there—the one who was a world away from this one. The one I would soon be contractually obligated to pretend to date for fame. “They look so sad.”
“What?” George glanced over me, a divot taking up residence between his brows. “Who?”
“The statues of the men.” It seemed silly to say a bronze sculpture had emotion, but these did. “Like they’re carrying the weight of the world.”
“Maybe they really want to reach the turtles but they’re just not tall enough.”
“Is this the artistic analysis I’m getting from the man who compared himself to art’s Gordon Ramsay?”
“I’m off the clock.” He grinned at me, a playful flash of a smile that made me feel like I could see all the way down to the carefree boy he must have been in childhood. Before life’s responsibilities had burdened him, as they did to all of us. I shook my head. Who was I to say that? I barely knew the guy. “I’m hanging up my artist’s apron—”
“You wear an apron to paint?” The image that popped into my head made me splutter a laugh.
He looked affronted. “Of course. I can’t afford to get paint on my clothes.”
“Yes, your ten-thousand dollar Armani suits must remain pristine,” I deadpanned, staring pointedly at his ripped jeans and flannel shirt.
“If you must know, doing laundry here is a hassle. Wearing the apron means I have one garment slathered in paint and wash it occasionally. It’s easier than washing my clothes every day.”
“So, you’re hanging up your artist’s apron.” I nudged his side. “What are you now, then?”
His eyes met mine, and they appeared to see past the veil of carefully applied makeup and braided hair to who I really was. The girl I’d been a long time ago, before I’d begun modelling and before the world had handed me a plaster mold of a label to slip into. A label that said I was nothing more than my appearance. “I’m a man, standing next to a woman, hoping she wants to see me again.”
I didn’t consider myself a shy wallflower, but something about George Devereaux was slowly, almost imperceptibly, changing how I saw myself. So while New York Georgia would have grabbed his shirt collar and kissed him, Italy Georgia was keenly aware of the look in his eyes. The way his hand hovered next to mine, the barest brush of our pinkies making goosebumps rise on my arms. The way his gaze dropped to my mouth—
“George! George, is that you?”
We both whipped our heads over to see an Italian man waving at us. He was clean shaven, clad in a pale blue polo shirt and white shorts, sauntering toward us from the other side of the square.
I turned away from the fountain and stepped back from George, feeling as though a wall of ice had been erected between us. What was I thinking? I couldn’t kiss a man, let alone fall for him, just because he’d said some poetic words and offered me a beautiful painting. I had a life and a fake boyfriend waiting for me back in New York. “Do you know him?”
“Unfortunately.” George’s grimace turned into a playful grin as he turned to wave at the man. “ Buonasera , Sebastian!”
I frowned. As the man came closer, he looked familiar. I didn’t think we’d ever met, but I’d definitely seen his face before. Was he a celebrity? “George, is that…”
“Sebastian Cavalli. It’s a pleasure to meet you, signorina .” The stranger—who I now recognized as belonging to one of New York’s wealthiest and most scandalous families—bent over my hand and kissed it. I could have sworn I heard George let out an audible growl. “I must say, you are beautiful. What are you doing with this riffraff? Are you certain I can’t entice you away from him? I have a yacht with a fine view of the Amalfi Coast—”
“Seb, she’s with me.” George folded his arms over his chest, and the protectiveness on his face and how he edged himself slightly in front of me warmed my heart. There was no real malice in his tone, however, only firm warning.
He didn’t have anything to worry about. Sebastian Cavalli seemed far too arrogant and shallow for my taste, from his polished shoes to his vulgarly oversized Rolex. I had never liked men who sized me up based on appearance only and then attempted to judge me or flatter me based on that one characteristic. Plus, I had to go back home and pretend to date his cousin, Sergio. There was no way I could get involved with Sebastian; I didn’t even want to be friendly to him.
“I’m not interested in your yacht, Sebastian. I’m only curious as to what a New Yorker like yourself is doing here,” I said.
“Visiting my family’s ancestral home,” he said.
“And how do you and George know each other?” I glanced between the two of them; the two men couldn’t have been more different. Whereas George was scruffy and muscled, clad in casual clothing, Sebastian had a lean build and an air of refinement that made me think he knew more than he let on. Or perhaps I was just judging him by the rumours I’d heard. Heaven knew there was endless gossip about the Cavallis swirling around my family.
“We run in the same artistic circles. Believe it or not, Sebastian here has a penchant for making papier-maché sculptures,” said George.
“Really?” I couldn’t tell if George was joking. I tried to picture the man in front of us elbow-deep in glue and pulpy paper, but the image failed to appear.
“Really. I’d love for you to see my studio if you like. ”
“I’m good, thanks.” His invitation sounded like an unwise one to accept.
He shrugged, unbothered. “I’ll see the two of you around then.”
We watched him depart, and I was determined not to let meeting him spoil my mood.