reason I hate that guy.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Just drop it. He won’t be troubling Irina again. I made sure of that.’
I’m still not quite sure how, but it doesn’t matter now.
Gia gives me a weird look and replaces her phone in her pocket uncertainly.
I look neither left nor right as we ascend the ramp to the second storey of Atelier Re, the knuckles of my left hand white upon the smooth, concrete banister, my right gripped tightly around the handles of Irina’s handbag, as if it is a life jacket.
The corridors on the second floor are softened by lush, honey-coloured carpets, and the high, art deco-style ceilings are punctuated by enormous modernist chandeliers, white, like floating clouds. It’s a different world up here: timber-panelled walls and traditional-looking wall sconces, antique furniture mixed in effortlessly with modernist pieces in a way I’ve come to recognise as quintessentially Giovanni. We move past a private lift and a couple of life-sized ceramic sculptures that seem almost two-dimensional, like freestanding paintings. On the flat surface of one sculpture there’s a boy playing a pipe, painted in strong and hasty brushstrokes. On the other, a warped caricature of a female figure — eyes in the wrong places; crazy, funfair colours.
‘Picassos,’ Gia says, without stopping, and I crane my head to look back at them, at the strange energy in the lines.
Juliana stops outside a door, knocks on it gently.
‘Entra!’ a male voice calls out.
Juliana opens the door. Giovanni is framed in the doorway, seated at a colossal writing desk and surrounded by bookcases and shelving, undoubtedly priceless art and memorabilia, figurines, awards, framed photographs of himself with people who must be notable in some way. The only source of light in the room is a desk lamp upon the table.
He puts down the pen he is holding and takes off his tortoiseshell frames for a moment, rubbing at his eyes.
‘All finished?’ he says wearily in English. ‘Good, good.’
He gets up from the desk, but his hand slips off the edge and he almost falls, and just catches himself on the way down. He stands there a moment, head bowed, breathing hard.
Juliana rushes across the room to steady him. ‘You need rest, Zio,’ she chides, almost tearfully.
Zio, she called him. Uncle. I didn’t see the resemblance before, but now, looking at them both together, I notice it around the eyes and nose.
Giovanni pats her hand. ‘Soon, soon, cara. But first, I must thank Irina for her hard work today, and apologise that there is one more thing she must attend to before she leaves us.’
Juliana hands her uncle his lion-handled walking cane and he struggles towards me across the priceless, hand-knotted silk carpet with the name of its maker, and his god, woven into the borders of the pattern. ‘Please, follow me,’ he says.
I don’t need to touch him to sense his strange and feverish anxiety.
‘There’s no need to exert yourself, Giovanni,’ I reply. ‘I can find my way with Juliana’s help.’
He shakes his head and the feeling of anxiety that hangs about him seems to deepen. Maybe he’s worried that I’ll screw up and upset his best client.
‘I must make the introductions,’ he says tightly. ‘It is only … right.’
‘I’ll behave,’ I say reassuringly.
‘I’m sure you will,’ he says distantly, patting my arm briefly. ‘But will she?’
He ushers me out of the room towards a wide corridor opposite his office that has several doorways leading off it. Gia and Juliana fall into step behind us, suddenly quiet, sensing something in Giovanni’s mood. He limps towards a door marked with the number three in Roman numerals and turns the handle.
In the strange way I sometimes have of seeing too much, all at once, I see that the room is decorated in a soothing palette of blonde wood and navy and ivory furnishings. It’s very brightly lit by an enormous crystal chandelier, and every wall is covered in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that reflects the room’s only occupant — a young girl sitting, with her back to us, in a cream-coloured leather tub armchair. There’s a doorway opposite the girl that leads to a large dressing room — also brilliantly lit — that’s partially obscured by a navy velvet curtain.
I see all of this before the girl even turns and looks at us directly with her pale blue eyes. I’m surprised by how young she is. I’d been expecting someone far older, because if I’ve learnt one thing today — only seriously rich people can afford Giovanni Re. The girl has an oval face and dark, arched brows, light olive skin, waist-length, unbound, dark glossy hair and a slim build, narrow hands and feet. From the expression on her face, I realise that she’s actually older than she looks — maybe mid to late twenties. She’s in an effortlessly chic tweed jacket, in a weave of reds, whites and blues with gilt buttons, a red silk blouse with a self-tie neck, and slim, indigo blue jeans, vertiginous red heels. Beside her chair, there’s a velvet ottoman, and on it sits a handbag of navy quilted leather with gilt hardware.
The young woman looks poised, serene and beautiful, so I’m shocked when her eyes fly to my face and flare with an antagonism so strong that it’s like a presence in the room.
I don’t need to touch her to feel it. She hates Irina. Would happily scratch her eyes out.
I’m instantly wary. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gia and Juliana look at each other uneasily. Evidently, Giovanni hadn’t told them whom we were meeting.
‘Bianca!’ he says warmly, spreading his arms in welcome.
The young woman rises and places a kiss on each of his cheeks. ‘Giovanni,’ she replies, smiling. ‘So good of you to make time for me in your punishing schedule.’
‘You will treat her … gently?’ he says.
She gives him a reassuring smile and I realise suddenly that this is some kind of set-up. Who is this girl to Irina? Not a friend, clearly.
‘All I’m going to do, Mastro Re,’ she says laughingly in a European accent that’s hard to pin down, as if she’s been schooled in many places, ‘is give my credit card a severe workout. When I heard Irina would be here today, I thought to myself: Who better to showcase your designs than the incomparable Irina? It’s high time we met properly.’ Her eyes are suddenly hard as they flick to me. ‘We’ll have a cozy little … chat, won’t we, Irina? We have plenty to catch up on. Lots of mutual acquaintances to chew the fat over. It’s so rare that our schedules line up in this way.’
Giovanni’s eyes skitter nervously across my face before returning to Bianca. ‘Then you won’t mind if I leave you in the hands of my niece, Juliana?’ he says, almost relieved. ‘I think you know each other? And Irina’s assistant, Gia.’
Bianca inclines her head graciously towards Juliana. ‘Signora Agnelli-Re,’ she says. ‘So good to see you again.’ She ignores Gia altogether.
‘With your leave, Mastro,’ she continues smoothly, ‘we’re old enough friends that you might just leave me with Irina today? I’m sure Signora Agnelli-Re has better things to do than listen to Irina and me … gossip.’
Giovanni starts to reply, but Bianca holds up one slim hand. ‘I’m well aware that the looks I’ve asked you to set aside for me form part of the anniversary collection and are worth in the vicinity of a quarter of a million pounds. I shall treat the gowns with the utmost reverence.’
I note that she makes no such promise where I’m concerned.
Giovanni looks helplessly at his niece, who gives him the faintest frown in return that seems to say: What have you done?
‘Very well,’ he says reluctantly. ‘Juliana will return shortly to see how you are both … getting on.’
‘What the bloody hell are you playing at? This wasn’t part of the —’ Gia’s protests are cut off as Giovanni and his niece bundle her out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.
12
Bianca weighs me up with her cool, blue eyes before snapping, ‘Our schedules have never lined up, bitch, because you’ve been deliberately avoiding me.’
I tell myself wearily to duck and weave until I can figure out what the hell she’s talking about.
