She was different, this close and this unguarded. Sweet. Accessible.
“Perhaps Signora will help me to choose the most beautiful one then.”
Her smile was obliging. “It depends on what you would like to evoke with them. What would you like to say to her?”
“I am afraid I have not thought it through,” he said. “The prettiest rose and the one that will last the longest will do.” He’d not bought Chiara flowers in probably over a year, and the realisation was a jolt. He had better explain himself. “You see, we have plenty of rose bushes around the villa.”
“I understand,” she said. “You are frugal as well. I’ll not bore you with romantic nonsense then. As an engineer, you will want something straight, well built, and functional.”
“And beautiful.”
Her grey eyes flashed amusement. “Of course. An engineer who is also interested in aesthetics. These days, a rarity indeed.”
“You sound as if you are unhappy with the modern architectural style.”
“Ah, but you are not then?” She smiled before looking down at the buckets of roses. “Allow me to find the rose that represents you just as well.”
She sifted through the flowers, sometimes checking whether he approved. Her face was smooth and heart shaped, and when he watched her move in that dress, he thought again of pomegranates, the globe-like fruit with its tough rind, the chambers he had to fold back to get to the meat. He pictured his thumb running over the seeds to loosen them from the piths. Sweet, succulent. And he never got a mouthful without staining his hands. He could feel the lust that had emerged on his face and quickly masked it.
“This one,” she said, holding a coral rose. She reached for another one, a dark ruby red. “Or the classic. Would you like to know the difference in their meaning?”
Was there a colour for if my wife won’t have me, you’ll do just fine? “I don’t have to know. They are both straight, well built, and functional, as well as beautiful.” He paid for them and held the coral rose out to Gina. “Signora, if you will allow me, you were immediately drawn to it, and therefore this one is for you. My wife prefers the classics.”
“You ought to know what such a rose means.” Her eyes were fixed on his, long lashes a little lowered. “I couldn’t accept it.”
Angelo smiled apologetically, confident of what he was about to start. “Of course not.”
“But I will.” She gingerly took the rose from him and handed it to the florist. “Add this to my bouquet please. Place it right in the middle.” She turned to him. “That way I may always keep an eye on the minister’s delightful gift.”
The florist obliged her, and Angelo imagined the flowers in a vase on the Signora’s dining table, hiding the sulking General Conti behind them. He could also picture her in the ministry, those legs across from his desk every day. When Signora Conti had the flowers in her arms again, he offered to take her shopping bag and walk with her a part of the way.
“This is a rare pleasure, Minister.”
“You must cease calling me Minister,” he said.
She smiled at him and touched his arm lightly with a gloved hand. “What should I call you then? You are the minister, and Minister is such an appropriate title, isn’t it? Besides”—she laughed softly—“I can’t call you Senator. Not yet anyway.”
“Of course. I apologise, Signora. The formalities do not allow for anything more familiar.”
Gina smiled broadly. “Oh, we can change all of that, can’t we? After all”—she wrapped her hand lightly around his forearm and leaned into him—“we are comrades in arms. That’s where I prefer the Socialists. They are all so informal with one another and call one another by their first names.” She laughed softly, grey eyes steady, watching him.
He gave her an acknowledging nod, and Gina suddenly stopped. They were standing outside the Laurin Hotel, and she tilted her head towards the entrance.
“Shall we tread on more familiar territory, Minister? Or are you in a hurry to get home to your family?”
Angelo checked his pocket watch. Either way, he would already be late. “Perhaps an espresso at the counter.”
Gina moved ahead and led him through the lobby, the smoky saffron window behind the reception desk casting too church-like of a glow for his tastes. The hall echoed with the footfalls of people coming and going, of knives scraping against porcelain, and the soft murmur of people tucked into their luncheons and conversations. Next to the reception desk was the spiralling staircase that led to the rooms above. He fantasised leading her up there, but the idea of it was as far as he would let himself go.
They went into the café, and at the bar, she ordered two Martini Biancos. He watched her scanning the lounge and looking at herself in the large mirrors where the drinks and wines were written in white chalk. The hotel was gilded in every shade of yellow possible: lemon, gold, brass, saffron, and sand. The dark wooden tables, the rust-and-white chequered floor, and the grey marble countertops were practically the only contrast. And Gina.
“It might be awfully naughty of us when we know lunch is waiting at home,” she said. “And at midweek. But I’m very glad we are finally talking. We frequent the same places, and I hear so much about you, but we never talk, do we?”
She turned and leaned against the bar, her elbows barely reaching the top. For a moment, he thought she might kick her legs up, like a showgirl. He had the distinct desire to remove her hat, unpin the dark hair underneath, and watch the black waves cascade down her neck and shoulders as far
