what she understood from the direttrice was the very
latest collection.
Jodie was no designer label junkie, but these were
very special, and she was forced to admit that she
was in danger of losing her heart to them all. But in
the end there could only be one choice, and she made
it, rebelliously selecting a gown that was in fact a
tightly fitting corset bodice with an elegantly draped
skirt that fitted it so perfectly it looked as though it
were actually a dress and not two pieces.
The direttrice beamed her approval.
'Yes, that is the one I would have chosen for you.
It is very simple, but very elegant, very regal — truly
a wedding gown for a princess. We have guessed your
size from the Duce’s description of you. So many
times a man tells us one thing and we discover…'
She gave a small resigned shrug. 'But fortunately the
Duce was correct.'
Half an hour later, Jodie faced her own reflection
in the mirror. A young woman who was almost a
stranger to her looked back. Jodie blinked and felt her
eyes blur with emotional tears. If only her parents,
her mother, could have seen her dressed like this. The
gown made her look taller, and emphasised her tiny
waist. A fitted lace jacket with three-quarter sleeves
concealed any bare flesh. The train was so long and
so heavy that Jodie worried that she wouldn’t be able
to manage it.
'It is perfect for you,' the direttrice sighed ecstatically.
'The maestro will be so pleased. Now, for the
other things you will need…'
It was another hour before the direttrice finally declared
herself satisfied, by which time Jodie had been
provided with a deliciously curvy suit that could be
dressed up for evening or worn more simply during
the daytime, along with a selection of tops to go with
it, two pairs of impossibly flatteringly cut trousers, a
summer-weight coat with a matching skirt, two pretty
silky dresses, plus shoes and handbags, and what
seemed like an enormous amount of 'everyday
things', as the direttrice had called them, from the
designer's more casual jeans-based range. The only
way she could assuage her guilt over such blatant
consumerism would be to insist that Lorenzo made
good his promise to make a charity donation equivalent
to the cost of her new clothes, Jodie reflected.
She was just beginning to get tired, and felt relieved
when the door to the private room opened and
Lorenzo walked in.
'You have everything you need?' he asked her.
Jodie nodded her head.
Thanking the direttrice, who promised that those
items that were in need of small alterations would be
delivered to the apartment by the following afternoon,
Lorenzo ushered her back out onto the now dark
street.
'Are you hungry?' he asked.
'Very,' Jodie admitted.
'There is a restaurant a short distance from here
where they serve simple but excellent local food.'
The restaurant was down a narrow street, its tables
set out on the pavement, and they had to edge their
way to one of the few tables that was empty.
'If you would like me to recommend something for
you?' Lorenzo offered once they were seated and the
waiter had brought menus.
'Yes, please — but nothing too heavy,' Jodie begged
him, 'otherwise I won’t be able to sleep.'
'Very well, then. Perhaps not the affettati misti to
start with, which is a traditional selection of cold
meats, but instead pinzimonio, which is fresh vegetables
with olive oil?'
'That sounds perfect,' Jodie agreed.
'Then, if it will not be too heavy for you, you
should try the lasagne al forno — it is a speciality of
Florence and like no other lasagne you will ever have
tasted,' he assured her.
Smiling, Jodie nodded her head. 'What are you going
to have?' she asked him.
'I shall start with the affettati misti and then I think
calamari in zimino — stewed squid,' he explained, and
Jodie pulled a face.
All around them other diners were talking and
laughing, whole families eating together, Jodie noticed
slightly enviously. Her only family were her
cousin David and his wife Andrea, and though she
and David had always got on well, there was a nine-
year gap between them. David had already been married
when her parents had been killed, and his parents—
her father's brother and his wife — had returned
to her aunt's home country of Canada.
'Tomorrow morning I have arranged for us to visit
my bank,' Lorenzo was telling her. 'There are some
papers there it is necessary for you to sign. I have
opened a bank account for you, and the family betrothal
ring is in the bank's vaults, along with certain
other pieces of jewellery. The ring will have to be
cleaned, and possibly resized — although, like you, my
mother had very slender fingers.'
