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Gianni strides past me and Luisa follows, although she’s looking at the artwork on the wall.
“I like that one,” she says pointing at the Warhol print. I can’t believe we haven’t found a buyer for it yet.
“I like it too.”
In the office, Gianni talks to Margot, and I try to make myself as small and invisible as possible at my desk. I concentrate on admin tasks. Or I try to. I have half an eye on Gianni who is pacing the office, looking at his phone and saying something to Nigel. I can only pick out snippets of the conversation which is heating up. Luisa is sitting on a chair immersed in reading something on her iPad. She is unaware of the drama unfolding around her.
Nigel shrugs and says he doesn’t know. Gianni turns from him and wipes a hand across his forehead: a classic display of frustration.
“I’ll go myself,” I hear Gianni say. His face is drawn with stress. He strides over to Luisa and bends down beside her. “I have to leave you here for a little while, my darling.” I hear him say.
“No Papa. I’m coming with you.”
“I’ll be a few minutes only. Then we are free to explore together, alright?”
Gianni says something else that is not audible. I can see that he is trying to think of the best course of action. He looks over to me and catches me watching. “Olivia. Can I borrow you for a moment?”
I get up and walk over. I feel as if I’m in trouble. I don’t make eye contact.
“Okay. This is the situation,” Gianni says sternly. “Take Luisa back to the hotel. I have to sort something out, but I’ll be back soon. It’s unavoidable.” He kisses Luisa on the top of her head, says something in a whisper, and disappears out of the door.
“Well, I guess I’ll take Luisa back to the hotel now,” I tell Margot who has returned from the photocopier just as Gianni was leaving. She missed the drama.
“Alright then. Better take your laptop. I’d like the updates on the website today, if poss,” she says. I think about this for a second. Margot’s right. I had completely forgotten about updating the website. Also, I’ll have an opportunity to look for jobs without anyone spying on me. I pack up my laptop, pick up my bag, and go over to Luisa, who seems unfazed by this development.
“Papa is a busy man,” Luisa says putting away her device. “Shall we?”
Luisa and I leave the gallery.
Luisa is too self-assured for one so young. It instantly puts me on guard. It’s as if she is a child inhabited by an old woman. Maybe she is. Out on the sidewalk, I ask her to tell me which hotel she’s staying at.
“The New Amsterdam. It's just over there. We can walk if you like.”
I’m not sure how I feel about suddenly being assigned as nanny. Does it even fit my job description? Do I even have a job description? Part of me is up in arms about being pushed around by my new grumpy boss. Part of me is doing a jig at being let out of the office on an easy-money-no-brainer. Mr Grumpy is paying me to do a job whatever that job may be. Hanging out with his daughter might prove to be a more pleasurable experience than trying to pretend I’m not looking for jobs in the gallery office.
“Olivia, I want to see where you live,” Luisa commands. “Is it far?”
“No. It’s not far. But your papa said to go to the hotel and that’s what we’re doing now, okay?”
We walk along a few paces. I can see The New Amsterdam a little way down the street. I’ve walked past it hundreds of times but never given much attention. It’s grand in an old-style kind of way. A doorman wearing hotel livery nods politely as he opens the carved wooden door with etched glass windows and welcomes us in with a smile.
“Alright then. Here we are. Which room are you in?” I gently guide Luisa to the elevators.
“We have the penthouse suite.” She swipes the access card and presses the button.
“Gosh. How nice.”
“Yes.”
In the elevator, and I can tell Luisa wants to say something else.
“Is something bothering you?” I ask as illuminated squares light up one by one on the panel.
“Yes. It’s your hair.” Luisa isn’t looking at me directly but watches my reflection in the polished brass of the elevator door.
“Excuse me? What’s bothering you about my hair?”
“Oh, well. I think it would look better if you didn’t wear it so tight.” She pulls her own hair back and makes a face to illustrate her point. I’m processing her opinion trying not to take it seriously or personally.
