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Youcan’tkeephidingin cupboards, idiot. I reprimand myself. You are going to actually have to meet your new boss sooner or later. Come on. He can’t be that bad.
This morning I couldn’t even get it together to string three words in a conversation. I did my best to stay out of Mr Moretti’s way. I couldn’t even look at him properly. And then, when Henry came in with the Duchess, I dived behind the filing cabinets to avoid him. Honestly. Olivia Morgan. Get a grip. Are you really going to sculk around checking through the crack in the door to see if he is in the office or not? And hide the green, fluffy bunny. No one wants to see that. I grab Little Green Bunny-Wunny and scoop him into the top drawer of my desk.
Thankfully, Mr Moretti is out with Davis to visit clients. His departure activates an instant release of tension in the office; decompression, like air being let out of a tire; a group exhale as people start chatting and stop being so on edge. Even Margot.
Henry has done a great job on the Duchess painting.
“He seems alright,” says Henry with his usual relaxed smile, as I take some photos to update the catalog files.
“Who?” I download the images onto the system.
“Your new boss, of course.”
“Yeah, well. We’ll see,” I whisper, not wanting to be overheard. “He seems a bit, you know, stuck up. Arrogant.”
“Did you do a search?”
“No. Why? Did you?”
“Yes. Because I’m interested.”
“Nosey, more like, and with too much time on your hands.”
Henry laughs. “So, I found out a couple of facts. He’s absolutely loaded. With a family fortune in the billions. And he used to be a professional soccer player.”
Something hit me full in the face at hearing Henry’s words. My new boss is called Gianni. A very common Italian name. There must be a gazillion Giannis in the world. But a Gianni who used to play soccer? That narrows the field somewhat. The Gianni I met all those years ago played soccer. What if my new grumpy billionaire boss was that same Gianni? I shake my head to erase the silly notion.
But my face must have betrayed the shock because Henry says, “Olivia. Are you okay? You’ve turned very pale.”
Back at home I shut the door, dump my bags, drop to my knees, and crawl to the sofa to bury my face in Contessa’s fur. She’s not happy about it, but just now my need is greater than hers. Although she disputes this point.
How can my stuck-up boss, who I can’t stand, be the love of my life who broke my heart when he stood me up on my last night in Florence?
Because he’s not.
But what if he is?
I open my laptop and type Gianni Moretti into the search bar. Pages of results populate the screen. I click on the Moretti home page and begin to read about the celebrated Tuscan family’s rise to fame and fortune. I scroll down to a picture of Gianni Moretti posing for a soccer team photo. I zoom in because I can’t trust my vision. I take off my glasses to give the lenses a clean and pinch the bridge of my nose before replacing them. I focus my eyes on the handsome young and smiling face surrounded by unruly dark curls. It is the Gianni I met on my school trip. The same Gianni who kissed me and made me feel like the only girl he had ever kissed. The same Gianni who didn’t show up to meet me on my last night in Firenze. The same Gianni who gave me that painting which now hangs on my wall.
I look up at the Ponte Vecchio painting nestled smug in its too-big ornate frame. I have made a shrine to love in my lounge centered on this piece of wood. My whole world revolves around the golden memory of the beautiful boy who gave it to me and promised to meet me the very next day. Then didn’t show up.
I waited for three hours hoping to see his face. I invented all sorts of scenarios about how and why he wasn’t there on the bridge where we had arranged to see each other.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there,’ were his last words I remember as he walked backward, watching me with his head tilted to one side before, he turned and ran off into the crowd.
My flight was the next day. Time ran out. I didn’t even know his full name. All I had was a stupid painting, which is on my wall, and I worship.
Contessa complains, jumps down from the sofa, and stalks off to the bedroom. She’s sick of my whinging and I don’t blame her. I take down the Ponte Vecchio painting and put it in the top drawer of the sideboard leaving a ghost of its shape on the wallpaper and a hole in the center of the art display.
I would need to rearrange a few things to redress the balance and aesthetic of the room. I slump down on the empty sofa but it’s uncomfortable, so I get up and pace the room before retrieving my phone from my bag and messaging Desmond and Sandy. A call comes through almost immediately.
“Hun. We’re coming down.” Desmond’s deep tones instantly soothe. I glance up at the empty space where the painting used to be.
“Umm. Can I come up? I don’t want to be in my space. I’d rather be in yours.”
“Sure, babe. Whatever you want. We have Chardonnay chilling. Bring Contessa, okay?”
Desmond and Sandy are the best. I am so lucky to have my very own gay-boy couple living directly upstairs. They love Contessa almost as much as I do. And I think she loves them right back.
