CHAPTER SIX
DINNERWASSERVEDin the elegant dining room, and although Salvatore had said the dress code was casual—something reflected both in her tunic-style rust-coloured dress with a dark scarf looped around her neck, and in Salvatore’s fine cashmere sweater and dark trousers—simply sitting there at the polished mahogany table, surrounded by landscape paintings that Lana was pretty sure might equally be hanging in a museum, and being waited on by the two manservants overseen by the stately Giuseppe, was hardly, she thought, a casual experience. Nor was the meal itself, which consisted of the full panoply of courses—from an aperitivo served by Giuseppe himself, all the way through to the dolce, which was a delicate pear sorbetto.
‘This is in your honour,’ Salvatore murmured to her sotto voce.
Dutifully, Lana voiced her thanks, and determined to be vocally appreciative of every offering—which was not in the least hard to do, for everything served was delicious and she ate with gusto. She felt she was winning Giuseppe’s approval, and felt a pang of guilt. He was treating her as the new mistress of the palazzo, when she was no such thing.
Nor will I ever be.
Her gaze went to Salvatore, sitting at the head of the table. Because of the table’s length, she was not sitting at the foot but at his right-hand side, less than a metre from him, as if they really were a married couple. Something that was not an ache—it couldn’t be an ache...there was no reason for it to be an ache, and certainly no justification—formed inside her.
Then he was speaking again, and the ache was dispelled. Discarded. It had no place, anyway.
She paid attention to what he was saying. He was no longer using the brisk, impersonal, imperious manner that he had during their first few days in Rome when had had been speaking to her alone, giving her instructions. He was more relaxed here—that much was obvious. Unless, of course, she realised belatedly, that that was simply for the benefit of his household.
For herself, though, she was not relaxed. She’d tried to hide it—again for the benefit of the household. But the incident by the pool still disturbed her. She must make sure, she resolved, that nothing like that could ever happen again.
‘So, would you like to see Florence tomorrow?’ Salvatore enquired.
‘Tomorrow?’ Lana echoed, slightly surprised. After all, he was under no obligation to entertain her.
‘It would suit me,’ he replied. ‘The following day I have conference calls morning and afternoon.’
‘Then, thank you, yes, I would love to see Florence,’ Lana dutifully agreed.
The remainder of the meal was spent discussing their itinerary for Florence. Lana readily agreed to forego the Uffizi this time around, to focus on a more general tour of the city’s main highlights.
‘There will be plenty of opportunity for you to visit as often as you wish,’ Salvatore said.
She nodded in polite agreement. She was already thinking ahead to when she would be left to her own devices. She would use the opportunity of living in Italy for the duration of her marriage to learn the language. She would learn off the Internet...buy textbooks. It would be something to take away from her time here...
Her gaze flickered to Salvatore again.
She felt again, just for a fraction of a moment, that irrelevant tiny ache which had neither cause, nor justification, nor any business at all being there. So what if he was the most lethal-looking man she’d ever seen in her life? So what if he had eyed her up while she was sunbathing and put cream on her back? None of that had any place in the reason why she had married him.
That was all she had to remember.
Florence was everything its reputation said it would be and more. Lana was entranced, despite the crowds even this early in the season, and gazing about her avidly. Salvatore made an expert guide, his long familiarity with the city enabling her to make sense of all that she was seeing.
She’d worn a comfortable outfit quite deliberately—a crisply cut sand-coloured shirt dress and a loose jacket, which looked both casual and chic worn with day-proof flats that would cope with a lot of walking. Which they did.
They took in all the main sights, starting with Michelangelo’s David and the basilica, and going on from there. Lana’s head was reeling from all the information Salvatore was giving her, amplified by guidebooks and Internet. The weather was ideal—not too hot, and very pleasant. Even so, she was glad to stop for lunch, to be taken outdoors at an upmarket trattoria. Lana, still celebrating the end of her modelling diet, focussed on pasta—Salvatore on veal escalope.
Then they forayed forth again to cross the River Arno by the famous covered Ponte Vecchio bridge, where Salvatore regaled her with the tale of how the Medicis had had a secret crossing constructed within the bridge as a potential escape route from their city rivals, and how the disastrous floods a generation earlier had caused appalling damage to the city, from which it had now, thankfully, recovered.
Another break for coffee ensued, and then, as the afternoon sun lengthened, they ascended to the Piazzale Michelangelo above the city—the terrace that gave sweeping picture-postcard views over the whole panorama.
‘Time for cocktails,’ Salvatore announced, when Lana had had her fill of gazing. ‘Then dinner. We’re booked at the rooftop restaurant at the Falcone—you’ll like it.’
Lana looked at him a little uncertainly. He’d spent the day showing her Florence—did he really want to dine out with her there as well?
‘You don’t have to,’ she said. ‘You’ve given up an entire day to me as it is.’
Salvatore’s expression was unreadable. It was strange for her to see it like that again, for during the day he’d been more relaxed—more affable—than she had yet experienced. Perhaps, she thought, it was because there were no eyes on him...neither his staff’s, nor his friends’, nor his social acquaintances’.
We’re anonymous here—I don’t have to role-play, and neither does he. He’s just a native Italian, showing Firenze off to an English tourist.
But now, somehow, that had gone.