“The Direttore is busy with other things,” Iris said, feeling slightly disloyal by even having this conversation while her boss was away, on the first real vacation he had taken since she had started working with him.
“Yes, like coming to the office just in time for lunch,” Claudio Olona said.
“But he does stay until late in the evening,” Iris said.
“Iris, men who stay at work rather than going home to their wives and children at night are not martyrs. They’re just not that interested in their families,” he said. Iris sensed him sniffing around the boundaries of her comfort zone with his aristocratic nose. She wondered how many cozy evenings he spent at home with his own wife. Not many, judging from the comments she occasionally overheard. Trips to Rome, even Paris and London were frequently arranged for him by the concierge. Sometimes, when he wasn’t even present in the hotel, she had seen instructions left by the switchboard for staff to advise all callers, including his wife, that the Dottore was in a meeting and must not be disturbed. In hotels, everyone’s personal life was fodder for gossip, including the owner’s, and probably even hers. She wondered how much Claudio Olona knew about her. He knew that Gregorio was a doctor, for example. He had mentioned it one evening when he ran into her, still in the office working on a list of contacts in the medical field that might be invited to the hotel for a site inspection of their conference facilities. She had quickly changed the subject, determined to avoid any overlapping of her personal life with her job. Here, she was making her way as Iris Capotosti, not the wife of Dottore Gregorio Leale. She had every intention of keeping it that way.
Nonetheless, the comment about men and their jobs stirred her thoughts. She recalled all the evenings she had rushed home to prepare a tasty dinner and set a pretty table, only for Gregorio to phone at the last minute saying an emergency had arisen at the hospital. On such evenings, she would set aside a plate for him, light a candle in the living room, where she would sit cross-legged on the sofa with her dinner tray and glass of wine and ate, passing scraps to Zenzero, the cat she had finally convinced Gregorio to let her adopt, while listening to old Beatles albums. To be honest, she didn’t really mind those evenings at all, as long as Gregorio did not phone Isabella or Cinzia and ask them to keep her company, as he sometimes did. Solitude had been hard to come by in the Capotosti household, and for her it was a luxury to be enjoyed, not a hardship to be endured. She thought it unfair that the gift of an evening alone should be snatched from her, without her prior consent.
“Well, office work is one thing, but there are some jobs that just don’t have regular hours,” she said. “Anything can happen, any time of day or night in a hotel - or in a hospital.” She was ready to defend Gregorio, if that’s who his remark was aimed at. If there was a man who could be trusted, and looked forward to his quiet evenings at home, it was her husband.
Claudio Olona (she still couldn’t refer to him as just Claudio, not even in her mind) suddenly seemed more preoccupied with dissecting his scampi than pursuing the subject of errant husbands. They ate for a moment in silence, chewing the tender tidbits, until all that was left on their plates were the empty pink shells and the decapitated heads, with their blank black eyes and wispy antennae. Iris looked at the soft, juicy pulp inside the head, which she had learned to savor once she had overcome her initial revulsion.
Claudio Olona wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Nice texture. Soft and smooth, easy on the lips.”
“I beg your pardon?” Iris said, looking up from her plate.
“The napkin,” he replied, “Or have you forgotten that we are here to try out the table linens?” He topped off their glasses with more Prosecco.
“No. Of course not,” she lied, as she quickly dabbed at her own mouth. “I agree, a very pleasant texture.” She took a sip of bubbly.
“And it is a pleasure to see such an elegant young woman with such an exquisitely shaped mouth use a product of such high quality,” Claudio Olona said. “By the way,” he added, looking her in the eye. “Feel free.”
“I beg your pardon?” Iris said again, sipping again.
“The scampi. It’s a pity to leave the best part. Feel free to suck.”
She smiled, embarrassed at the suggestion, embarrassed that her embarrassment was again edging its way up her neck into her cheeks.
So this was how men did it. One minute, it was all business; the next, the professional praise mellowed out into compliments of a more personal nature, and generalizations were whittled into prods that were used to poke around in your private life. That was when they went in for the kill. She might not have much experience with men, but she was onto his game. She sniffed the scent of a challenge: perhaps it was time to prove to Claudio Olona that she was not a neglected little wife who spent too many evenings home alone; that even if she didn’t grow up on scampi, she knew how to enjoy them; that yes, she was a fast learner, and could have fun at this game, too. What was the worst that could happen?
She picked up a prawn head. Holding it daintily between her index finger and thumb she sucked on it softly, coaxing the juice into her mouth. It was still warm, and tasted slightly salty as it slid over her tongue, and trickled down her throat. She forced herself to make eye contact with Claudio, certain he would be staring at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed above the starched shirt collar and monogrammed tie that encircled his neck. He picked up a head from his plate and began sucking, his eyes never leaving hers.
She dropped her eyes to her plate, hoping the flush in her cheeks would subside. The dead black eyes of three more heads stared at her. She picked up the second one and looked at Claudio, who followed her example. They took turns sucking, slowly, deliberately, raising and dropping their eyes in silence, their expressions flickering in the candlelight, until they were finished.
Iris wiped her mouth, then dipped her fingers into the glass bowl of water with lemon slices and rose petals that Alberto had delivered together with the scampi. Claudio Olona also placed his fingers in the bowl, next to hers. As their fingertips touched in the water, a current passed through Iris’s hand, shot up her arm. The surge warmed her to the core, causing the frustration frozen inside her to melt, and leak onto the swatch of silk between her thighs.
“Is everything fine?” Alberto asked, approaching the table. “Did you enjoy the scampi?”
Iris blushed. “Yes,” she said. “Delicious.”
“Exquisite,” Olona said. “The best I’ve ever tasted.”
Alberto lifted the bottle from the ice bucket to pour more Prosecco, and found it empty. “Shall I bring another of the same, Dottore?” he asked, as he cleared the dishes from the table.
“I’d like to stick to bubbly, though I think it’s time to switch to something a bit more intense,” Olona replied, stroking his chin. He had a strong, square jaw, without a trace of stubble, despite the hour. She wondered whether he had shaved again before dinner, like her father used to do on Saturdays. “Don’t you agree, Iris?”
“Fine,” Iris said, hoping he would not inquire as to her preferences.
“Why don’t you bring us a bottle of that lovely Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque, then?” Claudio Olona instructed.
“Very well, Dottore,” Alberto replied with a nod of his head, then retreated. He returned a few moments later with the beautifully decorated bottle of champagne whose name Iris recognized from wine lists, but had never had the opportunity to taste. Alberto set down two fresh champagne glasses, uncorked the bottle, and sniffed. Claudio Olona tasted the champagne, nodded his head, and Alberto poured for both of them.
“To revelations,” he said, lifting his glass in the same toast to which they had started drinking their first bottle. Iris touched her glass delicately to his, then took a sip of the champagne, delighting in its light, slightly nutty taste as the beads glided over her tongue. The Prosecco had been delightful, but this was sublime.
Alberto returned a few moments later with their tuna steaks. Iris’s hun
ger had been both satiated and stimulated by the scampi. She would have been blissfully happy to sip champagne all night without eating anything else, but she did not want Claudio (the Olona faded away – at least in her mind - after the first sips of French champagne, whose powers of persuasion were admittedly superior to those of Prosecco) to think her one of those women who did not appreciate fine food. Their conversation meandered back to the hotel business, and as they ate and drank Iris expressed a desire to dedicate more time to sales and marketing endeavors, perhaps attend a few of the major trade fairs in Italy, maybe even in London and Berlin.
“You have my full endorsement, Iris,” Claudio said. “Perhaps I’ll accompany you when you go to London. I could introduce you to a number of acquaintances and colleagues. You can never know too many people in this business.”
“That would be wonderful,” Iris said, all worries of how she might get Gregorio to agree to her taking a trip to London with another man floating away on the optimistic bubbles of Perrier-Jouët. How she would love to travel more!
“Shall I draw up a proposal and draft a budget for the shows for your evaluation? There’s the BIT and the BTC and the TTI in Italy,” Iris counted them off on her fingers. “then there’s the WTM and the EIBTM and the...”
“Iris?” Claudio said, holding up an index finger.
“Yes?”
“Let’s enjoy our dinner now. We can discuss the details another time.”
She blushed, again, or still; she couldn’t be sure. “Yes, of course.” She should learn not to speak of work and drink champagne at the same time. Not that she expected to ever have another opportunity to do so. As Claudio devoted his attention to pointing out certain remarkably unique traits of hers he had previously lacked the opportunity to notice or comment upon, Iris turned her attention to her tuna steak, so easy to eat in a ladylike manner, yet so difficult to swallow, bubbling as she was with compliments and champagne, both of which continued to flow freely.
Picking up her napkin from her lap and dabbing at her lips, she tilted her wrist to glance at her watch, and instantly thought of Gregorio, waiting for her at home. However vague and remote his presence in her life had become as the evening wore on, she was well aware that putting him out of her mind wasn’t enough to make him vanish.
“Well, this has been lovely,” she said.
“Yes,” Claudio said, laying his silverware across his plate to indicate that he had finished. “Shall we succumb to temptation and indulge in one of Paolo’s sinfully delicious desserts?”
Would Gregorio be sleeping? Waiting up? Furious?
“I’d love to,” she said. “But it’s been a long day. I really should be heading home now, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Iris. I hope I haven’t kept you from anything.”
“Not at all,” she said. “I’ll just stop by the office and gather my things.”
“I’ll come with you. I still have to make a call to Los Angeles, and this should be just the right time.”
They rose from the table, passed by the kitchen where they peeked in to pay their compliments to the Chef, who was putting the final touches on one of his latest dessert creations, a baked cream custard with Bronte pistachios. On their way to the elevator, they nodded their thanks to the Maître, who was conversing discreetly with a couple of titled Austrians who had been staying in the fifth-floor suite for the past two weeks. Iris stepped into the elevator car she had ridden up in, two hours and two bottles of bubbly earlier. Nervous at finding herself alone in such close quarters with Claudio, she looked down at her puffy feet, and tried to concentrate on how good it would feel when she would finally be able to kick her shoes off.
As soon as the door closed, Claudio placed a thumb under Iris’s chin, and tilted her head to his. The intimacy of his warm breath caressing her face, laced with the same pleasant flavors that lingered on her own tongue, made her inhale sharply. Claudio placed his mouth over hers, softly but firmly encouraging her to part her lips. His hand slid down her back, lightly tracing the curve of her bottom, and slipped under her skirt. His fingers wandered up her thigh, until they found the patch of soft, bare flesh between her stockings and panties. Iris felt her body being carried away by the riot of sensations stirred up by the magnificent sunset and flickering candlelight, by the exquisite food and inebriating drink, by the soft voices and stimulating conversation, by the unexpected kiss. She had indulged in each of the evening’s pleasures willingly, and now that her hunger had been aroused, she was greedy for more.
The elevator jerked to a halt on the mezzanine level, where the offices were located. The cleaning crew had already passed, and a single light illuminated the landing. Iris pulled back, feeling lightheaded with confusion and champagne, freed from the ballast of practicality, rationality, Leale-ality. Claudio stared at her without speaking; the look in his eyes expressed more than she was ready to hear.
“I need to go,” she said, in words she did not mean, in a voice that was not hers. The urge she had felt earlier to free herself of her clothes was overwhelming now. Everything felt so tight, so sticky, so unnecessary.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “There’s plenty of room at the inn. And I do have connections with the boss.”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m sure,” Iris said. “Good night.”
“Say it, Iris,” Claudio said, tightening his grip on her elbow.
“Say what?”
“My name.”
Iris hesitated. “All right. Claudio. Good night, Claudio.”
“Good night, Iris,” he replied, caressing her arm as he relaxed his hold. “I don’t often have the opportunity to wine and dine a lovely woman who also enjoys talking about the hotel business. Thank you for your company.”
“Thank you,” she said, both relieved and disappointed that he was backing off so quickly. Maybe Claudio was a real gentleman, and not the womanizer she supposed him to be. For the first time since Iris had married, she wondered what it would be like to make love with another man. No, there was no sense lying to herself; she had wondered about that many times before, in a vague sort of way. But this was different. Now she was wondering what it would be like to have sex, right here and now, with this specific man, a real live man, whose lips she had kissed.
But that wasn’t an option, and she knew it. If it were, would she be standing there like a frightened doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle? Would she force herself to walk away, hurry into her dark office to gather her belongings? Would she rush down the stairs to the garage and hop on her scooter and drive home through the night as fast as she dared? If she had a choice, would she steal through the front door of the slumbering villa like a cat burglar, taking off her shoes before she crept up the stairs and into her apartment? Would she be relieved when she heard Gregorio snoring, as she slipped into the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth? Would she eye her naked body in the bathroom mirror as she toweled herself dry, wondering whether Claudio would think her breasts too small or her hips too wide as she imagined the taste of his tongue again, and the feel of his fingertips dancing up and down her thighs? If she had a choice, would she crawl into bed with a man who was such an expert at numbing the suffering of others, yet so oblivious to the pain festering inside her?
10. Lily
Sandwiches and sympathy became the foundation for Lily’s relationship with Donna, although she had never taken Donna up on her invitation to invite Jesus into her heart, whatever that meant. With increasing frequency, Donna would greet Lily over the back fence with, “Did a shoe go through the window?” - the phrase that had become their private code that Joe had once again lost his temper and had taken hold of the closest object and launched it across the room. It wasn’t always a shoe; sometimes it was a book, an ice cube - and once, even a bag of cotton balls, the description of which - with Joe enraged and furiously attempting to pitch the bag across the room only to have it float down and land limply at his feet - made them laugh so hard that they both ha
d tears running down their cheeks.
“It’s not funny,” said Donna, trying to stop herself from laughing.
“It’s kind of funny,” said Lily, wiping her eyes.
“Seriously. Sugar,” said Donna. “I’ve been your next door neighbor for how long now?”
“Two years,” said Lily.
“Two years,” repeated Donna. “And things have not gotten better between you and Joe. If anything, they’ve gotten worse.”
“I know.” Lily cast her glance down at the ground.
“Now I’m not sayin’ this to make you feel bad, Lily, but you’ve got to do somethin’ before the two of you destroy each other.”
“Me? What did I do?” said Lily. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” said Donna. “You’re as stuck as a wombat in a peat bog. Don’t you think the time has come for action? Jesus’ patience will last until the end of time. The question is, can you afford to wait that long?”
Lily was immediately struck with the level of chatter and laughter at Christ Covenant Church. Instead of the quiet prayer and somber ambience that preceded Catholic Mass, the vestibule at CCC was jammed with smiling, lively people who greeted one another with hugs and exclamations of joy.
“Donna!” A tall thin woman balancing a pile of teased honey brown hair on her head and wearing a thick layer of bright pink lip gloss raced toward Lily and Donna with outstretched arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!” said the woman. She and Donna locked in embrace, laughing as they rocked back and forth. “So good to see you!”
“How are you?” Donna asked the woman. “I’ve had you on my heart, and I’ve been bringing you before the Lord every day in my prayers.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” said the woman. “The Lord is faithful, the Lord is faithful. He has delivered me - the doctor said all is well. All is well.”
The Complete Series Page 80
