“At some point you’ll be able to meet,” she replied with a sigh. “Your father will arrange it.”
Boarding the airplane to Rome not long afterward, I was filled with so many conflicting emotions. Sorrow at leaving my home, my school, and all my friends. Resentment that my mother had never thought to consult me or considered how painful it would be for me to move. Dread at the idea of starting at a new school where I didn’t know a soul, and a frisson of intrigue at the concept that I wasn’t an only child.
Staring out of the window as we took off, all I kept repeating in my head was, “I have brothers. I have three brothers!”
In spite of my hopes, however, it would be over a year before I’d meet them. First I had to settle into my new home and different routines, which began with my curriculum at St. George’s English School. Having led a relatively insulated existence at Hurst Lodge, I was suddenly hurled into an exciting new environment where students spoke many different languages and I immediately learned a slew of Italian swear words. Best of all, though, there were boys.
I quickly hooked up with a girl named Andrea Bizzarro who’d also recently arrived from an English boarding school. When she sat down next to me in class, she had nothing to write with. “Can I borrow one of your pencils?” she asked, spotting the newly sharpened stack in my brand-new case.
“Only if you return it,” I told her curtly. Fortunately she didn’t hold my attitude against me and we soon became friends. In a school that was far more relaxed than any I had ever known, Andrea and I discarded our uniforms, wore whatever we liked, and ran wild. From speaking in a cut-glass English accent, I began to favor Italian with its gesticulations and inflections. I loved the freedom of not having to tie my hair up and being able to wear bell-bottom jeans with Fiorucci tops emblazoned with slogans. For a while we dated two boys who were best friends, smooching on the sports field and listening to records after school, but we soon dumped them and kept to each other—the start of a lifelong friendship.
Having been a diligent student in England, I now did the bare minimum required to get by. My mother was none too impressed but my rebellious nature had been triggered and there was little she could do about it. All I could think about was boys and I lived in virtual ignorance of the world around me, including the fact that Italy was going through a major economic slump and a period of militant extremism. The infamous Brigate Rosse had precipitated a wave of terror marked by sabotage, kidnappings, and murders. Among the fifty or so people they slew between 1974 and 1978 was the former prime minister Aldo Moro, whose bullet-riddled body was discovered in the trunk of a car in the center of Rome. Other victims were kidnapped, terrorized, or kneecapped to cripple them, along with the country.
On July 10, 1973, a few months before I’d arrived, John Paul Getty III—a former pupil of St. George’s and grandson of the famous oil tycoon—was grabbed off the street, blindfolded, and imprisoned in a cave. His kidnappers—thought to be part of a Mafia sect from Calabria—demanded $17 million in ransom. When the sixteen-year-old’s family refused to pay, his captors cut off his ear and sent it to a newspaper. After five months in captivity an estimated $2.9 million was paid and the boy was freed.
Even Andrea and I couldn’t be oblivious to the incident, news of which gripped the world. Our school went into lockdown and from then on we had to be transported in and out by secure buses. Bomb scares became a frequent occurrence, although many were bogus—no doubt masterminded by St. George’s pranksters. We didn’t mind; it meant that we were sent home early and could spend the rest of the day lounging by the pool at a nearby hotel.
My father got on with Andrea like a house on fire. He loved her vitality and was always pleased to see her, especially when we’d show up at the Via Condotti store. In time, she joined us in Palm Beach for the holidays and he treated her like a second daughter. Ever the joker, at dinner he would make up stories whenever his business associates would drop by our table to say hello. “May I present you to Contessa Stuzzicadenti” (Countess Toothpick), he’d tell them, pointing to Andrea with a deadpan expression. “And this is Principessa dei miei Stivali” (Princess of My Boots), he’d add, referring to another of my friends. Invariably, his foreign colleagues would be impressed and would only realize he was having a joke at their expense when we could no longer keep a straight face.
One night my father told Mamma he wanted me to accompany him to a business dinner in Rome. Our sole dining companion turned out to be a stunning blonde. She seemed nice enough and paid a lot of attention to my father—as most people did—but I didn’t speak to her much and my attention was firmly on Papà, who was in sparkling form that night and went out of his way to compliment me on my manners and how grown-up I seemed. When we returned home later that night still glowing, my mother was in one of her moods so I decided not to say much about our evening, other than briefly mentioning the name of the woman who’d joined us. Then I went to bed.
While I’d found a new best friend in Andrea, Mamma didn’t make friends quite so easily. She didn’t even meet Andrea’s mother for years and she missed Liz and the close bond they’d shared. When she heard that Liz had developed breast cancer, she was devastated. Then one night she had one of her dreams, in which she saw a doll lying facedown in a bath full of water. When the doll turned, it was Liz. The vision haunted her all night and the following morning she received a telephone call to inform her that her dear friend had died. Her howls filled the apartment and she wept inconsolably for hours. I had never seen her so upset and no matter how hard I tried to comfort her, I couldn’t ease her pain.
My father arrived and told me sadly, “She was like this when your grandmother passed away. We just have to give her time.”
He soon had his own bereavement to deal with when his brother Vasco died of lung cancer in 1974. He was sixty-seven years old, one year younger than Papà. They’d never been especially close but still he felt the loss. Vasco’s death created a new dynamic in the company when his widow sold his shares to my father and Uncle Rodolfo, a division of spoils that meant that Papà could no longer be outvoted. Even though he was approaching his seventieth birthday, he had never given up on his determination to stay on top and keep ahead of the growing competition. He was also keen to reward his sons for their hard work in some way, despite continued opposition. My father wasn’t someone to let people get in his way, however, so by setting up a separate company called Gucci Parfums Inc. with his sons as directors, he finally got what he wanted. Ultimately, it proved to be hugely successful, too.
Rodolfo’s only son, Maurizio, meanwhile, continued down his rebellious path and ended up marrying the controversial Patrizia Reggiani. My father sent a token gift but didn’t attend the wedding. Nor did any other member of the immediate family. Uncle Foffo promptly disowned his son and for a while it seemed as if my twenty-four-year-old cousin would never return to the Gucci fold. Such a deep rift weighed heavily on my father after a lifetime of encouraging the family to adhere to Guccio’s principles of legacy and unity. Eventually, it became too much for him and he felt compelled to intervene. After shuttling between the aggrieved parties he came up with a plan. Maurizio would move to New York with Patrizia, where he could learn the retail trade under Papà’s supervision. He wouldn’t be entitled to shares or a boardroom vote until such time as he proved his worth and his loyalty to the business. The deal satisfied everyone.
Maurizio and his young bride moved into my father’s spare apartment on West Fifty-Fourth Street but soon decided that wasn’t good enough and relocated to a suite at the St. Regis Hotel. They eventually persuaded my uncle to buy them a penthouse in the brand-new Olympic Tower—the iconic black glass building next to St. Patrick’s Cathedral developed by Aristotle Onassis. With floor-to-ceiling windows, the apartment enjoyed some of the most spectacular views of the city. They lived there in far greater comfort than my father or anyone else in the family, thanks to Patrizia’s determination to have the best of everything. “I’d rather cr
y in a Rolls-Royce than be happy on a bicycle,” she once famously said. Dressed in designer clothes and dripping with eye-watering jewelry, she set herself up as a Manhattan socialite and reveled in her newly acquired status as Mrs. Gucci.
With Maurizio settled in, my father got back to business, going ahead with his plan to design a range of cars. The $20,000 Cadillac Seville, manufactured by General Motors, came in three different colors and featured a vinyl roof patterned with the GG rombi design, a matching fabric interior, a twenty-four-karat-gold interlocking Gucci emblem, wheel trims, luxury seats, and the trademark red-and-green equestrian stripe. Anyone who paid an additional $7,000 received a color-coordinated set of luggage. Known as the “Big Daddy” of designer vehicles, it was one of the very first collaborations between a luxury brand and a car manufacturer, paving the way for many more to come.
Although he wasn’t an ostentatious man, Papà reserved a midnight-blue model for himself, which he kept in Palm Beach and used to travel back and forth to the store on Worth Avenue. My mother thought it too gaudy and refused to be seen anywhere near it, preferring to drive her sky-blue Seville, parked alongside it in our garage.
Around this time, my father decided to gift a 3.3 percent share of his half of the company to each of his sons, confident that they’d back him in the boardroom, no matter what. My brother Paolo did especially well out of the deal, as Uncle Vasco’s passing meant that he’d also taken control of the main factory in Florence and now wielded a great degree of influence.
Perhaps because of the new arrangement or maybe simply because he thought the moment was right, Papà decided to ask his sons to assemble for a special meeting. “It is time to meet your little sister,” he told them. “Patricia is part of our family and she is certainly keen to meet you!”
I had been waiting for this momentous day for so long but hadn’t dared ask why it had taken all this time. Besides, I’d been busy settling into my new life. I wasn’t nervous at all, but Mamma was apprehensive and went to unusual lengths to make me look presentable. My jeans and T-shirts were cast aside and swapped for a navy blue pleated skirt and flowery blouse. My hair was coiffed into luxuriant locks, and as my father arrived to collect me, she gave me a last check and pronounced, “Sei perfetta!”
During the two-hour car journey north to Scandicci—the nerve center of the company—my father spoke of the early days in Florence and the genesis of it all. As we approached the car park, he pointed to the long two-story building and said, “This is where it all begins.”
As always with Papà, I couldn’t help but notice how people behaved in his presence. From the security guard who swept us through the gates to the smiling receptionist, everyone treated il capo—the boss—with utmost respect. Placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, he led me past room after room filled with artisans wearing identical smocks working quietly away on their sewing machines. The smell of leather pervaded the building and there were skins and huge bolts of fabrics stacked up to the ceiling. I was mesmerized.
We made our way upstairs to a light and airy office with sketches of products on the walls and scattered around the room. I was so fascinated by all the different designs that I almost forgot the reason we were there until my father invited me to sit next to him at a huge table in the middle of the room, opposite the door. That’s when my nerves kicked in. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and my father cried out, “Avanti!”
When I first set eyes on the brothers I’d been longing to meet, I was a tad disappointed. My forced smile must have said it all—they looked almost as old as my father. In my mind I’d conjured up images of handsome, dynamic brothers, not average-looking middle-aged men. Papà sat back and observed us as if he were the director of a play whose characters were entering stage right. I think he assumed, ever the optimist, that as long as he wanted us to get along then that is exactly how it would pan out.
The men who appeared before me one by one were so very different from each other. Forty-six-year-old Giorgio came in first and kissed me on the cheek with an awkward, “Ciao Patricia.” He was a mamma’s boy, and his nervous, stuttering speech made me think of him as somewhat defenseless and vulnerable to bullying. He couldn’t have been more different from Paolo, three years younger, who threw the door back on its hinges and came bouncing into the room like a cannonball. Hugging me and kissing me through a wiry mustache, the virtually bald middle son cried out in a distinctively Tuscan accent, “Ciao, sorellina [little sister]! What a pleasure it is to finally meet you!” He seemed manic and theatrical, exuberant and open. I liked him the best.
Then Roberto ambled in and suddenly made me feel as if I were an applicant in a job interview. The youngest, aged forty-two, he was cold and distant and after only the lightest peck on each cheek, he sat down, lit a cigarette, and began to interrogate me in a rather disparaging tone. “How are you enjoying living in Rome? What are you studying? How is your Italian coming along?” Tugging repeatedly at his cuffs, he spoke in an affected manner. I later learned that he had married into nobility and acquired some airs and graces along the way, as well as becoming deeply religious. Strangely, my father—who called him “Sonny”—seemed to dote on him.
When the chitchat was over and an awkward silence fell, Papà suggested we all have lunch in the staff canteen. Sitting together at a long trestle table, everyone was far more relaxed. Gratifyingly, several members of staff came over to shake my hand and tell me how nice it was to meet me. It was clear that they knew of my existence, even though I’d never known anything about them or the brothers they’d worked with for years. Chatting with them all over lunch, I understood for the second time what it felt like to be part of a family.
Mamma didn’t seem convinced when I recounted the day’s events later that evening, reiterating how nice everyone had been. “They were just being courteous,” she replied, wiping the smile off my face. Seeing my expression, she tried to make light of what she’d said but I could tell she doubted their sincerity.
Nothing could spoil my day and I went to sleep that night feeling strangely buoyed by the idea that there was more to my life than just my mother and father. It wasn’t that I felt any sense of homecoming—just that I now knew there were people in the wider world who were connected to me, even if we didn’t really belong together. I had brothers and they seemed to quite like me. For now, that was enough.
I never once felt that I couldn’t trust my father. I knew intuitively that he could be relied upon to look after my mother and me and that—when he was around—he would give us his undivided attention.
In a relationship between two people, trust is essential; otherwise one risks living in a constant state of anxiety. I know that feeling all too well and it caused me great unhappiness for many years. Only a trusting relationship can bring peace and lasting romance.
I imagine Olwen must have given up the idea of trust years earlier and so, to a point, did Mamma. She had long since accepted my father’s duplicity when it came to other women but she also knew deep down that she was “the one” and that he’d never forsake her. Or so she thought.
During my first few years in Rome, a dark cloud settled over our apartment that had nothing to do with me. Something much more serious was afoot, although I wouldn’t discover exactly what it was for a while. All I knew was that things weren’t right and my mother was floundering in misery once more. Papà visited less even when he was in the city and she feared he might have met someone else.
Her fears weren’t entirely unfounded. The man who once claimed he’d seduced a nun was, after all, incorrigible, and—unbeknownst to me—she knew there had been dalliances in the past. One night, she’d picked up the telephone to overhear him tell a disappointed lover that he couldn’t see her. “Bruna’s arrived,” she heard him whisper. At a dinner party some time later, she’d spotted another woman rubbing her foot up and down his leg under the table.
Each time her suspicions were aroused, she bit her lip and said nothing. Mainly, she wa
s afraid that if she raised the issue their relationship might collapse. Like most of her girlfriends whose husbands were serially unfaithful, she also accepted that Italian men—especially those of my father’s generation—believed it was perfectly acceptable to take a mistress or two. I was well aware of that custom from hearing stories about some of the fathers of my friends who seemed incapable of monogamy. As in France and across much of Europe, wives were expected to put up with the infidelity as long as they were otherwise well treated and their husbands eventually returned home.
Having witnessed my mother at her lowest ebb in the past, Papà could be in no doubt of her fragile, sensitive nature. He was keen to protect her from knowing that kind of pain again, even though he ended up being the cause of much of it. His logic was that no matter what he got up to, she was the only woman who truly meant something to him.
To lift her spirits and reassure her of his undying affection, he’d take her away with him every now and again. He loved to show her off and always reveled in the admiring glances she attracted. My mother was a beauty and, even now, looks younger than most women her age. What she’d never managed to become, however, was the kind of companion who’d fraternize effortlessly with his business associates, due to her lack of confidence. She knew that at times he wanted her to make more of an effort, so on one trip to spend Christmas with him in New York she bought some new outfits and resolved to be more social. Papà had taken her out on occasion with my cousin Maurizio, whose wife also called on her from time to time, even though the two women had little in common, so when Patrizia invited Mamma to attend a cocktail party at the St. Regis Hotel on a night when my father was away, she agreed.
“There are some people you simply must meet,” Patrizia gushed. One was a woman in her sixties who worked in Gucci’s VIP Relations department. Her name was Lina Rossellini, and she was the sister-in-law of film director Roberto Rossellini. My mother liked her immediately. Warm and open, Lina was easy to talk to and Mamma knew instinctively that they’d be friends.
In the Name of Gucci Page 15
