Page 95 of Two Chances With You

The elevator stops one floor down. Our hearts race, and certainly not out of fear. I hide in her hair. I rest my face on her soft neck. I relax, unflustered and calm. My lips, tired, happy, satisfied, in search of nothing but an ultimate answer.

“Gin…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t leave me.”

And I don’t know why but I say it. And I almost regret it. And Gin remains silent for a little while. Then she pulls away from me, and she observes me, curiously. Then she tells me, softly, practically whispering it, “You threw the padlock key into the river.”

Softly she holds my head in her hands and looks at me. It’s not a question. Then she gives me a kiss and then another and yet another still. And she says nothing. She just keeps kissing me.

And I smile. And I willingly accept that answer.

Chapter 35

It’s a warm afternoon, strangely hot for December. The blue sky is as intense as those days in the mountains when you can’t wait to go swimming. But I have to work. It’s the last episode, or really I should say, the last day of rehearsals before filming the last episode. And yet it seems like a very particular day. I can feel something strange, and I don’t know why. Sixth sense, possibly. But I never could have imagined.

“Buongiorno, Tony.”

“Buongiorno, Step.”

I hastily enter the theater. A group of photographers, all relatively down at the heels, with a strangely motley array of cameras, as mismatched as their clothing, blocks my path. They certainly aren’t like those very precise groups of Japanese tourists with their cameras that you’ll encounter in the piazzas of Rome. There is no image they’ve ever missed out on.

“That way, she went that way. Get moving, and we’ll catch her.”

I stop, baffled, and Tony, naturally, doesn’t miss that.

“They’re trying to track down Claudia Schiffer. She got here early because she wants to rehearse walking out onto the stage. I mean, what is there to rehearse? It’s just a short walk. There aren’t even stairs. Maybe it’s partly to justify the money she makes, goddamn her to hell.”

Oh, of courseshe’saround. Tony adds, “Listen, if you’re looking for Gin, she went right up to the dressing room next to Schiffer’s. One of the writers asked her to come up. Maybe they’ll have her come on with Schiffer. Wait and see. If she learns to walk well, too, she’ll start pulling down the big money too.”

Tony laughs chaotically, stumbling over a strange cough, all cigarette smoke and unhealthy lungs. In spite of that, he immediately lights up another MS, discarding the empty pack. Is that the one I brought him yesterday or a new one, already smoked through? What does it matter if it doesn’t matter to him?

Well, I’d better go see how Marcantonio is doing and how our work is coming along. Here he is, sitting in front of the computer, concentrating. I watch him from a distance, through the door that stands ajar. Then he smiles to himself and pushes a button, printing the pages, and in a burst of satisfaction, he lights a cigarette just as he sees me come in. “Hey, Step, you want one?” Well, at least he, unlike Tony, offers you a cigarette, and he doesn’t seem sick, or not seriously.

“No, thanks.”

He shuts the cigarette pack. “More for me!” He tucks it into his jacket pocket and smooths back what little hair persists on either side of his head. “I did it. I managed to lay it all out the way they want it.”

“Ah, fine.” I notice that he takes special care to avoid saying,the way the writers want it, but I see no purpose pointing that out to him. If for no reason other than the fact that he’s offered me a cigarette.

We stand there for a moment in silence, watching the sheets of paper being spewed out of the printer. Vrrr. Vrrr. One after another. Precise, clean, and tidy. Clear, light colors, perfectly legible, exactly as they wanted them, I have to imagine.

Marcantonio waits for the last sheet to appear. Then he picks them up, delicately, from the printer and blows lightly on them to dry off the last layer of freshly printed ink. “All done. They seem perfect.”

He looks at me in search of approval. “Yes, they seem fine.”

It’s not as if I’m all that sure of it. Seeing those sheets of paper thrown into Marcantonio’s face has completely made me forget even what the source of the argument was in the first place.

“Yes, perfect!” I limit myself to saying, trying to get out of that awkward situation. But it’s not enough.

“Listen, Step, will you do me a favor? Can you take these upstairs to the writers?”

He’s finally managed to utter that word. But is that a victory of some kind, what’s the word for it again, oh, right, aPyrrhicvictory! Because in any case, it’s up to me to confront them. What a pain in the ass! But Marcantonio, my mentor, has asked me to do it as a favor. How can I say no?

“Certainly, happy to.”

He looks at me, relieved. He hands me the sheets of paper, and as I leave the room, he flings himself backward in his chair, crushes out his cigarette, and immediately lights another one. There’s only one thing I know for sure. That man smokes too much.

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