Page 31 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“So am I.”

“Yes, but you see the bigger picture, not just the numbers.”

Their next interviewee was a vintner from Calabria.

“What does he know about our Tuscan soil and climate?” Luca complained when they were alone again.

Cleo laughed. “Don’t be such a snob. You already have Silvio to run the farm. What you need is someone who can take Silvio’s grapes and turn them into good wine.”

The Croatian cellar master impressed them both with her knowledge and experience.

“But she’s a straight single woman,” Luca pointed out. “What if she falls for the Fioravanti curse and wants more than the job?”

Cleo rolled her eyes. Again.

It was lunch time, and the party at the next table cracked open a couple of bottles of chilled white wine that made Luca’s mouth water.

Cleo’s gaze followed his. “One more interview, then we can take a break for lunch.”

The next candidate was Dario, a tousle-haired, energetic young man from Bologna, with a business degree and an eager, open face.

“I don’t have much experience, but I’m a quick learner,” he said. “And I don’t mind starting at the bottom. My family are all accountants, but I’ve always wanted to work in the wine business. I also have family close to Montalcino I can stay with.”

Cleo smiled. “You know how to create invoices?”

Dario looked bewildered. “Sì.”

“How soon can you begin?”

“He’s too young and inexperienced,” Luca objected as they ate a simple lunch of crispy chicken with spring greens, paired with a light white Moscato d’Asti. “I thought your intention was to find a manager to take over the reins from my father? Dario is like an eager puppy, and my father will eat him for breakfast.”

“I wouldn’t hire him to manage the business, but Dario can handle the day-to-day accounts and logistics, and he has the right personality to work in sales,” Cleo replied. Her lips quirked. “He also has the benefit of being male and straight, so no chance he’ll fall for the Fioravanti curse and want more than you’re willing to give.”

Luca pulled a face. “Fine. He’s hired.”

The afternoon was filled with more of the same. Interview after interview, until Luca’s head spun. “The bean counter will do in a pinch,” he agreed reluctantly. The bean counter was also the only manager with real vineyard experience willing to work for the salary they could afford.

The one job they hadn’t filled was the most important of all: a vintner who could take over making the Fioravanti wines from Giovanni. Luca rubbed his face. His father would have another stroke if he dared mention the name of the perfect candidate to Cleo.

* * *

By the time their last interviewee left, Cleo was finding the pool as tempting as Luca clearly was, if his wistful glances were any indication. But their work was not yet done. She rose and stretched. “We need to meet the contractor to check our stand at the wine show.”

Luca pulled a face, as if to say “Do we have to?” and she fixed him with a stern look. He laughed. “Fine.”

Rather than drive, they took the ferry across the lake to Cernobbio. Cleo stood on the ferry’s deck, breathing in the tranquillity and admiring the grand villas that dotted the hillsides around the lake. It was hard to believe this was a workday and not a holiday, with such a spectacular backdrop and everyone around her relaxed and smiling. If she were in London right now, she’d be sipping her umpteenth cup of tea at her desk, settling in to work late to miss sharing the tube home with all the other tired, discouraged, rush-hour commuters. But here, with the late afternoon sun on her face and the warm breeze playing across the water, she didn’t feel tired or discouraged. She felt more energised than she had in years.

The exhibition centre where the wine show was held each year was a complex of glass and concrete buildings on the edge of the lake. On this last prep day before the event, the place was in a state of organised chaos, with the sounds of hammering and voices, and vendors bustling in and out with crates and boxes.

The Fioravanti stand sat tucked away at the far end of a long hall devoted to Tuscan wineries, while the vineyards with DOCG labels on their bottles had pride of place, bathed with sunlight from the wall of curved windows.

“Benvenuto,” their contractor greeted them, gesturing for them to admire his handiwork.

“Wow!” She’d expected rustic wine barrels and an emphasis on tradition, but the design was minimalist and modern, in the midnight blue and white colours of the Fioravanti logo. Even the hired-in tasting glasses were made of exquisite hand-blown blue Venetian glass.

The walls of the stand were dark blue, with the vineyard’s logo embossed in white. A couple of white leather sofas were grouped around a coffee table littered with glossy brochures, and on the other side, the vineyard’s wine boxes were displayed on Perspex light boxes. The elegantly designed wine boxes, in the same midnight blue and white, were the best thing about the Fioravanti wines, and the stand’s designer had ensured that they were displayed to maximum advantage. As long as no one actually tasted the wine, their stand would be a hit. “Giovanni really approved this design?”

The contractor laughed. “He designed it himself. He has a good eye and good taste.”

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