Page 24 of Mr Billionaire Boss Grump

“Want a coffee? I’m due a break anyway.” She ducks down behind the counter and grabs her bag, then ushers me through the door where she fixes a card in the window that reads, Torno tra cinque, Back in five. We walk a short distance down a narrow street beside the art store to a café with tables and chairs arranged outside.

“Cappuccino? It’s still okay to have one. In Italy, this is strictly a morning beverage. You’ll get funny looks if you order one after eleven.” She laughs, then she says, “I’m Eleanor, by the way.”

I introduce myself and sit on a chair at one of the tables. Here the street is more of an alley, too narrow for cars. It’s quiet, apart from noises of domesticity from overhead balconies.

When Eleanor comes back, she smiles at me in a kindly way. “So, Olivia of New York City, what happened?”

“He didn’t show up.” It’s the bit that’s most important and the bit that shattered my heart.

“Whoa, sweetie. Why don’t we back it up a bit? Tell me from the beginning.”

So, I start from when I first arrived in Florence. I was so idealistic and full of creativity. I won a scholarship to travel to Florence on a school trip. I was eighteen. My last year at school before leaving and going to art school.

Well, that was the plan. But I never made it to art school because of a few financial factors and a massive lapse in self-confidence. I gave up my dreams of being an artist. I was never brave enough to believe it was possible to give it a go.

Anyway, the ten days in Florence changed my life. Every moment was pure heaven. While the other kids in my group tore around being loud and young Americans, complaining about the lack of fast-food outlets and how no one spoke English, I quietly took my sketchbook and placed myself in a picture postcard setting to simply draw what was in front of me. I filled a whole book with wonderful slices of Florence. When I was here before, I was so impractical. I was going to be an artist. There was no other way for me.

“And, when you were sketching, was that when you met Gianni?”

“Yes. And no. He was bouncing his soccer ball and it bounced too close and I lost my concentration, so I wasn’t very happy with him when he said hello and apologized. Instead of continuing on his way, he sat down next to me and looked at my drawing. He said that he liked it a lot. Then, he asked me if I needed a break. He said he knew the best gelato shop in the whole of Florence, and he wanted to make amends for his rude rogue soccer ball interruption.”

“That is so romantic!” Eleanor clasps her hands together, then leans forward and whispers, “And he did it on purpose. The scallywag. He bounced the ball too close so that you would notice him. Ha! He’s a genius.” Eleanor sips her cappuccino, careful not to get foam on her top lip. “So, then you exchanged numbers and hung out?”

“Yes and no. We hung out as much as we could in the six remaining days of my trip. We didn’t exchange numbers or anything because we knew where and when we were going to meet up. It was always the same place on the Ponte Vecchio. In fact, he gave me a painting of the famous bridge. He told me it had belonged to his family for a long time. He said it was by a famous artist who was a student of Canaletto.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Of course, I believed him!” How young and foolish I had been to be taken in by such an outlandish story. I was so gullible. I was eighteen and swept away by the romance of Florence, of Italy. What could I do?

“And you still have the painting?”

“Yes. But it’s in a drawer. When I recognized my grumpy boss was my first and only love, well, I was conflicted.” Understatement of the century. “I took it down from the wall where I had made a kind of shrine to…”

“Lost love?” Eleanor says sympathetically.

“Yes. Yes, lost love.” I sip the remains of my, now cold, cappuccino, scraping the residue foam with my spoon. “And more than that. It made me see that I had been holding on to something that only existed in my imagination.” I tap the side of my head as if the action would knock some sense into me. “It wasn’t real. There was no love. It was just a holiday fling. An Italian boy’s flirtation with a very naive American girl.”

“Why do you say that? It sounds pretty real to me.”

“Well, when it came to my last night we agreed to meet, as usual, on the old bridge. So, I waited. And when he didn’t show up I just kind of told myself that it… that he… did this all the time and he was probably at that moment kissing another girl with a sketchbook.”

“Or something major had happened to him?” Eleanor asks, finishing her cappuccino and replacing the cup on the saucer.

“I’ll never know.”

“You could ask him.”

“What? Are you crazy?” My voice comes out too loud.

“If it was me, I would want to know what happened that night. Why didn’t he show up, when all the time he… you and Gianni were falling in love? For him not to show up on your last night? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. But it’s too late now. This was years ago. He has probably forgotten all about it… Me, I mean. He is a very wealthy and successful businessman. Why would he remember something so fleeting and trivial?”

Chapter 20

Gianni

ThepaintingforMrsPeabody will be ready for collection tomorrow. Apart from this minor delay with the restorers, everything is going according to plan. It’s fortunate that Olivia is here because she can also take the other two panels with her to New York. Judging by the latest updates on international art websites, I anticipate they’ll be snapped up at auction, no trouble.

It’s a beautiful evening and I’m in no hurry. I sent Olivia a message earlier to say I was on my way to pick her up for dinner. I feel we have something to celebrate. As I cruise, with the top down, on the river road into town, the sky is turning from orange and pink to blue and purple. My vintage Alfa Romeo purrs to a stop at the Hotel Grande. Olivia is waiting for me in reception. There’s something different about her. I don’t know what it is. She looks tough and determined. But when she turns and sees me, she seems to soften.

“Buonanotte, Olivia. Are you ready?” We walk together to the car. “I have a table booked at one of my favorite restaurants on the riverfront,” I say as I open the car door for her. “It has a stunning view of the Ponte Vecchio. And on a night like this, it’ll be serene.”

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