Coco Chanel Saved My Life (2 page)

That same evening, I saw Niccolò. I think I made an impression on him. It had to be my tight jeans!

He came to pick me up. He opened the car door for me and then selected the perfect music. At the restaurant he ordered an incredible wine. I felt like his goddess. I wore a little black dress that was loose enough to hide some of my curves. He noticed my fantastic Sergio Rossi sandals and complimented me on my slender ankles.

“I'm crazy about shoes,” I confessed during dinner. “I have more than a hundred pairs.”

“Congratulations! A big collection,” he answered, slightly puzzled.

“I know, I could look like the typical woman who spends all her salary on high heels and sophisticated boots and goes to crazy parties every night wearing a different pair. Actually, I buy them and keep them in a stockpile because I never know when to wear them. Some are still brand new, never worn. Yet I like the idea they are there, waiting for me. I even think that some of them love me!” I laughed.

Being with Niccolò made me high.

“You're funny, Coco,” he said, letting me go on about shoes, even showing a certain interest. I felt comfortable and at the same time I felt as if I was in a dream. We talked all evening as if we'd known each other for years. I told him about my ex-fiancé, our misunderstandings and disagreements, how we feel vulnerable when we are betrayed. We discussed the ending of a love affair. He spoke of a relationship of his that ended the year before, the planned wedding that went up in smoke, of the returned gifts and the dog he left with her and how much he missed that puppy. He told me about his life as a single thirty-five-year-old in Milan.

He talked with a relaxed, warm voice. He looked at me, smiling from time to time. Listening to his past love life, his suffering, discovering his romantic side, made him even seem more sensual.

He was the perfect man for me. We discovered that we shared a similar taste and, not wanting to disappoint him, I lied in good faith. He liked rock music, electronic music and punk. Meanwhile I had grown up listening to Italian singers and song writers who spoke of romantic love. My friends and I used to play guitar and sing those songs. I used to watch all the Sanremo Music Festival finales on TV, betting with friends on the winner.

“Don't you like the Tools? And the Incubus?” He asked me.

“Of course!” I answered, although I didn't even catch their names. I hoped he wouldn't ask me which were my favourite CD's.

He loved American writers. I love Russian writers. But why should I have had disappointed him, when he was telling me the boring plot of Don Winslow's last novel in detail and with such enthusiasm?

I was ready to turn myself inside out for this man. If he had asked me to, I would had eaten only carbohydrates for dinner and worn plain beige underwear! I couldn't believe that Niccolò had dropped out of the sky to take care of my broken heart. I was so happy he found me attractive!

We ended our evening at Niccolò's apartment. The furniture had been selected with great taste. Every detail seemed ready to be photographed for a design magazine. I sat on the sofa and he put some music on. He looked into my eyes and said I was beautiful. I came closer and kissed him. This was heaven and I had conquered it. We made love for hours, naturally, without any embarrassment, as if we had known each other for a long time. Except for an irrelevant episode of quick sex with a drunk colleague during a meeting for gynaecologists, I had never betrayed Pietro. I was used to his body and his moves. With Niccolò everything was new, but he was able to make me feel comfortable immediately. He knew how to touch me, kiss me and what to say. We were perfectly in tune with each other.

Around 4 a.m. when I asked him to call a taxi, (Emma had warned me about the new singles trend of never spending the night at a partner's apartment, especially the first night) he asked me to stay. “I would love to make coffee for you later this morning.” I almost cried.

And now here I am. Niccolò and I will finally live in the same city. At Piazza Duomo I got out of the train to take the red line toward Porta Venezia. I walked slowly. My shoes were new and not really comfortable. I was wearing sexy tight white pants that made it hard to walk. I had on a white and blue striped t-shirt and wore the panama hat that usually brings me good luck.

Our rendezvous was at 5 p.m. at
Jack
. I had made a reservation, to avoid any risk of having to stand at the counter, squeezed in amongst the happy hour crowd. I thought to order champagne and enjoy the happiness in Niccolò's eyes when he heard my great news.

We had been seeing each other for one year. A year of romantic dining, a lot of wine, films, concerts and great sex.

Every two weeks I happily caught a train to Milan to join my ideal man for the weekend. A few times he came to Venice, and we walked among the canals, kissing on every bridge like two adolescents. I felt we were going to become a real couple. During the week – when we didn't see each other, we spent hours on Skype, talking about music and films, telling each other about our days and talking dreamily about the sex we'd had and imagining together the sex we would have in the future.

He introduced me to some of his friends and he met the closest friends of mine who had moved to Milan. Sometime we all had drinks together. He hugged me, kissed me and said to them with enthusiasm: “Aren't we great together?”

One day we met his father by chance and Niccolò introduced me as ‘my friend Rebecca.' At first I felt a little bit hurt. Then I understood this was a delicate matter. Parents are always sensitive about their children's love life, and actually we were very good friends. I didn't say anything. I just smiled and – although I had always hated the idea of marriage – for a moment I dreamed that his father would become my father-in-law.

It had been an intense year. We had arguments, misunderstandings, and even a brief estrangement. Niccolò was a passionate man, but also secretive, sensitive and very solitary. I had learned to give him space, to trust him. Rarely did I ask him what he did on the weekends we weren't together. I didn't want to seem controlling, insecure or jealous.

He thought I was a strong woman, self-confident and with a great sense of irony. I seldom let him see my many fragilities. I wanted appear the successful woman he expected and deserved.

I remember when one time after making love he told me: “I like your voluptuous body. You have the beauty of a Renaissance woman.” I felt paralyzed by that sentence. He touched my most vulnerable spot. My looks and my body were still my weakness, although he kept telling me I was fantastic. After hearing this, I forced a smile, but I was frozen. I locked myself in the bathroom to cry. Really, at that moment I couldn't stand him. I wished that his penis would shrivel up. Then I rinsed my face and returned to the bedroom looking imperturbable. I was repeating to myself like a mantra, I am a strong woman, I am a strong woman, I am strong woman… no silly comment about my looks can defeat me…

I was in love and forgave him everything, also the fact he didn't see my fragilities. Actually, I protected him from my faults, because this is what love does.

Sometimes, when we had dinner out, we played a game – we rated women in the restaurant on a scale from one to five. I gave the rating and Niccolò decided if he could seduce them or not.

“I have a great talent to make desperate women fall in love,” he confessed one evening when we were especially drunk.

“Congratulations!” I laughed, but somehow I was affected by his words. I never told him my true feelings. I wasn't a loser. I didn't want to scare him, to rush him. I was waiting for him to make the first move. I was waiting for him to be ready, to feel sure, to understand that he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

Yet in the meantime I applied to my company for a transfer to the agency in Milan. As soon as it was approved, I began to look for a small apartment to rent.

I hid all my plans from Niccolò. I wanted to surprise him. I thought he would be extremely happy.

*

The red line of the subway smelled horrible, like a cattle car. Standing, trying to keep my balance and not lean on anything so I could keep my white pants immaculate, I looked at my reflection in the window. I was making sure that my perfection didn't fade away in that stinking mess.

I got out at Porta Venezia. I stood a few minutes on the station platform looking for a mirror in my handbag. I checked my make-up – impeccable. I fixed my hat and my hair and walked toward the escalator.

My new shoes really started to hurt. Because of the heat, my feet had begun to swell. My stride was anything but sexy. I looked more like a constipated dinosaur than a pretty woman.

Just out of the subway station, I was assaulted by a blast of extremely hot air. I walked towards the bar with slow and unsure steps, smiling in order to hide the pain – almost like gangrene in my poor feet! Once inside, I collapsed on a chair exhausted and slowly, trying not to attract attention, I removed my shoes.

Niccolò arrived fifteen minutes late. He was beautiful, tanned, relaxed. He wore one of his elegant tailored shirts with the monogram initials that were one of the things that made me fall in love with him.

He came to the table, smiled at my bare feet and kissed me on the cheek. He joked, “Beautiful shoes!”

“Thank you. They're new and really hurt!”

“But it's worth it!”

“I think so.” I replied, not completely convinced.

“So, what's the reason for a sudden visit during the week? Did you miss Milan so much?”

“I missed you!” I gave him a smile of complicity and called the waiter to order our drinks.

In the past few weeks I had been very busy organizing my new life, so we saw each other much less. To obtain my transfer to Milan, I had to finish all my pending files and work at weekends.

“I have big news!” I said.

“Me too.” He replied.

“Good. Let's order two glasses of champagne.”

Niccolò stared into my eyes and suddenly seemed serious and curious.

“So, what's your big news?”

“I am moving to Milan!”

“How? When? What about your job?”

“I've been moved to a position in the agency here in Milan.”

“Wow, it
is
big news. Where will you stay?”

“I found a pretty, small apartment in Porta Romana neighbourhood. I'll move this weekend.”

“Unbelievable!”

“I would have wanted to find something closer to you, but the real estate market in the area didn't offer much. What was available is out of my budget! To see you I'll have to take the subway.”

“Well, once in a while you can make the effort…” He smiled.

“Once in a while? I'm afraid I'll have to do it every day!” I laughed and took his hand.

He pulled it away.

At that precise moment my stomach tied up in knots, almost as if I sensed danger approaching. Something was going wrong.

Niccolò stared at the corner of the table. “We must talk… about this.”

Here it was, the damn
Code
. The man I loved to death began to use the
Code
.

The
Code
is a series of words, sentences, ways to say things, gestures, looks, that couples use, sometime unconsciously, when things begin to go badly.

I can't give you what… It's not you, it's me. It's better for both of us. I can't see you this way any more. I can't do better. I keep disappointing you.
These are the timeless basics of the
Code
.

Niccolò chose a very banal, “we must talk…”

After those words an endless silence followed.

The waiter put our drinks on the table and I just stared at mine like it was a meteorite fallen from the sky. I couldn't raise my eyes. I took all the courage I had, swallowed, tried to remember I was a strong woman, a goddess, all that bullshit and looked up at Niccolò.“What do you want to talk to me about?”

He stared at me for a little too long, concentrating on my forehead and hair, then he had a sip of champagne and said:

“About Anna.”

“Who?”

“Anna. Your friend Anna.”

What the fuck did Anna had to do with me? Niccolò, the champagne, the reserved table, the unbearable heat, my new sandals that hurt, my running make-up, and my move to Milan?

“Anna?” I asked looking into his eyes.

“Yes, Anna.”

“Do you know Anna?”

“Yes, you introduced her to me a couple of months ago. We were at that boring book reading you dragged me to. She was there too. Don't you remember?”

Yes, I remembered.

Some friends organized a reading of short stories in a very nice small pub. We spent the evening drinking wine and trying not to laugh too hard. It was embarrassing, they were very bad. Anna came later and sat at the table next to us. I had known her for a few years. She was a friend of a dear cousin of mine with whom I spent many summers at a beach in the Marche region. Anna was a few years younger than me, tall, blonde, skinny, with a very sweet smile. Her features were so perfect that a touch of mascara was enough to make her look wonderful, while we common mortals need hours in front of the mirror. We cover our faces with layers of foundation, then powder and eyeshadow, blush, lipstick, to present the best possible version of ourselves.

That cursed evening I introduced her to Niccolò. They exchanged a few words, then talked a little more at the bar and eventually she left. And now I found her in the middle of a conversation that was taking a turn for the worse, while my champagne grew warm and I began to feel sick to my stomach.

“Ok, I introduced Anna to you two months ago, sure,” I said, trying to control the trembling of my voice. “But what does she have to do with us, right now?”

“Well… I don't know how to tell you this. We have always been a great
team
. You're a strong woman and I adore you for that. You are able to control your emotions, you're self-confident. You are not shy and not afraid of aging. I have been single for a long time, you know, I have become a curmudgeon. I am already thirty-six, not a kid any more…”