Three Weeks in Paris (11 page)

In her opinion, it had been about nothing of any great consequence. The parting of the ways should have never happened … they had been at loggerheads with one another at one moment in time, and there appeared to be no other alternative but to go their separate ways. She had been upset after this break in the friendships, and at a loss, floundering a little without the other girls in her life.

Surely they would attend Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday party? How could they bear to miss it?

She hoped they would be there; she couldn’t wait to see them again, whether they wanted to see her or not. She was exceedingly curious about them and their lives. Having not heard from any of them for the last seven years, she couldn’t help wondering if they were married, divorced, had children or not. And she was equally interested to know if they had pursued the careers they had chosen, if they had been successful.

Seven years later there could be no animosity left, could there?
Perhaps
. Maria shrugged. One never knew about people; they could be very strange, as she knew only too well, and to her bitter disappointment.

Maria Pia Francesca Teresa Franconi, called simply Maria by her family and friends, fully intended to go to Paris to celebrate with Anya. In fact, she didn’t think about it twice.

Her reaction to the invitation had been positive, and she had already mailed the reply card, saying she would attend.

The invitation to the party, and the prospect of the trip, were the reasons her depression had fled; she was so buoyed up and excited, she could hardly contain herself. To her, the invitation was somehow like the spending money she had received every week when she was a child. Her grandmother Franconi gave it to her each Thursday, but she wasn’t able to spend it until the weekend, when her mother took her into Milan. And so the money had burned a hole in her pocket.

And she had done this in much the same way she had looked at her lire as a child, counted the money over and over again, then put her little purse in a very safe place. And she had hardly been able to wait until Saturday and her trip to the shops.

Quite aside from wanting to attend Anya’s party, Paris was Maria’s favorite place. And also, the idea of escape appealed to her enormously … escape from her domineering family, a job that bored her, a family business she had not the slightest interest in, and a personal life that was dull and uneventful.

She
was
going to go to Paris, and she fully intended to have a good time when she got there.

It would not be merely a weekend visit just to attend
the celebration. She planned to take her vacation in June, and she would stay in Paris for a week. Perhaps even two. Or maybe even three.

Three weeks in Paris
. The mere thought of it took her breath away. What a wonderful idea.

Now on this Thursday evening, almost a week since she had received the FedEx envelope, Maria was still ecstatic, as if she had inhaled some kind of high-octane gas. She couldn’t wait to tell Fabrizio about the party and the trip she was planning. Her brother was coming to dinner; he usually did on Thursdays if he was in Milan.

As it was, Fabrizio had been away for the past two weeks, visiting some of their clients in Vienna, Munich, and London. He was the head of sales in their company, Franconi and Sons, manufacturers of textiles par excellence since 1870.

With lightness and speed, Maria moved around the high-tech stainless-steel-and-glass kitchen in her modern apartment, checking the pasta she had just freshly made from her own dough, stirring the Bolognese meat sauce she had put in a glass bowl a few minutes before. Moving to the refrigerator, she took out the mozzarella cheese and tomatoes, began to slice these items. Once she had done so, she arranged them on two plates and added basil leaves. Later she would drizzle oil on top.

As she worked, Maria glanced out of the window, thinking what a pretty sky it was. Ink-black, filled with crystal stars and a perfect orb of a moon, it was without cloud tonight.

She could see from the delicate lacy pattern of the frost on the windowpane that it had turned icy outside. But then, it usually was cold in Milan in February.

Maria was glad Fabrizio was coming to dinner. She had missed him while he had been away. He was not only
her favorite in the family but her ally in the business. Not that she really needed one these days, since she was now twenty-nine and able to stand up for herself. However, he took her side whenever she had a strong opinion, and agreed with most of the major points she made at meetings. Her grandfather usually did not.

Frequently her father supported her, since he, too, saw the necessity for a number of their lines to be updated. This was something Maria continually fought for, but she was not always successful, much to her irritation.

In the years since she had graduated from Anya’s school in Paris, she had become one of the top designers at Franconi, and Fabrizio in particular was forever acclaiming her talent, giving her accolades for her textiles.

Deep down, she didn’t really enjoy her work anymore, feeling at times that she was in a rut. And her frustration forever got the better of her.

Thinking suddenly of this, she sighed under her breath, then immediately clamped down on these negative feelings, focusing instead on her brother. His arrival was imminent. This instantly cheered her up. Fabrizio enjoyed her cooking, and they usually had a good time together, no matter what they did.

Like her, Fabrizio, who was thirty-one, was single; like her, he was also forever being nagged at by their mother … marriage being the reason for the incessant nagging. Their mother and their grandmothers Franconi and Rodolfo couldn’t wait to bounce bambinos on their laps, and were therefore vociferous about this. In fact, none of the older females in the family let the two of them forget that they were in dereliction of their duty.

Their elder brother, Sergio, who would be thirty-four the following week, had been married and divorced and was childless. Obviously, he was beyond the pale as far as
the grandmothers were concerned; mostly this was because of his marital history, his taste for the fast track and flashy women.

Sergio was the heir apparent. But Maria knew that Fabrizio was the true favorite in the family. And she fully understood why. He was the best-looking. Tall, blue-eyed, and blond, he was a true Franconi in appearance, while she and Sergio were dark and took after the Rodolfos. Furthermore, Fabrizio was the smartest, the brightest, and he worked the hardest. Without even trying, he endeared himself to everyone. Even strangers quickly fell under his spell.

No blots on his page, she thought, smiling inwardly. Fabrizio was the star, and she did not resent this one bit. She loved and admired her brother more than anyone in the world. And she trusted him implicitly. He had two characteristics she put great store in: honor and integrity.

————

TEN MINUTES LATER
, Fabrizio stood leaning against the doorjamb of her kitchen, watching her as she finished cooking, sipping a glass of red wine, looking nonchalant.

He was filling her in about his trip, and she turned and smiled at him, glowing inside when he told her that it was her revamping and updating of their famous Renaissance Collection that was making such a difference to the company.

“The reorders are tremendous, Maria,” he explained. “And so I toast you, little one, for designing a line that has been such an extraordinary success.” He raised his glass.

Picking up her own goblet of red wine, she touched it to his. “Thank you, Fab. And won’t Grandfather be surprised? He was so against my ideas.” She laughed delightedly. “I can’t wait to see his face when you tell him.”

“Neither can I. Not only that, the customers were really singing your praises. They like what you have done with some of the other older styles as well. I told them I would be showing them a whole new line next season. A line not based on any of the company’s standards.”

“You did?” She stared at him, her dark eyes holding his.

“Yes. And so I am looking to you, Maria, to produce a collection that bears
only
your signature.”

“That’s quite a challenge! I’ll try.” She paused for a moment. “Fabrizio …?”

“Yes?” He stared at her alertly, detecting a new note in her voice. “You sound excited.”

“I am. I got an invitation last week to go to Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday party in Paris.”

Fabrizio stiffened slightly, although he endeavored to disguise this, and his face did not change when he asked as casually as possible, “And when is this party?”

“Early June.”

“I see.… ” He let his voice trail off noncommittally, wanting to hear what else she had to say.

“I’m going, of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve already sent in the reply card, accepting, and I plan to stay for two or three weeks.”

Her brother frowned. “Two or three weeks!” he exclaimed, and looked at her askance. “Whatever for?” This announcement
had
surprised him.

“Because I love Paris, and I want to have my summer holiday there.”

“But we always go to the house in Capri in the summer.”

“Not this year … at least I won’t be going.”

“
They
won’t like it.”

“I don’t care. I’m twenty-nine, almost thirty years old, and I think I can spend a vacation alone for a change. Don’t you?”

“But, yes, of course, you’re an adult.” He smiled at her gently, decided to say no more, and swallowed the rest of his wine without further comment.

Later, after dinner, he would have to tell her she could not go to Paris. He dreaded the thought.

MARIA WATCHED HER BROTHER SURREPTITIOUSLY, PLEASED
that he was savoring his food, obviously enjoying the dinner she had so painstakingly prepared for him.

After eating a little of the spaghetti Bolognese, which was one of her specialties, she then put her fork down and reached for her glass of red wine.

She took several swallows, then said, “I am feeling so much better, Fabrizio, much less depressed. I know it is receiving the invitation to go to the party that has cheered me up.”

Lifting his head, he looked at her intently, swallowing his dismay. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. But perhaps this change is really due to the way Father has been backing you and your ideas lately.”

“It’s nothing to do with work. Nothing at all!”

“All right, all right, you don’t have to get excited.”

“I’m not excited. I’m simply telling you the way it is. And I do know what makes me happy. The thought of going to Paris has been … very liberating these last few days.”

This was the last thing Fabrizio Franconi wished to
hear, and he took a few more forkfuls of the pasta before pushing the plate away. “That was delicious, Maria, and thank you, and you’re the best cook I know.”

“You’d better not let either of our grandmothers hear you say that,” she shot back, smiling at him. Then, rising, she took their plates out to the kitchen.

“Can I help you?” her brother called after her.

“No, no, everything is under control.” Maria returned a few seconds later, carrying a plate of warm cookies. “I didn’t make dessert, because you never eat it. But I did make coffee. Would you like a cup?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll savor my wine.”

“How was London?” she asked, sitting down opposite him.

“Cold and wet. But it was good to be back even for a few days. You know, I do have genuinely happy memories about my days at school there. I enjoyed that period of my life, my days at Harrow. Didn’t you enjoy your schooldays in England?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But to be honest, I loved the time I spent at Anya’s school so much more.” Her face changed, became animated as she added, “By the way, her birthday party is black tie. I’ll have to get a new evening dress, and I can’t wait to go shopping for something special.”

For a second her brother was silent, wondering how to begin. After a few moments of reflection, he said in a soft voice, “I wish you hadn’t already accepted that invitation, Maria. I think it was a little premature on your part.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice rising slightly. She had detected something odd in his voice, detected trouble brewing. “Oh, my God! You think Mother will interfere, that she’ll try to stop me going!”

“You know very well she won’t do that. You’re twenty-nine, as you just pointed out to me.”

“Then why do you say I was premature?”

He was silent, staring into his glass of red wine. When he looked up, his expression was unreadable. Very carefully, he began. “You know you can’t go to Paris because—” And then his voice faltered.

She stared at him.

He stared back at her.

The face he looked into was one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen. The face of a Madonna, worthy of being painted by a great artist. She had huge, soulful eyes as black as obsidian, clouds of thick glossy black hair falling to her shoulders, a perfect oval of a face with dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. And each feature was delicately and clearly defined as if carved from ivory by a master sculptor.

Maria’s eyes impaled Fabrizio’s as she murmured shakily, “
You
don’t want me to go because I’m so … heavy. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“I can’t stop you going if you want to go so badly. After all, to quote your friend Jessica, whom
you
are always quoting, you’re free, white, and twenty-one. But that is just my reason, Maria.
Jessica
. And also Alexandra and Kay. Three very good reasons why you ought not to go to Paris. You are not merely heavy, you are
fat
, and I know you will feel awkward and
humiliated
when you see your friends. Because they are bound to be as svelte and good-looking as they always were.”

“You don’t know that!” she cried, and then closed her eyes convulsively.
Of course he was right
. They would look gorgeous, she had no doubts about that. And she would feel like a beached whale, a big ball of blubber. Yet she wanted to go to Paris so much, she couldn’t bear the idea of declining the invitation, and so she said somewhat defiantly, “I can still go. I don’t care what they think.”