Three Weeks in Paris

  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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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 ey
es 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.”

  Fabrizio got up, walked over to the sofa, and said, “Come and sit here with me, let’s talk this out, little one.”

  He gave her an encouraging smile, and she smiled back, although the smile instantly wavered as she rose.

  Once she had joined him on the sofa, he took her hand in his and looked into her eyes lovingly. “Since you do want to go so badly, there is a way. However, it is going to be tough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First of all, let’s talk about your love of cooking. It is an enjoyable hobby, I know, but you do it because you are frustrated about many things.”

  “But I cook for you,” she protested.

  “That is true, but you also cook for yourself. You comfort yourself with food, Maria.”

  She did not say a word.

  Fabrizio continued: “If you’re going to go to Paris, then I suggest you lose some weight. You have a good three months to do that. You will look so much better, and you will feel better.”

  “Diets don’t really work for me,” she mumbled.

  “They would if you really stuck to them,” he shot back swiftly, giving her a penetrating stare. “You have to stop all of this cooking. Immediately. Cooking for me, for your friends, and most important, you’ve got to stop cooking for yourself.”

  “Do you think I could stick with a diet, Fab?” she asked, sounding suddenly hopeful.

  “I certainly do. I will take you to a diet doctor tomorrow, and she will put you on a regime that is suitable for you. Then you can enroll at my gym and start working out every day. Quite aside from your trip to Paris, and getting in shape to meet old friends, your health will benefit.”

  She almost visibly shrank back against the sofa and gaped at him, her eyes wide, her expression fearful. “I don’t think I could cope with everything all at once,

  Fabrizio.… ”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Oh, Maria, you can. I know you can.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes and she began to weep. “It’s too hard for me to diet and work out. And diet and work out. It’s so monotonous, and I’m always hungry.”

  “Then I suggest you cancel your trip to Paris, because you won’t enjoy the trip looking the way you do.”

  ————

  LATER, AFTER FABRIZIO had left, Maria stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at herself through self-appraising eyes.

  For the first time in several years she saw herself as she truly was. The blinders were off, and she faced reality. And finally she admitted that her brother was right. She had put on a lot of weight in the last few years.

  Yes, I’m fat, she said to herself. No, not just fat. Very fat.

  Staring at her body totally naked, she saw that she was huge, her arms thick from the shoulders down, her thighs wide, like the great hams hanging in her grandmother’s winter larder.

  She blinked several times as tears welled, and turned away from the mirror, filled with self-loathing. Reaching for her silk robe, she drew it on quickly and went and lay on her bed, pushing her face into the pillow.

  She let the tears flow, sobbing as though her heart would break, until finally there were no tears left in her. Exhausted, she lay there on the damp pillow, consumed by her longing to go to Anya’s party, her weight problem, and her current plight. What to do? What to do? she asked herself repeatedly.

  Fabrizio was correct. The ideal thing would be to utilize the next few months to get the weight off, but she was so afraid of failure and of the hardship of exercise and dieting, she was ultimately paralyzed. And she was aware that she would feel exactly the same tomorrow. She always gave up before she even started.

  Riccardo, she suddenly thought. It all began when they pushed Riccardo Martinelli out of my life. Closing her eyes, Maria looked back into the past, as if down a long, dark tunnel, seeing him standing at the end of it. How she had loved him, and he her, but her parents had considered him to be unsuitable, and they had broken up the love affair. He had gone away and she had never seen him again. Four years ago it had happened.

  That was when she had started to put on weight, after Riccardo had exited her life. One thing was true, she did eat for comfort and consolation. She pampered herself with food because she had lost him, because her parents and grandparents were domineering, always trying to control her, and also because she was desperately lonely. She hated her job, was sick and tired of designing textiles, found the whole experience constraining.

  Escape.

  That was what she really wanted.

  Permanent escape from Milan. From her family. From her job.

  But you can’t escape from yourself, Maria, she reminded herself, sitting up, pushing her hair away from her face. You have a big, terribly fat body that is ugly and ungainly, and no man is going to love you with your elephantine shape. You can’t blame the family for your eating, at least only indirectly. You and only you are responsible for what you put into your mouth.

  She thought of this over and over again as she sat propped up against the pillows, and then after a while she left her bed and went to sit at her Venetian-mirrored dressing table, staring intently in the looking glass.

  She saw herself as she really was; it was a beautiful face staring back at her. If only she did not have this awful body … all hideous rolls of fat. Everywhere.

  You can do it, she insisted in her head. You can lose weight. You have great motivation now. Going to Paris … to see Anya … to make friends again with Jessica, Alexandra, and Kay. And maybe if you get thin enough you can go and see Riccardo. She knew where he was, what he was doing; she knew he was not married.

  Perhaps her lover still yearned for her as she yearned for him. She wondered about this for a few minutes, then she got up, threw off her robe, and went again to stare at herself in the full-length mirror. She was gross. What man would want you with a body like this? she asked herself.

  Turning away in disgust, she wrapped herself in the robe and went through into the kitchen. Snapping on the light, she opened the refrigerator door; her hand reached in for the large slab of cheese. Instantly, she withdrew her hand, closed the door, turned away empty-handed.

  Slowly she walked back to her bedroom, vowing to herself that she would try to lose weight.

  PART TWO

  Doyenne

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ANYA SEDGWICK WAS SO STARTLED, SHE SAT BACK ON THE sofa and stared at her visitor seated opposite. There was a questioning look in her eyes, and her surprise was evident.

  After adjusting her back against the antique needlepoint pillows, she frowned slightly and asked, “But whatever made you do it so … so … impetuously?” She shook her head. “It’s not like you.… ” Her voice trailed off; her eyes remained fixed on his handsome face.

  Ni
cholas Sedgwick cleared his throat several times. “Please don’t be angry with me, Anya.”

  “Good heavens, Nicky, I’m not angry.” She gave him the benefit of a warm smile, wanting to reassure him, to know that he was still in her good graces. He was her favorite in the family, and although he was not her child, not even of her blood, she thought of him as a son. He was very special to her.

  “All right,” she continued. “You’re giving me a birthday party, and you’ve already sent out lots of invitations, which perhaps precludes canceling it. So you’d better tell me about it. Come along, I’m all ears.”

  “I wanted to do something really special for your birthday,

  Anya,” he replied, leaning forward with an eagerness that brought a boyish look to his face. “I know how much you enjoy Ledoyen, so that was my restaurant of choice. I went to see them and I’ve booked the entire restaurant for the evening. There’s going to be a cocktail period, then supper, and dancing afterward. And a few surprises as well, along the way.”

  “I’m sure there are lots of surprises in the works, knowing you,” she laughed.

  “So far I’ve invited seventy-five people, but we can have a lot more, double that amount, if you wish.”

  “Seventy-five already sounds a few too many!” she exclaimed, but immediately smiled at him when she saw his crestfallen expression. “I’m only teasing, Nicky. Continue, darling.”

  “After I visited the restaurant, did a tour of it, I was filled with all kinds of ideas for the party, and I suppose I got overly enthusiastic, very excited. I went ahead and created an invitation, which I had printed, and I had the calligrapher address the envelopes. Once they were ready, I posted them. But I panicked the day I put them in the mail. It struck me that I had preempted the rest of the family, that I took control, so to speak.”

  “As you usually do,” she asserted in a mild tone.

  He nodded; he was relieved she sounded so benign. She was obviously surprised by his actions but definitely not annoyed with him.