“Oh, come on, it’s more like a favor. And no, you don’t know him. It’s someone I used to work with. The guest bedroom is upstairs, but I’d like you to sleep with me, okay?”
Olga wandered around the house, swearing once each couple of minutes, discovering new things. Amused, I watched her, thinking about what she’d say if she saw the Titan or the mansion on the slopes of Taormina. I took a bottle of Portuguese wine from the fridge, grabbed two glasses, and joined my friend upstairs.
“Come, I’ll show you something,” I said, climbing the stairs.
When I opened the door, she froze. We were on a beautiful, gigantic terrace taking up most of the roof. It had a table with six chairs, a barbecue, some chaises, and a four-seat Jacuzzi. I put the bottle on the table, pouring us the wine.
“Any questions?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and passing her one glass.
“What did you do for him to get that? Admit it. I know it’s not your style, but somehow I never got a crib with a roof terrace for fucking anyone.” She giggled, sitting in one of the comfy chairs. We covered ourselves with blankets and watched the flickering lights of downtown skyscrapers. Having people I loved around me did nothing to stop me from thinking about Massimo. Several times I even called Domenico, but he didn’t answer any of my questions, instead asking his own, wanting to know if I was okay. I liked listening to his voice. It reminded me of the Man in Black.
CHAPTER 13
When we woke up the next morning and got ourselves more or less in order, I felt surprisingly good. Standing in front of the mirror, I tried telling myself that I simply had to live my life—get all my matters in order and start forgetting about the weeks I had spent in Italy. We had breakfast, rummaged through my closet and the stuff we had bought yesterday, looking for something to wear in the evening, and headed to the spa.
“You know what? I think I want to have some real fun today,” I said as we left home. “Do we have a hairdresser set for today?”
Olga sent me a lordly look.
“Do you think I know how to do my hair on my own? Sure we have,” she said with a laugh as I locked the door.
Our visit to the spa was something of a ritual we indulged in every so often. Peels, massages, facials, nails, hairdresser, and finally makeup. When the time came for the penultimate point on our list, I sat down in the chair, and Magda, my stylist, rubbed a strand of my hair between her fingers.
“What do you want me to do, Laura?”
“Blond.” I said simply. Olga jumped on her chair. “A bob with the back shorter and the front a bit longer.”
“What?” Olga cried out so loud that all the other women turned their heads to look at us. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ve gone crazy!”
Magda laughed, running her hand through my hair. “It’s not damaged, so the hair should be fine.”
“You sure about that?”
I nodded and Olga collapsed back to the chair, shaking her head with disbelief.
Meanwhile, to make up for the delay caused by my whims, the makeup artists arrived and immediately went to work.
“Ready,” Magda said after two hours, looking satisfied with her work.
The effect was breathtaking. The color of ripe wheat complemented my sun-kissed skin and black eyes simply perfectly. I looked young, fresh, and tasty. Olga stood behind me, ogling me with one brow raised.
“All right, I was wrong. You look fucking awesome. Now come on. We have a party to go to.”
She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to the car.
We parked in my apartment’s underground garage and took the elevator upstairs. I pushed the key into the lock and turned it. I turned it twice, though I remembered locking it with only one rotation. After having a bottle of wine and changing into something less comfortable than our joggers, but at the same time infinitely better looking, we looked at ourselves in the mirror. We were ready.
For the night I picked a sexy black set: a high-waist pencil skirt and a tightly fitting long-sleeve short top. I left a two-inch gap between the top and the skirt, subtly exhibiting my stomach muscles. The outfit was topped off with black short-nosed stilettos and a studded clutch bag of the same color. Olga decided to emphasize her natural assets—large breasts and beautiful, full hips—by putting on a snug nude dress. She also wore high heels and grabbed a clutch bag, after throwing on some gold accessories.
“This night is ours,” she said. “Just keep an eye on me. I’d like to return home with you.”
I chuckled and pushed her outside, following in her wake. The biggest advantage of the life Olga was leading was that she knew most bouncers, managers, and owners of the local clubs.
We got into a taxi and drove to one of our favorite venues downtown. The Ritual, 12 Mazowiecka Street, where we used to eat and drink, and I’d like to say pick up guys, but I usually left that to my friend.
When we got out of the car, there were at least a hundred people queuing outside the club. Olga ostentatiously passed the whole crowd, making her way straight to the red line, and kissed the woman standing guard at the entrance.
She unpinned the rope blocking the passage inside, and later we were both in, greeted by the owner’s wife, Monika. She fastened VIP armbands on our wrists.
“You look gorgeous,” Olga said to the woman, who waved a hand dismissively, but smiled.
“You always say so.” The cute brunette laughed and shook her head. “That’s not going to stop me from buying you shots!” She winked at us and nodded for us to follow her.
We climbed the stairs and sat at a table. After instructing the waitress, Monika disappeared.
“Drinks are on me today!” I called, trying to outshout the music and pulling the credit card Domenico had given me from my handbag.
It was about time I used it. I only really needed one thing.
I waved at the waitress and ordered. A while later, she came back with an ice-filled bucket with a bottle of Moët Rosé. Seeing that, Olga jumped to her feet.
“Nice!” she cried, grabbing a glass. “What are we drinking to?”
I knew what I wanted to toast, and why I picked that specific champagne.
“Us,” I said, sipping.
I wasn’t drinking to me or to Olga. It was Massimo I was thinking about, and the 365 days that had never happened. I felt sad, but at the same time strangely calm—a part of me was accepting my new circumstances. After downing half the bottle, we went to the dance floor, moving to the rhythm, fooling around. My gorgeous shoes weren’t exactly comfortable, so after three songs, I had to go back to the table. On my way there, I felt someone putting their hand on my shoulder.
“Hi!” I turned around and saw Martin.
I jerked away and stood rigid, glaring at him hatefully.
“Where were you all this time?” he asked. “Can we talk?”
I could see the photos Massimo had shown me. Back then, all I wanted to do was to rip Martin apart, but I stopped caring.
“I have nothing to say to you,” I replied, and turned my back on him, heading toward my couch.
He wouldn’t surrender that easily, though, and a second later he caught up with me.
“Please, Laura. Just give me a moment.”
I sat down and glowered at him, sipping my champagne silently. That taste made me feel stronger.