My mother’s eyes were bright and twinkly as she answered. “That’s very generous of you, Andrew. I hope you like meatballs.”
“Mom,” I said, shock plain in my voice. “You made me meatballs on a Saturday?”
She took her flowers and swept past me into the kitchen as if she hadn’t heard me this time. “When’s the last time you went to mass?”
I turned to Andrew and mouthed, “I told you so.”
Thirty-One
Andrew
Tristan was hunched over his laptop when I found him in the hotel bar.
“Don’t you like American women?” I asked as I took a seat. A hostess followed me over and slid a glass of Barolo onto the table. My taste for red wine had developed since being with Sofia. Soft, plump, and delicious—taking a sip was almost as good as kissing her.
Tristan shut his laptop and looked up. “Not as much as you, apparently. Why do you ask?”
“Just whenever I see you in a bar or restaurant in London, you’re chatting someone up, giving someone your number, flirting.”
Tristan shrugged. “I’m busy. When I’m this busy in London, you don’t see me.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Flirting is just a way for me to let off steam. A distraction. That’s all. Most of it never goes beyond that.”
“That’s because your game is terrible.”
Tristan laughed. “Okay, super-stud. If you say so.”
One of Tristan’s best qualities was he had skin like Teflon. Nothing much got to him—not even his closest friends roasting him on a regular basis. He had an inner confidence and didn’t give much of a shit what anyone else thought of him.
“Any news on Verity?” he asked.
I winced. “Not really. A potential wrinkle in the plan, but I’m sure we can flatten it out.” By Monday afternoon, I’d know either way. “If he’s prepared to sell, I want to move as quickly as possible.”
“And then what?” Tristan said, quick as a flash.
“And then I’ll own Verity, Inc. and I’ll be able to protect my grandmother’s legacy.” He must have heard this a thousand times before. Why was he asking?
“But how? You’ve never run a company for long, Andrew. And when you go into a business, it’s not to change their entire business model. Sure you might add in sales channels and close down divisions, shift strategy, but changing Verity, Inc. from a gossip rag back to a revered publication with an investigative journalism bent will be a challenge. Even for you.”
Tristan wasn’t stupid, so I didn’t understand why he was underestimating me. “I’m pretty good at what I do. Don’t you worry about me.”
There had been a nugget of doubt resting at the back of my mind about the turnaround of Verity, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Tristan. Not when I’d not allowed myself to think about it for long. Normally my goal was to make something profitable and sustainable in the medium and long term. It wasn’t usually to change course from unprofitable to really unprofitable.
“Have you even thought about whether you want to run a business long-term?”
What was Tristan doing tonight? Throwing darts and then when they hit, twisting them to see if he could catch an artery? “I don’t think I will. I’ll need to get in an MD.” I knew I couldn’t run Verity—it wasn’t in my wheelhouse. For me, going in to a failing business was like going into a zoo when all the keepers had gone home and left the cages open. It was up to me to herd the animals back into their pens and shut the doors. Then I had to clean up the mess they’d left before doors opened again. Once the first visitor arrived, it was game over for me. The day to day running of a zoo wasn’t what I wanted to do.
“So if you’re going to do it in the short term, do you know how you’re going to move from A to B—how you’re going to move from gossip to politics or whatever it will be? Are you going to shut down current operations, fire everyone, and start from scratch? Or are you going to spin off current operations into an online-only business under a different brand and then build Verity back slowly? I mean, what’s the plan?”
I had thought about the answers to Tristan’s questions but they hadn’t been my focus. All my energy had been channeled into getting Goode to agree to the sale. If he didn’t do that, there was no point in having a brilliant plan I couldn’t implement.
“I’m working on it.”
“Is Sofia the problem?”
I frowned and took a sip of my wine to unclench my jaw. Tristan was my friend. I had to remind myself he wasn’t trying to be provocative. “Sofia isn’t a problem.”
“You clearly like her.”
“Why would that be a problem?”
“As long as it doesn’t cloud your judgement, it’s not.”
Now he was really starting to piss me off. I set my glass down. “Women don’t cloud my judgement.”
Tristan nodded. “Okay then.”
He wasn’t going to elaborate? “Why would you think that?”
“Because it’s just not like you to try to trick someone into doing business with you.”
“But it’s like me to do everything I bloody-well can to get what I want.”
“You’ve never struck me as a man who’d compromise who he is to get what he wants. So something’s changed.”
“Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s ever been as important to me as getting Verity.”
“Getting it away from Goode, or making it a success? I’m not trying to be a dick here; I just think you’re not acting like yourself. Sofia seems great, and maybe she’s not the issue. But something’s off.”
Tristan was one of my best friends. It was his job to challenge me and take me to task when he thought something was wrong. I had to listen. He was right when he said I was supremely focused on getting my hands on Verity, and he was right that I hadn’t worked out in any detail what I wanted to do with it when I had it. I knew the end result. I just didn’t have the roadmap to get me there. I should have spent more time planning, but my lack of preparation had nothing to do with Sofia. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t be within touching distance of actually getting hold of Verity.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ve heard what you’ve said and I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He held up his glass full of who-knew-what. It was fucking green with a yellow parasol in it.
“What the fuck are you drinking?”
“I’m always trying what’s new. Don’t want to be like you, old and stale.”
“Fuck off.”
Tristan grinned like I just told him I loved him.
Thirty-Two
Sofia
Andrew had been borderline charming to my mother. For him anyway. He hadn’t snarled, had talked more than he usually did, and I’d even caught him smiling a couple of times while he glanced between me and my mom as she told me everything that had happened to every Italian-American on the island of Manhattan since I’d left for London. He’d helped clear plates and offered to wash up. That was never going to happen while my mother had a beating heart in her chest—not because Andrew was a man, but because he was a guest.