‘She needs to be looked after...’
‘Has she ever travelled? Been out of the country?’
‘Never, though Mae, God rest her soul, did try. Even got her a passport. Used to tell Louisa of her adventures when she was a young woman. Encouraging her to go on her own. She never did.’
Matteo glanced over at the ambulance. No wonder Louisa was reluctant to leave Easton Hall. She didn’t know what kind of world was out there waiting to be explored. With the money he was prepared to give her, she could do anything she wanted. An idea struck him. Louisa was trapped in an existence steeped in the past, yet she was a young woman with a big future in a wide world.
Whilst she might not believe him, he simply needed to show it to her.
Louisa sat in the back of a large black car. The luxury vehicle easing through the glaring, crowded streets of Milan. How could it have been only days since the storm and fire? That time had seemed to pass in a complete blur. All the while, Matteo had been there. Taking charge, taking control. Calmly talking to staff about what would happen until Easton Hall could be properly assessed. How their wages would be protected. Sourcing a replacement passport because hers was trapped in a house they couldn’t now enter till it was deemed safe.
Then he’d simply told her she was coming with him, bundled her into a private jet and flown her to one of his luxury hotels in northern Italy.
She’d tried to marvel at the flight, her first. The sky, so vast. The clouds like spun sugar in the sky. Yet it was as if she were cut adrift, having lost everything safe and familiar. Sitting in the back of the ambulance had brought back memories, taking her to dark places she hadn’t been in years. The nightmares she’d once suffered regularly, returning. Yet she didn’t have her sketchbook with her to draw them when she woke, to take away their power.
She took a deep breath. The lack of her art things carried a greater worry, that she’d fall behind on her illustrations when she had a contract to fulfil. A deadline, and Louisanevermissed those. She’d tried to explain that to Matteo as well, yet he’d simply waved away her concerns. Said that he’d look after her. Told her to have some time off and have fun, when Louisa was convinced they had different meanings for the word. Like today, when he’d arranged a personal stylist to come and take her to buy clothes, on his account. They’d sourced a few simple dresses in the UK before leaving, but, with everything else trapped in the house, even she could see that she needed more.
‘Milan is the city of fashion,’ he’d said, as if that meant anything to her. The woman sitting next to her in the soft white leather seats seemed to understand the assignment. Elegant to a fault with glossy, smooth chocolate hair. A sharp black suit. Vibrant, multicoloured silk blouse with a stylishly asymmetrical bow at the neck. Barely there make-up. Long, manicured nails.
A picture of perfection, who’d seen Louisa, pursed her lips, looked her up and down. Then nodded once and simply said, ‘Come with me.’
No conversation about what she might like. Nothing. Now Louisa’s belly churned as if it were full of snakes. Why did she feel so...judged? Her needs were simple. Maybe Matteo had said something when arranging the day? Perhaps that he’d found her in some way lacking? Though why that should even matter, she couldn’t be sure.
He was the enemy. Trying to take away her home. She shouldn’t care less about what he thought of her. Should she?
They pulled up outside a building fronted with smooth cream marble. Windows of glistening glass. Gleaming gold accents. No name on the shopfront. A man in a dark suit opened the car door and she followed the stylist out into the harsh summer sunshine. The humidity of the day draped over Louisa like a damp blanket. Likely making her hair frizz, the floral cotton of her pretty dress crinkle and hang limp.
It didn’t seem to affect the woman she was with, who still looked crisp and cool as though she’d just stepped from a freezer. Cutting her way through the throng of tourists on the footpath who parted in her wake, whereas Louisa felt hemmed in, pressed on all sides.
She scurried to catch up, dodging a couple who’d stopped in front of her to take photographs, as the stylist strode through the door of the shop. Dagger-sharp heels, clicking staccato on the marble flooring as she entered. Leading Louisa through the back to a kind of showroom with plush couches, champagne on ice and racks of vibrant clothes. A couple more perfectly presented women entered. Assessing her. She spied herself in a wall of mirrors. Long red hair curling at the ends. No make-up. Floral cotton dress. Ballet flats.
‘Please take a seat.’
She was guided to a couch, handed a glass of champagne. Some strawberries. She didn’t want the champagne right now, although the berries looked delicious. She put the glass down as a conversation in Italian swirled round her. Talkingabouther, she was sure.Shebit into a strawberry and a burst of juice exploded from the luscious fruit, dripping onto her dress. Leaving a blot of pink on the fabric as she was being...studied.
‘Can I please have a napkin and some water to clean this before it stains?’
‘You won’t need it. A man like Signor Bainbridge has certain...requirements for a woman and how she’s dressed,’ the woman said to her. Louisa wasn’t sure of her name. They hadn’t even really been introduced. She’d just swept in like a perfect, perfumed tidal wave and washed Louisa away with her.
‘He does?’ Louisa couldn’t understand. Wasn’t this trip about clothes for her? Why should Matteo care what she wore? Although he was paying, which didn’t sit right, but that was another thing he simply waved off in his imperious kind of way.
‘Of course. We will cater for all of them here. We have many ideas for you.’
What about her ideas for herself? She knew what she needed, what she wanted. What she liked. Though she supposed these people were professionals. She could sit back. At least it was cool here, out of the sunshine and the humidity.
They began taking clothes from the racks, holding them up for her. Suits as sharp as theirs. As sharp as Matteo’s own. Black, a colour she swore she’d only wear to a funeral. Bejewelled dresses with plunging necklines. Crystal-covered stilettos when she’d never worn a pair in her life and would likely break a limb or her neck if she tried. Nothing looked likeheror felt like her style, at all. She was happy to try something new, but this? She kept shaking her head as the assembled women’s lips thinned, eyes narrowed, brows creased.
‘Whatdoyou like to wear?’ one of them asked.
She waved her hands up and down her body. ‘Dresses a bit like this. I also wore vintage clothes at home. I felt...pretty in those.’
‘And what if you were to go to a formal dinner? A cocktail party? Accompany Signor Bainbridge on a business lunch?’
‘I—I’m a children’s book illustrator. Why would I go to anything like that?’
They all muttered amongst themselves. Seemed to change tack. Out came underwear. Filmy lace. Embroidery. Barely there. Beautiful. But how would it even look on her andwhy? Something uncomfortable prickled at the back of her neck. A heated sensation that was part unpleasant and part sliding temptation. Did they think...?
‘I’m not Matteo’s lover.’
