Backlight, page 12
The January evening was bitterly cold; wind whipped down from the mountains through the streets of Milan, and though it wasn't far to Ratana, she decided to drive. She deserved it, after so many weeks waiting for the tram in the cold. And before that, she thought, all the rainy nights in strangers' cars. She could buy her own gas, pay her own insurance, she deserved to drive her own car on a cold night, even if it was barely five minutes. She left her house early, eager for the dinner to begin, anxious to arrive before Bruno. Everything seemed to matter. Everything she did would prove how serious she was about getting back to work.
She arrived ten minutes before seven, the earliest she'd ever set foot in a restaurant. She gave the hostess her name, sat at the table to make sure it wasn't too noisy. The traffic patterns of the waiters and busboys wouldn't distract her, she'd have enough room to spread out her papers. She pulled a compact from her handbag and checked her lipstick again, smoothed an errant eyebrow into submission, and blinked twice. She looked nice. Not phenomenal, not gorgeous, not stunning. Just nice. And that was exactly what she wanted.
She ordered a bottle of sparkling water and laughed to herself a little. All this for what, €5000? She'd walked away from twenty-seven million, wearing the same suit, and here she was, early to a dinner reservation for a fraction of that money. It wasn't about the money. Just like it hadn't been about the money with the trust, it wasn't about the money now, with Bruno. It was about having someone who believed in her. It was about showing herself she was the kind of person who deserved investment. It was about being strong enough to ask for what she needed, rather than slipping into oblivion.
When she lifted her water glass, her hand shook. It was okay to be nervous. Nervous meant she cared. And she had tried so hard for so long not to care, to delete the caring from her system, to be the kind of person too cool to care. She was finally glad for it. Glad for the warm wetness that stuck her blouse under her arms, glad for the skipped beat of her heart every time she looked up at a passing man in a suit, thinking her hour had finally come.
And then he came. God, that was the thing about Bruno. Some days he'd be wearing a navy suit, some days it would be grey, but if there was one thing she could count on it was that he'd walk through the door, glasses and tie, dull banker's haircut, prompt if not early. He always showed up. It had never mattered to her before, but it did now.
She smiled and stood to greet him.
"Thanks," she said as she pecked each of his cheeks.
"But this place is nice."
"It's cool, right?" Not that cool mattered, she thought. But looking around at the restaurant's bright molded chairs and neon installation art, cool was the first thing that came to mind. Nice. Bruno had said nice. What did nice even mean anymore? She wasn't sure she knew.
"Will you choose a wine?" she asked.
"I've got an early day tomorrow—"
"Oh, no, I understand. I’m not going for a trifecta. Will you choose a nice wine we can enjoy through the whole meal, not in excess?"
He laughed. "I suppose we're even now, after what happened in Capri. I tossed you off a scooter so it's only fair."
She wanted to laugh, too, and tell him that what she remembered about that night in Capri was not the scooter accident, but the kiss that preceded it. But she set that aside, in a far-off place where she didn't dare dream or disrupt her goal for the evening. She wanted to prove she was a capable adult. A businesswoman.
"You always know the best wines." She settled on a generic compliment. "Which we will enjoy in moderation."
"Giulietta gave me the broad strokes," Bruno said once he'd ordered a bottle of Amarone, which was within her budget. "She said you'd have the details."
"I'm changing the way that I work," she said, pulling a folder from her handbag. "I'm trying to promote underserved parts of the fashion community and work more with emerging technology." She passed him the folder.
"This is you," he said, flipping through the pages.
"This is me."
"You did all this?" He held up the page with her cash flow chart.
"I took a class. Online."
"Do you have samples of your work?"
She pulled another folder out. "These are just a couple things I've done recently. My CV lists everything from before—the magazine covers and global ad campaigns. But my new approach will have a different perspective, so these shots are better examples of what to expect going forward. These are corrected versions of what you saw with Giulietta."
He studied each in turn, pausing on the one where she stood by the frozen canal, Leo at the edge of the frame.
"It's beautiful. She's so—I don't know, you've captured something in her."
"There's an old Antonioni film—Il Deserto Rosso—with Monica Vitti, about the environment, and there's a still from that that I had in mind. Let me see if I can find it—"
"Don't bother. I know what you're talking about. She's with her child, walking on the road."
"Yes, that's the mood I wanted. But instead of the focus being on the external environment, I wanted it to be on her internal conflict. Which is a lot to expect from a picture, particularly when it's primarily for commercial purposes, but I think it's important for you to know my thought process."
"You speak very well about your work."
"Thank you." She paused and sipped her wine. "It's important to me."
"But this one—" he held up her Christmas Day self-portrait, the nude in the mirror.
She blushed. "I wasn't going to include that. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. But I think it's important—that was when I decided I needed to move on, it represents my new perspective." She squinted at the picture. "You can't see anything, anyway."
"I think you can see a lot." He took off his glasses and cleaned them.
She snatched the print away from him. Boundaries, she thought. She’d imposed herself on him again. She should have excluded the photo, but she believed it represented her turning point, and in a way, she was proud of it. Nothing left to hide.
"Let’s refocus,” she said. “I'm developing a roster of new clients that's focused on diverse designers, I'm expanding my services to include more digital, rather than focusing on print publications, and I'm committing time to work with youth arts programs in the community and expose underprivileged kids to photography. All of these initiatives will make me a better photographer."
"What about your old clients?" He skimmed down the lines on her CV. "Tod's, Prada, Vogue, Bazaar, et cetera?"
"There's a possibility that after everything that's happened, they won't hire me back. With this proposal, I wouldn't need them to."
"Everything that's happened?"
"I wasn't as committed to my work as I should have been. And I lost some lucrative contracts in the Middle East based on my lifestyle decisions." She looked him straight in the eye. That's not going to happen again, she meant. I'm owning up to my mistakes.
He broke her stare and sipped his wine. "Well, this is intriguing. And you're looking for—?" He flipped through the folder once more.
"I know Giulietta primed you for more, but I only need €5000. Just to get up and running. You'll see on this page—" and she reached to pull out a chart "where the initial investment goes, and then the projected return based on the three-year plan. Basically, you'll own two percent of me."
"Only two percent?"
Francesca had thought to offer ten percent, but Giulietta talked her out of it. “Haven’t you ever seen Shark Tank?” she’d asked. “Ten percent is extreme. You’d need to take a hundred thousand to give him ten percent. Start at two.”
"That's pretty generous, considering I'm only asking for €5000. I'm making you an offer you can't refuse."
"Why are you only asking for €5000?"
She shrugged. "That's all I expect I'll need. I ran the numbers. My overhead is low, I've been working without an admin and I can pick up some of these secondary school students as interns, especially if my work is more local. They'll be paid, but it's only several hours a week. I set up a studio in my dining room. I'm not going to be buying business-class tickets to Bali anytime soon, so I can focus on reinvesting my profits into the business. But at the moment, I need cash for little things like client lunches and software upgrades."
He smiled. "So technically, I'll be paying for this dinner, anyway."
"Technically, that's likely. But physically, no, I am absolutely buying this dinner." She lifted her glass. "Can we toast to a new opportunity?"
"I'm going to need some time to think about it," he said. Her face fell as she set her glass back on the table. Who goes home to think about €5000? After he spent as much on a Christmas present for a girlfriend who dumped him?
"I'm just kidding," he said, seeing her crestfallen reaction. "Of course, let's toast. To your business, and a new partnership."
He clinked his glass against hers, and the glimmering sound matched her optimism.
Chapter Four
Bruno transferred the money the next morning. He'd drawn up papers, quick legal documents detailing the nature of the investment and the share in her business he would receive. She filled out the form and clicked the e-signature and it was official.
Francesca had discovered online banking and linked her bank account with simple accounting software to keep track of her finances. She made notes on her calendar when payment was due from clients and followed up with a friendly phone call if she didn't receive the check or Venmo. But Bruno's money gave her a cushion. She didn't have to worry about her credit card being declined at a restaurant. She could pay for her online photography courses. She could setup transfers from her business account to her personal account to draw a salary. She remembered, through the haze of time, Timo's insistence on a bookkeeper, but it was easy enough to do herself. She liked the feeling of responsibility.
And though she’d initially been resistant, the arrangement with Bruno helped her wrap her head around their relationship. Business had its own set of boundaries. Business was a boundary she could enforce with herself. She could understand the right way to behave.
She planned to send Bruno quarterly statements, somewhere between a balance sheet and a progress report, so he could see where she was going. How she'd turned his small investment into a small business. At night she came home and worked on her website, creating an online portfolio, even starting a blog where she showed outtakes from shoots and spotlighted her new clients. Her evenings were quiet, anchored by the fulfillment of working on something that was hers. Something that brought out the best in her.
"I owe you more than just lunch," Francesca said. They were back at sushi; her lunch date with Giulietta had become a weekly event. "Your photos have made all the difference."
"And your new investor?"
"The deal is done, as of yesterday. It feels good to be back at work."
"Well, I'm glad I could help."
"It was more than help, Giulietta. You rescued my career."
Giulietta petted her hair. "If you say so. It was about time someone did." She picked up an edamame pod. “Can I run something by you?”
“Of course.”
“I want to do something. It was a surprise to all of us when Ricci—that he—” she faltered, and Francesca reached for her hand. “Maybe if we’d known better, we would have recognized some warning signs.”
Francesca chewed at her bottom lip. She had never told Giulietta about the unanswered phone call. The one big warning sign she’d ignored.
“Maybe,” she said.
“What if ordinary people could learn to be interventionists?”
“I don’t know if ordinary people want to be interventionists,” Francesca said.
“If you knew it could save someone’s life. If you were on a shoot, say, and noticed a model who was behaving strangely and you knew, from training, that the behavior she was exhibiting could be dangerous or lead to self-harm, wouldn’t you want to help?”
“When you put it like that, of course. But that seems like a lot to know.”
“Are you familiar with bystander training? They do it now in the States to help ordinary people stand up to bullies, people who are making racial threats, that sort of thing.”
Francesca crinkled her nose. “It sounds familiar.”
“What if we did it for specific communities, so that when people are in crisis they always have a point of contact who’s trained to help them, or to find the proper help for them? Don’t you think that would be useful?”
“Of course it would be useful, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Francesca said.
“I want to start a foundation. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, since—well, since I needed something to occupy my mind at night. I want to do something that honors Ricci but makes a difference, so that other people don’t have to live this hell.”
Francesca nodded. “Whatever you need, I’m with you. I’ll help you with all of it.”
“Promise?”
“G, it’s brilliant.”
“So you’ll do whatever I need you to do?”
“Yes, silly, although I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. I’ve been going to group meetings for a few months now, so I know a little bit about how support communities function, but I think you’d want more of an expert—”
Giulietta cut her off. “It’s the money. Your inheritance.”
“You know what happened with that.”
“I need you to get it back.”
“You’d be better off just asking Marco to give it to you. You know I signed the papers. There’s no legal way to reverse it.”
Giulietta shook her head. “I want you to be invested in this, Francie. I want everyone involved—it’s going to be the Garancini Family Foundation, we’ll have all the money we need once it gets off the ground. That’s the great benefit—we’ll be able to operate on a scale large enough to make a difference, with money from Marco and Anna and Ale—but I want to know it means something to you. I want to know you’d do it for him.”
She swallowed hard, and Francesca saw the tears welling in her determined eyes.
“Whatever you need, Giulietta. I’ll figure it out.” She ate a fat, buttery piece of yellowtail, too excited by Giulietta’s enthusiasm to be deterred by the enormity of her task.
“I’m confused, though. You had me borrow €5000 from Bruno to start my business, but you want me to get €27,000,000 back from Uncle Marco for your foundation?”
“Our foundation, Francie. That’s what’s going to make it ours. And that’s probably the only reason he would reinstate your trust. And admit it, you need to learn how to work a little.”
FRANCESCA SCHEDULED herself to be in the neighborhood on Wednesday afternoons so she could be at her group meetings on time. It had become easier to show up; she listened closely to the new people and nodded in recognition, she shared her progress on boundaries, her newfound celibacy. In truth, she was too busy to have sex with strangers. Instead of going out at night, she collapsed into bed, the familiar fatigue of a hard day’s work tethering her body to the sheets.
And after Giulietta had mentioned the foundation, she began asking questions, too.
“Some of you may know my brother committed suicide,” she began. “A few months ago. I think that was part of my behavior—I didn’t know how to process his death. I saw myself as the fuck-up; I felt like it should have been me. My question for all of you is if you’ve ever considered suicide. I hope that’s appropriate to ask here.”
The social worker cleared her throat, and Francesca thought maybe it wasn’t appropriate at all. “I want to remind you all that everything in this room is between us, alone, but if you express a wish to commit self-harm I am obligated to provide you with resources.”
“It was an awful question, I’m sorry—” Francesca said, but she was interrupted by a woman who had started attending a few weeks prior.
“Of course I did.” Her words created a vortex in their circle, and everyone was riveted to her. A woman Domenica’s age, in her sixties, someone’s mother and grandmother. “I wanted to die, and he came so close to killing me, I thought I could just finish the job. It’s not like anyone would have missed me.”
Francesca had stopped breathing. The social worker started to interrupt again, some palliative words about everyone having value, but Francesca just heard a high-pitched tone in her ears.
“I’m glad I found another way out,” the older woman said, cutting through the ringing.
“So did I,” said Andrea.
Regina nodded. All around the circle, the group members began to agree. Yes, I considered it. Yes, I’m still here. Francesca reached for Regina’s hand, and the hand of the woman on her other side, and soon they were all holding hands in their circle.
THE CLOSENESS OF THE support group and its influence reminded Francesca that she’d once had other friends, too. Like Valeria. Selim hadn’t been interested in meeting her friends and had monopolized her time, though Val’s pregnancy hadn’t helped. Seeing Val at Ricci's funeral had been one of the few things that got Francesca through that day—a person who was there just to support her. She'd missed that friendship.
"Are you around for a glass of wine sometime this week?" Francesca asked when Val picked up the phone.
"You must have ESP, I was just about to text you. Yes and yes, but at our house because we're doing game night!"
"Is that a thing?"
"This will be the first time. My parents are going to take Flavia for the night, and if it goes well, I'm hoping they can help us out every couple weeks."
"Val, that's amazing. Do you think she'll be okay without you?"
"The books say she's old enough. And my parents are so good with her—especially my dad. She loves him. I need the break, honestly. This is giving me something to live for. You remember how much I used to love to plan dinner parties?"
