Paolo didn’t get in touch with him again.
Gian Lorenzo was about to dip a spoon into a pot of Oxford marmalade—another habit he had acquired from his father—when he saw the headline. The spoon remained lodged in the marmalade while he read the words a second time. He wanted to be sure that he ha
dn’t misunderstood the headline. Paolo was back on the front page, declaring it was “love at first sight—turn to page 22 for details.”
Gian Lorenzo quickly flicked through the pages to a column he rarely troubled himself with. “Gossip Roma, we give you the truth behind the stories.” Paolo Castelli, former captain of Roma, and the ninth richest man in Italy, is to marry again, only four years after the death of his little angel. “There’s more to her than meets the eye,” declared the headline. The paper went on to assure its readers that there couldn’t be a bigger contrast between his first wife, Angelina, a billionairess, and Gina, a twenty-four-year-old waitress from Naples, and the daughter of a tax inspector.
Gian Lorenzo chuckled when he saw Gina’s photograph, aware that many of Paolo’s friends wouldn’t be able to resist teasing him.
Every morning Gian Lorenzo found himself turning to Gossip Roma, in the hope of learning some new titbit about the forthcoming marriage. The wedding, it seemed, would be held in the chapel of the Villa Rosa, which only had enough space to seat a mere two hundred, so the guests would be restricted to close family and friends. The bride could no longer leave her little home without being pursued by a legion of paparazzi. The groom, they informed their readers, had returned to the gym, in the hope of losing a few pounds before the ceremony took place. But the biggest surprise for Gian Lorenzo came when Gossip Roma claimed—in an exclusive—that Signor Gian Lorenzo Venici, Roma’s leading art dealer, and old school chum of Paolo, would be among the fortunate guests.
An invitation arrived in the morning post the following day.
Gian Lorenzo flew into Venice on the evening before the ceremony and checked into the Hotel Cipriani. He decided a light meal and an early night might perhaps be wise when he thought about the previous wedding.
Gian Lorenzo rose early the following morning and took some time dressing for the occasion. Despite this, he still arrived at the Villa Rosa long before the service was due to commence. He wished to stroll among the statues that littered the lawn and become reacquainted with some old friends. Donatello smiled down on him. Moore looked regal. Miró made him laugh, and Giacometti stood tall and thin, but his favorite remained the fountain which graced the center of the lawn. Ten years before he had removed each piece of the fountain, stone by stone, statue by statue, from a courtyard in Milan. Bellini’s The Escaping Hunter looked even more magnificent in its new surroundings. It gave Gian Lorenzo particular pleasure to see how many other guests had also arrived early, clearly with the same thought in mind.
A single usher in a smart dark suit walked among the guests suggesting that they might like to make their way to the chapel as the ceremony was about to begin. Gian Lorenzo was one of the first to heed his advice, as he wanted to be well placed to watch the bride make her entrance.
Gian Lorenzo found a vacant seat on the aisle about halfway back that would allow him an uninterrupted view of the proceedings. He could see the little choir in their stalls, already singing vespers accompanied by a string quartet.
At five minutes to three Paolo and his best man entered the chapel and walked slowly down the aisle. Gian Lorenzo knew he’d been a well-known footballer, but he still couldn’t remember his name. They both took their places by the side of the altar, while Paolo waited for his young bride to appear. Paolo looked fit, tanned and trim, and Gian Lorenzo noted that women still stared at him with adoring eyes. Paolo didn’t notice them and a grin that would have excited comment from Lewis Carroll never left the bridegroom’s face.
There was a buzz of expectation as the string quartet struck up the opening chords of the Wedding March, to herald the entrance of the bride. The young woman walked slowly down the aisle on the arm of her father, and drew intakes of breath as she passed each new row.
Gian Lorenzo could hear her approaching, so he turned to look at Gina for the first time. How would he respond, when asked to describe the bride, to someone who hadn’t been invited to the ceremony? Should he emphasize her beautiful long, thick, raven hair, or possibly comment on the smooth olive texture of her skin, or even add some remark about the magnificent wedding dress that he remembered so well? Or would Gian Lorenzo simply tell all those who inquired that it had become immediately clear to him why Paolo had declared that it was love at first sight. The same shy smile as Angelina, the same bright enthusiastic twinkle in her eyes, the same gentleness that was clear for all to see, or was it, as Gian Lorenzo suspected, that the journalists would only report that she fitted snugly into Angelinas old wedding dress—the yards and yards of silk forming a magnificent train behind the bride as she walked slowly toward her lover.
The End