The Italian - Page 61
Why in the hell would the CEO of Valentino want to have coffee with me? I feel my nerves flutter just at the prospect. What would we talk about?
She laughs. “You’ll be fine and will hold a very important role in the company. Don’t be nervous, get excited. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
I inhale deeply as the challenge begins to light my fire.
“The Valentino designers are a nightmare to work with,” she says. My face falls. “But I’ll be working with you from Rome, so we’ll help each other deal with them.”
I smile, grateful for her honestly. “That sounds great.”
She pulls up a chair. “Now, let’s get to work.” She thinks for a moment. “There’s so much to learn, I don’t even know where to start.”
“The beginning?”
“Yes.” She smiles. “Let’s start there.”
* * *
I watch the steam float up to the ceiling in puffs. It’s hot, cloudy, and I’m wet with perspiration. I’m in my hotel sauna, wrapped in a white towel and lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling as I assess my life.
I moved to Italy to change myself.
But did I really think a new job and a new country would change my old habits? Because it hasn’t so far.
I’ve been in Milan for nearly a week. I’ve been working hard and am looking so forward to the career challenge, but I haven’t gone out at night once. Not that I’ve been asked, I guess. That old saying comes back to me.
If you always do what you’ve always done, you will always be where you always were. Something needs to change in my life. I need to change. I’m on the other side of the world and living the same way I was at home… alone.
Deep down, I know what the answer is, but it all seems so desperate.
Who am I kidding? I am desperate.
I’m twenty-fucking-nine and I haven’t had sex since that asshole in Rome. He turned me off men for life. Either that or his dick was so good that it satisfied me until now. It was definitely a dicking that I need to forget. I exhale heavily, annoyed with myself for being like this.
Fuck it.
I sit up in a rush and leave the sauna.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to do what everyone else does to meet people in this day and age.
I’m going to join Tinder.
If nothing else comes from it but great sex, that’s a whole lot of sex more than I’m getting now. Even average sex is better than no sex.
Screw these damn high ideals I have. Where have they got me so far?
Lonely and miserable.
I search through my bag, find my phone, and before I have time to think about it,
I download the app. I watch the dial click around as it downloads. Operation Meet People is underway.
Holy shit, here we go.
* * *
I sip my coffee and smile at my phone. I have to admit that this Tinder app is kind of fun and great for the ego. I’m getting lots of swipes, although that could totally be because men swipe anything with a pulse. I have a picture of myself from behind, and I put my name as Olly Reynard. That way, I’m not too out there. I’ve been speaking to this guy for a week. His photo is kind of hot, and he seems nice, albeit a bit pushy. He wants to meet on Saturday night in a bar, but it just seems so weird.
Could I really make myself turn up to a restaurant to meet a stranger? What the heck do you talk about? Talking to someone in texts is so different to sitting and having dinner with them. His message comes through. This is the tenth time he has asked.
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