What the focaccia, p.24
What the Focaccia, page 24
Half an hour later the three of us set off up the hill for Operation Sabotage like something out of Sex and the City, Zhané in five-inch heels and a ruched cream silk dress, Flora in an emerald green suit and chunky gold jewellery and me in my glittery jumpsuit.
Several rows of chairs have been set up in an auditorium-style seating arrangement in the Casa dei Cappelli, a raised block with a lectern assembled opposite as part of a makeshift stage set at the front of the room. The space is awash with people, most of them villagers curious to see Mariela Marino’s lifeworks rather than being here as serious buyers if hearsay is anything to go by, although the auction has clearly attracted the interest of some seasoned connoisseurs – a woman with crystal-framed reading glasses hanging around her neck on a thread of pearls was deposited just outside the front door by taxi and judging by the way she is flicking through the catalogue of items and punching guide prices into a pocket calculator, she means serious business, but maybe not nearly as serious as the smartly dressed man in a turban who stands amongst a team of professionals at the back of the room, scrutinising each piece like a magpie picking through treasure.
‘Cinque minuti,’ a voice booms over the speaker.
People take to their seats, the butcher, the baker and Francesca’s assistant from the village pharmacy heading to the front row, where they sit fanning themselves with the auction catalogue. Valentina is nuzzled up against Flavio, her hands all over his torso as he helps himself to a steady stream of sugared almonds. Behind them, sit their mothers – Giuseppina separated from Francesca by the two bartenders, Enzo and Riccardo from Ciccone’s and the village priest, who wears not one, but two strings of rosary beads today.
Maria occupies the seat at the end of my row. She wears a sleeveless navy-blue shift dress, showing off slender, toned arms and effervescent skin.
‘How can someone so pregnant look so effortlessly stylish?’ Zhané whispers to me. ‘Honestly, when I was eight months gone with Leo, I just looked like a giant beachball.’
‘She’s nothing short of an Italian goddess,’ Flora agrees.
Maria sees the three of us and waves.
‘And she’s really nice,’ I concede.
Zhané lets out a sigh deep from within her lungs. ‘Some women just have it all.’
As the room fills further, Zhané and Flora busy themselves handing out leaflets Signor Zaccardi has had printed about the history of the building, whilst Marco records the arrival of guests with a handheld tally counter. I am, meanwhile, too nervous to talk and sit in the front row in a cold sweat, wondering how all of this is going to pan out. It doesn’t help that my friends keep sneaking little looks at each other and behaving peculiarly – they were clearly up to something earlier when they nipped off to buy stamps and didn’t come back until half an hour later, the Post Office only a stone’s throw away. I’m not sure what they’re scheming, but it’s certainly not putting me at ease.
It’s several degrees hotter up here than it is down in my studio below and the standing fan that has been plugged in next to the stage area is doing nothing but circulate warm air. I watch as the room fills further, people snaking up the stairs and packing in tightly against the wall at the back, hundreds of pairs of eyes ready to marvel over the Mistress of Millinery’s finest creations. Goosebumps spring up over my skin as a woman dressed in clinical white mounts the dusky pink pillbox hat that was designed for the late Princess of Monaco atop the auctioneer’s cushioned stand, angling it in a way that shows off the oversized taffeta silk bow, its silver lining catching the light. My heart races. Mariela Marino’s collection may be about to go under the hammer but it feels as though it is going under the knife.
I search the room for Signor Zaccardi but can’t see him anywhere. He looked pale and withdrawn when I saw him earlier, his eyes red and puffy and the large handkerchief he carries around in his pocket tightly balled in his fist. Maybe the whole thing is too much for him. A trickle of sweat runs down my spine and the underwires of my bra start to itch.
‘Signorella e signori, la vostra attenzione per favore. Posso presentarti Signor Bergamaschi.’
The energy in the room changes, an aroma of cedar and sandalwood filling the air, and adrenaline shoots through me as Raffa prances up the makeshift aisle in a crisp white shirt tucked into tight-fitted indigo jeans, one of his grandmother’s pinstriped trilby hats perched on his head. His amber eyes lighting up the room, there’s no denying that he possesses achingly good looks and is in peak physique – it’s no wonder I took a shine to him.
Taking to the stage with an athletic leap, he clutches a pack of coloured cue cards in one hand and takes the microphone in the other. My throat tightens and the back of my neck starts to feel clammy, the churning of my stomach only settling when Zhané and Flora appear either side of me like protective bodyguards.
‘Is that him?’ Zhané whisper-hisses.
I nod, speechless.
‘He’s super confident,’ Flora says with a look of disdain.
‘He’s super twatty,’ Zhané adds.
I fidget in my seat, wondering whether he has spotted me.
‘Signore e signori, benvenuti nella Casa dei Cappelli. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the House of Hats. My grandmother, Mariela Marino, better known as the Milliner of Milan, would be thrilled that so many of you are here today.’ Raffa clears his throat, his amber eyes darting around the room as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and drinks in his audience. ‘The pieces that you’re about to see are some of the most beautifully made hats in the world, so no fighting!’ He looks straight at me and flashes a smile, a burst of nervous energy short-circuiting my system and my legs turning all jittery.
‘He’s seen her!’ Flora whispers across me to Zhané as if I’m not there.
Zhané folds her arms over her chest. ‘What a creep!’
‘Right, let’s get this party started and open the auction,’ he says, snatching the dusky-pink pillbox hat off its cushion and thrusting it into the air before there’s any chance of Signor Zaccardi making an entrance. Fuckety fuck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The telephone hat was supposed to be first up, our whole script based on the impracticalities of having an electronic device strapped to your head.
‘Let’s kick off with one hundred euros.’ Raffa’s eyes size up the room like those of a greedy lizard.
The lady with the crystal reading glasses a few seats along from me nods, Raffa muttering a string of incoherent words before glancing at the back of the room, where the man with the turban discretely raises a bidding card, his hands clasped tightly together in front of him.
‘Two hundred.’ Raffa nods, his eyes shifting back to the woman with the crystal framed glasses. ‘Five hundred?’
The woman nods, the bidding accelerating at pace the higher the stakes are raised, and before you know it, it’s like listening to a verbal game of ping-pong, prices ricocheting back and forth across the room, the volley of numbers finally slowing and the hammer slamming down on three thousand three hundred euros, Raffa’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.
‘What’s happening?’ Flora whispers. ‘I thought Marco said he’d make sure nothing got sold.’
‘No idea!’ I hiss, my eyes flicking over to the door to the secret staircase. Didn’t Marco say he needed access to it today?
This is all too painful to sit back and watch, but for some reason, I am glued to my seat, mesmerised by Raffa’s hand movements and before I have a chance to will my body into action, the woman in clinical white is handing over the crimson brushed cotton cloche hat with the black velvet trim I tried on when I was with Raffa, an excited murmur spreading across the room.
A shiver runs down my spine. It feels surreal that an item whose bid is opening at one thousand euros and is now being paraded in front of hundreds of people has taken pride of place on my head. I turn to Giuseppina, who sits up straight, her attention piqued whilst her husband busies himself with his phone, and I wonder for a moment just whose side she is on and whether she might just double-cross us all when push comes to shove. Whatever is going on in her head, she refuses to make eye contact with me, choosing instead to stare at the hat with the same intensity as Luke Skywalker did when he used the force.
To my horror, the door remains closed as Raffa opens the second bid, my heart dropping into the pit of my stomach as Giuseppina raises her hand, bidding again and again until the lot reaches four thousand euros and she is outbid first by the man with the turban and then by a friend of the woman with the crystal framed glasses who, between them, drive the price up to somewhere in the region of twenty thousand, although I’ve lost track. Indignance rises in my chest as Raffa licks his lips greedily, dollar signs almost visible in his shiny eyes. Why does he always get what he wants?
It looks like the whole sabotage is off, Giuseppina sharing a look of despair with her husband and reaching for the brochure to identify her next potential purchase – she clearly has no desire to help us here – whilst Francesca does little to suppress the smile of satisfaction that plays on her lips.
Raffa rubs his thighs with delight as the auction continues at pace, three further haute-couture creations going for over five thousand euros – the shoe perched atop a gold beret once worn by Whoopi Goldberg to the Oscars, totalling fifty-two thousand – and the money keeps on rolling in, the smug expression on Raffa’s face intensifying with each lot.
When Raffa holds up a white feathered wedding hat, Giuseppina tries her luck again, only for Francesca to outbid her almost immediately, the pair of them driving up the price tit for tat until Mr Turban outbids them both, closing the deal at eight thousand euros. Raffa’s eyes sparkle with delight and it’s all I can do not to leap out of my chair and punch him. Has he no shame? I start to sweat, the room spiralling and spinning, all the hats with it. That’s the thing about Raffa: he oozes charm and confidence, the audience clearly enamoured by his smooth but casual delivery, and nobody is prepared to take him to task. My top lip feels clammy as I go to shuffle out of my seat.
‘Roma!’ Zhané yanks me back down into my chair.
‘We can’t let this happen!’ I hiss.
‘It’s OK.’ Flora takes hold of my arm.
But it’s clearly not OK. Raffa is going to make a fortune and get away with it, brushing his late grandmother’s dying wishes under the carpet for his own personal gratification and denying these villagers what should rightfully be theirs. If nobody is prepared to do something about it, then shouldn’t I at least try? Then, just as I’m about to shake off Zhané and Flora, who have become attached to my arms like human shackles, the door to the secret staircase bursts open, an explosion of colour erupting before us all and the whole room takes a collective intake of breath.
‘Scusi, scusi.’ A larger-than-life figure takes to the stage, pushing Raffa aside and reaching for the anvil, the atmosphere in the room shifting from one of casual intrigue to full-on back-straightening, neck-craning, attention-grabbing curiosity. ‘Move over, darling. You’ve had your fun and now it’s time I had mine!’
Bewildered, Raffa flattens himself against the back wall and looks on, speechless. With sparkly black six-inch platform heels, platinum blonde nylon curls gathered up in a beehive, diamanté chandelier earrings, breasts like bowling balls, buttocks like soccer balls, draught-excluding eyelashes and a cinched waistline Beyoncé would kill for, Polly Darton is in the house. A sequined siren, she towers over the microphone, layers and layers of white net flowing from the back of the gown. It must have been a two-man job to get it on! I stifle a chuckle. No wonder Signor Zaccardi is a no-show and looked so pale earlier when I turned up at the studio.
My heart swells with happiness. I turn to look at Zhané, whose face is alight with rapture, and then at Flora, who giggles at my side as she records the whole thing on her phone. So, this is what they were plotting? Fabrice flew out with them and has been here all morning? A warm glow spreads through my body at the thought of them smuggling him into my studio and contriving reasons to keep me at the apartment just to keep me at bay from seeing him. That vital call with my parents! Grinning from ear to ear, I clap my hands together, a warm glow of pride rising within me as I watch in delight.
‘They’re fake!’ Polly brushes a strand of nylon hair out of her enormous eyelashes and rearranges her chest as she takes in the sea of people before her, throwing a flamboyant ripple of her fingers in my direction. ‘I’m not talking about my breasts; I’m talking about the hats. Do not be fooled, ladies and gentlemen. The originals are not being auctioned because it was Mariela’s dying wish that her collection remains a collection and the hats all stay together as an exhibition.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Raffa barges his way back onto the stage. ‘They are very much the real article, and all final bids will be honoured.’
‘Honoured?’ Polly chews over the word in front of her audience. ‘Honour is such a loose term as far as you’re concerned, isn’t it, Mr Bergamaschi?’
The sound of chair legs scraping across the floor sends a shiver down my spine like nails down a blackboard. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Maria rising from her seat. ‘It’s time for you to leave, Raffaele! You’re not welcome here,’ she shouts.
Raffa’s face becomes an unconscious frown.
‘You heard her.’ Marco leaps to his feet. ‘You’re a bully and we don’t want you here.’
‘Maybe we should put it to the audience vote.’ Polly flutters her eyelashes. ‘Do we want him in? Or do we want him out?’
There are front men and there are front ladies, and then there’s Polly Darton, who is in a league of her own: serene like a queen but with all the swagger of Mick Jagger, she has a retort for everything and is not the sort of lady you go head-to-head with. I bite my bottom lip and give myself a good pinch, checking that it’s all real, and grin like the Cheshire cat when I don’t wake up.
‘Out!’ Maria screams.
A murmur of discontent ripples across the room, the smartly dressed man in the turban shaking his head in dismay and storming out of the room.
‘God, this is like a soap opera!’ Flora pulls at my sleeve, squealing with delight.
‘I knew Fabrice would take him down,’ Zhané sneers.
My eyes flicker between Fabrice’s alter ego and Raffa, who is making an urgent phone call, his finger pressed into his ear.
Heads swivel as Polly Darton holds up the next piece of headgear to go under the hammer – a black velvet beret with an old-fashioned telephone embedded in the summit – not the telephone hat, but a telephone hat, nonetheless. ‘Who amongst us would wear this?’ she chides.
Nobody answers the question, the crowd still up in arms at the suggestion that the entire collection today is a bunch of replicas, coats snatched up and belongings gathered as people leave, a steady mass blocking the top of the stairs.
‘Would you wear it?’ Polly Darton holds up the hat and looks straight at me.
I raise my voice over the humdrum of the room. ‘As clever and as beautiful as it is, I’m not sure I’d have an occasion to wear a hat like that.’
‘You!’ Polly Darton clicks her fingers at Giuseppina, people stopping in their tracks and the chatter in the room thinning to a silence. ‘Would you wear this hat?’
Commanding the attention of the room, Giuseppina purses her lips and frowns. ‘Nobody would wear this hat. It is not designed to be worn. It is designed to be admired.’
‘Exactly!’ Polly Darton breaks out her award-winning smile, addressing the audience with a silk-gloved finger adorned with a huge crystal ring. ‘If you bought this hat, you would keep it in your house, knowing its value, but you wouldn’t wear it. I mean, I might . . .’ She brings her hand to her chest theatrically. ‘But you’d probably lock it up only for it to gather dust and be seen by nobody. And that’s not what Mariela Marino created it for, is it? She wanted her work to be seen.’
‘We all want to be seen.’ Giuseppina fans herself with the auction catalogue and looks over at Francesca.
‘Some more than others!’ Francesca folds one leg over the other and stares out of the window.
‘Seen and admired.’ Polly performs another twirl, much to the delight of the butcher on the front row, whose cheeks glow a pale pink, a dirty little chuckle erupting from his mouth as the split in her skirt parts to reveal an extra inch of leg. ‘How much would you pay to see this hat and read about its creation? Who it was made for and for what occasion, the inspiration behind it, the reaction it got from people around the world? How long it took to make from what materials? Did you know for example that Silvio Berlusconi wore this telephone hat at a charity gala, where a property tycoon bid one million dollars to make a prime ministerial call from it to the White House?’
I have no idea whether this is God’s honest truth or solid gold bullshit, but judging by the gasps that are filling the room, it is clearly having a mesmeric effect on our would-be bidders.
‘These hats all have their own story, which will get lost if they are sold off individually but would live on if they were curated as a collection at a museum, each having their own backstory showcased. I was just messing with you about them being fake. They’re actually 100 per cent authentic.’ She massages her chest and looks over at the door. ‘Signor Zaccardi?’
The door swings open to reveal Signor Zaccardi dressed in a navy-blue suit coupled with freshly polished chestnut shoes. His moustache has had a judicious pruning and a small spotted handkerchief sits in his breast pocket. People clear a path for him as he advances towards the stage, Polly Darton stepping down to accommodate him at the microphone.
‘The Casa dei Cappelli will open as a Hat Emporium, inviting visitors from around the world to come and admire Mariela’s work. These hats are for celebrating. These hats are for appreciating. They should not belong to one person, never to be seen again. Rest in peace, Mariela. And now Marco has something to say . . .’
