do the work he didn’t want to do.
“What about you, Charlotte? Would you like to help too?”
Even I had to stop and blink. I turned to see Charlotte had the same astounded look on her face.
She looked at me with an expression that said, we’ve got a live one over here, then she jumped off her stool. “Why not? What do you want me to do?”
“You can fill up that pan with water and put it on the stove, then you can grate some parmesan.”
Giving me another look, Charlotte went to fill the pan he had indicated with water and put it on the stove to boil. Then returned to the counter and began to grate the cheese.
Fabio folded his hands and addressed Charlotte. “So … what do your parents do?”
“My parents are academics. My mom is a secondary school teacher and my father is a contemporary art professor at UCL.”
“You mean UCLA,” he corrected.
“No, I’m referring to the University College in UK, not the University of California.”
“Ah,” Fabio said. “Interesting.”
“What is?” she asked.
He laughed. “Nothing really, but it seems that means that you are middle class and I would have expected you to be more familiar with doing chores. You seemed so surprised earlier when I suggested you clean up the shattered tumbler. And it is just myself and Sienna currently slaving away to get dinner ready.”
A heavy silence struck the room, and even I didn’t know what to say.
Charlotte smiled and then nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders, completely unbothered. “Well, I don’t know how it works in America, but in England we value our guests. We would be mortified if they came around and started to do chores for us.”
“Hmmmp.” He came over to me then and said, “I cannot believe you consider a woman like this your friend. I’m going to get myself another glass of Cognac. Anybody else want a drink?”
“Not me,” I said.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Charlotte sang.
When all the ingredients were prepared, he came back. He put the saucepan on the stove, browned the garlic, dropped the tomatoes and beef in. When the beef was cooked, he poured in the sauce that had apparently been already prepared by someone else and let it simmer.
The water in the big pan was boiling, so I dropped in the fettuccine and in few seconds later, the food was ready.
Fabio waved towards some plates and I put them out on the counter. Then he started dishing out the food onto the plates. “Shall we light some candles and eat on the patio?” he asked.
I shook my head quickly. The last thing I wanted was any kind of romantic atmosphere. “No, let’s eat here. I like it here.”
We took our positions around the island.
Fabio tasted one forkful of his dish and slammed his hand down on the marble. “I told you, Sienna, miracle in your mouth.”
I put the food into my mouth and it was edible, but it was definitely far from the ‘miracle in your mouth’ that he’d been professing it to be. No one in our family dared to tell him his mother was not known for her cooking skills.
He dove at his meal, slurping the fettuccine with the most grating sounds I had ever heard. Perhaps the sounds he made weren’t so bad, but at this point, I felt so irritated by him that even his breathing seemed like that of a bull’s in my ear.
He didn’t bother asking us any questions, but he sure had a lot to say about his recent trip to Milan. He bragged and boasted about everything and made derogatory comments about everyone and to him, none of it seemed rude. From the private jet he had to take because he couldn’t stand the filth of the people on commercial flights, to the exquisite hotel suite he’d insisted was given to him since it was the most expensive available and even that was a dump.
I zoned out, and didn’t even bother pretending to nod my head or smile. Only a fool would not have noticed how uninterested I was in him or his boasting and preening.
Suddenly, he jumped up. “Actually,” he declared. “I’ve brought back something very special that I want to share with you, Sienna.” He headed into another part of the house, presumably his study or something.
Charlotte turned to me and whispered, “I can’t believe he’s still alive. Why hasn’t someone shot him?”
I stopped laughing just as he returned with a bottle of red wine in hand. He had turned