Saskia drank, coughed, then set her glass back on the tray.
‘Welcome,’ he gestured wildly for them to follow him. ‘Come, come, come.’
Andy strolled after Alberto into the lounge. ‘How long have you had this place?’
‘Papa bought it as a city retreat for Mama. Or was it from Mama?’ Alberto cracked himself up again. His laugh was a loud rapid bark.
‘It’s so big,’ Saskia said.
‘The parquetry is hideous.’ Alberto tossed back more of his drink. ‘Every time I go home to Firenze I tell myself I must call Patrizia and have her arrange for it to be redone but I always forget. When I return it’s like a log cabin themed acid flashback,’ Alberto drained the remains of his drink. ‘Carla is upstairs applying her night-time face.’
Saskia began to say she loved the wood floors but was drowned out by the sound of Alberto hollering for his waiter – ‘Giovani, Giovani!’ – to bring more drinks.
He pointed out the canvases on the walls and detailed their provenance.
‘The Chagall, Papa bought after he opened his second factory. The Amedeo Modigliani was a present from the Italian ambassador.’
Saskia, stunned, had an urge to reach out and touch the canvas. She couldn’t believe she was in the presence of a Chagall.
‘Is that an original Whiteley?’ She pointed to a large blue piece over a fireplace. It depicted a round body of water punctuated by white pointed sailboats. She walked across the parquetry and stood in the cool light that bounced off the canvas.
‘Saskia is an artist,’ Andy told Alberto.
‘Hardly,’ she said, picturing the patterns she made on the tops of lattes she dispensed to people who came into the cafe where she worked. ‘I’ve never been to Sydney but there’s something about Brett Whiteley’s Lavender Bay period that just feels like home. It’s the oranges and the azures. He paints with the palette of Australia.’
‘I despise that painting,’ Alberto flicked his hand at it dismissively. ‘No offence to your country. Your beaches are breathtaking, and all the women have, mwah,’ he kissed his fingertips, ‘great legs. But visual art is not your forte.’
‘What’s that?’ Saskia was distracted by a smattering of colour over Andy’s shoulder. Through an arched doorway, mounted on the wall of the dining room over an oak dining table, was a canvas that had the unmistakable volume and vivacity of Fauvism. Opposing colours were applied heavily. Perspective was disregarded. She didn’t recognise the work but she was certain she knew who painted it. Only, she couldn’t believe it. It seemed to sing from its spot on the wall. In her head she heard scatty jazz and the scratch of a gramophone needle.
Alberto sprawled on the leather couch. ‘I see you like our Matisse.’
‘So it is one of his?’ She took a step towards it. It knocked the breath right out of her. ‘Holy fuck.’
Alberto murmured, bored. ‘1911, I think.’
Saskia couldn’t look away as she took slow reverential steps towards the canvas. ‘To think, we’re in the presence of something painted by Henri Matisse. Something he touched, something he created.’
Alberto laughed. ‘Bella, Matisse didn’t paint that canvas.’
‘But you said—’
‘That’s a replica.’
‘A replica? Like a knock-off?’
‘Not exactly. When you buy a painting like that you have a copy made for display. We keep our original in a bank safe.’
‘But, why?’
‘Darling, security.’
‘Oh.’
Alberto leaned back on his couch and dropped an expensively-shod foot heavily onto the coffee table. ‘Does it look authentic to you?’
‘I think it’s marvellous.’ Saskia couldn’t stop staring at the canvas. It made her feel strangely melancholy, the way she did when she passed puppies in glass cases in shopping centre pet stores. Why should the real one have to spend its days, unseen, in a dark metal box?
‘Andy,’ Alberto brayed. ‘How is that gorgeous sister of yours? I saw her last month at a party in Milan and have been meaning to get her down here for a weekend. Or up to the house in Umbria. It must be so hard for her to be so far away from home.’
‘She’s still in Australia. She came home for the wedding and is spending a few weeks with her girlfriends.’
‘Of course, of course. And what did you think of your new sister, Mrs Colbrook?’
‘She was one of my bridesmaids,’ Saskia said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I emailed her in Italy and asked her before I’d even met her face to face.’
‘Saskia’s come to expect hostility from my family so she thought it would be a good pre-emptive strike,’ Andy said, swirling his drink.
‘That’s not true,’ Saskia said.
It was true.
But the youngest Colbrook was nothing like Millie. Juliet had been thrilled to be asked to be a bridesmaid and on the wedding day had come to the rescue with some double-sided fabric tape and three safety pins when the hem of Randa’s bridesmaid dress snagged on a rose bush on the way into the church.
‘I always carry emergency supplies: double-sided tape, Band-Aids and deodorant,’ Juliet said, repairing the hem. She was a full head taller than the bride and Randa, and so had worn flat shoes to minimise the difference.
‘Andy says you’re an artist,’ Juliet said to Saskia as she pinned the dress.
‘I’m not a real artist. I make jewellery. Just simple things.’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Randa said, holding her skirt up for Juliet. ‘Her work is fabulous.’
‘Andy probably told you I’m a model,’ Juliet said. ‘But what I’m really interested in is photography. Camilla says it isn’t a respectable career.’
Saskia couldn’t hide her glee at hearing Juliet refer to her mother as Camilla, which she knew Millie hated. She gave Juliet a wry grin. ‘As opposed to modelling?’
‘I know, right? She doesn’t love that either. But it was an excuse to travel and I think she’s hoping I’ll catch the eye of some arsehole CEO or something.’
Saskia laughed. The discovery that she had found an ally in Juliet had a salutary effect on her nerves.
After she fixed Randa’s hem, Juliet turned to Saskia and squared her shoulders. ‘She picked this dress, didn’t she?’
‘She suggested it.’
‘Saskia took the path of least resistance,’ Randa said.
Juliet fluffed up Saskia’s veil. ‘Don’t take her crap. If you change yourself to try and appease her she’ll always expect you to grovel. And even if she does come around, you’ll have to keep up the charade.’
‘Sing it, sister,’ Randa chimed in.
Juliet brushed a curl behind Saskia’s ear so that her row of piercing scars was no longer hidden.
‘I adore my new sister,’ Saskia told Alberto.
‘When Saskia met Juliet I was demoted to second favourite Colbrook,’ Andy said.
*
Carla descended the stairs in a white dress that hugged her body like cocoon silk. Alberto poured himself another drink and knocked it back.
‘Welcome,’ Carla said dryly. ‘I hope that in his hurry to get himself a drink Alberto remembered to offer you one too.’
‘Alberto was the perfect host,’ Andy said amiably. ‘And you look ravishing, Carla.’
‘We’ve been discussing art,’ Alberto said, his voice louder and looser than when they’d first arrived. ‘Saskia was admiring the Matisse and that horrible blue Whiteley.’
‘We really should take that hideous thing down.’
‘Saskia went to art school.’
‘Really?’ Carla twisted her body towards Saskia.
‘Only a local TAFE,’ Saskia said. ‘I love your pendant.’
Carla resisted the urge to smile. She hovered by the edge of the couch, but did not sit down.
‘Shall we go through to the dining room?’ Alberto leapt to his feet and proceeded into the long room where the Matisse live
d. They sat in carved wood chairs upholstered in a dark leather, buffed smooth from use.
‘I ordered some veal,’ Alberto said as Giovani bought in plates of buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes, asparagus and preserved lemon. ‘Our cook does the best veal scaloppini. While we wait you must tell us the story of how you met.’
‘We met at a party,’ said Andy.
‘A very bad New Year’s Eve party,’ Saskia said.
‘Not so bad, as it turns out,’ Andy added, squeezing her hand.
‘Just this New Year’s Eve gone?’ Alberto said, pouring wine to go with the meal. ‘Andy, you only left us a few days before then.’
‘Yes, I was quite jetlagged.’
‘You’d had that big fight with that woman. What was her name?’
Andy cleared his throat as Carla shot Alberto a poisonous look.
‘Krystyn,’ Saskia offered.
‘That’s right, Krystyn. She left a pair of earrings on the yacht. Lucky we found them. Where are they, Tesoro?’
Carla glared across the table. ‘They’re upstairs. After we eat I’ll get them.’
‘Please,’ Andy held his hand up. ‘You keep them.’
‘Keep them? Darling, they’re sapphire earrings. I think you should return them to her.’
‘No, no, you keep them.’
‘Why, that’s ridiculous. I insist you take them.’
Andy shifted in his seat. ‘They were my Christmas gift to her that year. I think she left them behind deliberately.’
‘Oh.’
Silence descended.
Carla broke it. ‘I apologise, Saskia, that Alberto brought that up. He can be quite vulgar.’
‘It’s okay,’ Saskia said. ‘I know about Krystyn.’
Alberto, chewing on a stalk of asparagus, was growing more glassy-eyed by the minute. ‘You worked with her, didn’t you?’ he asked Andy.
‘That’s right.’
‘He still does,’ Saskia added. ‘She’s an associate at the same law firm.’
‘And you two met within a week?’ Carla said.
‘Yes,’ Andy said.
‘I suppose when you know, you know,’ Carla said. As she put her glass to her lips she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
*
Giovani brought in the meals on a wooden trolley whose wheels squeaked like mice as he rolled it across the objectionable parquetry. He carefully transferred the plates and their grand silver cloches to the table. Saskia admired the craftsmanship of the cloches, their ornate handles designed to look like magnolia petals.
‘This looks magnificent,’ Andy said, laying his napkin across his lap. ‘I know the food is always going to be excellent when I sit down at a Mariano table.’
‘That is true,’ Carla said. ‘But I am not a Mariano. This dinner party is only half-Mariano.’
‘I always forget you’re not married,’ Andy said.
‘I can see how you would make that mistake,’ Carla said, swirling her wine glass. ‘We are together eight years, but not married.’
‘I don’t think it really matters these days,’ Saskia said in her kindest voice.
‘Of course it matters,’ Carla spoke sharply.
‘Every day I ask her,’ Alberto shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d marry her tomorrow.’
‘Yes, but it is not all that you ask,’ Carla said, her voice steely. ‘You want me to sign that wicked document of yours.’
‘Tesoro,’ he took her hand. ‘I don’t want you to. It’s my parents.’
He tried to kiss her. Carla pushed his face away. Small beads of perspiration had appeared around his hairline.
‘You should stand up to them.’ Her voice was hard as she turned her body away from him.
Alberto did stand up. He went to the bar next to the dormant fireplace and used some silver tongs to drop ice cubes into a clean crystal glass. He took his time making a selection from the range of bottles, his hand hovering over one before moving on to the next until he took hold of the neck of a litre of Scotch and poured it liberally over his ice.
‘I’m the heir to a considerable family fortune.’
‘And you want to protect it.’
‘Not me, they do.’
‘So you admit it.’
‘Tesoro, please. We have guests. Let’s not discuss this now, eh?’
‘It is like insurance on your marriage,’ Carla was now addressing Andy and Saskia. ‘How can we say we will commit forever when there is a piece of paper that proves you might not mean it? If you meant “forever” you wouldn’t need the paper.’
Alberto tipped some Scotch down his throat. ‘What if we get married and my father cuts me out of the will? Then what, Carla?’
Carla threw her hands up in the air. ‘Andrew and Saskia agree with me, don’t you?’
‘We signed one,’ Saskia said quietly.
Carla’s face grew stormy, as if they’d signed the pre-nup just to thwart her argument.
‘But I agree with Carla,’ Andy said quickly.
‘It was something that was important to Mrs Colbrook. To Millie. For me, the paper was meaningless, so I signed it,’ Saskia said.
Alberto opened his mouth, but thought better of it and closed it again.
‘Such foolishness,’ Carla raged. ‘How can you let her do this, Andy?’
He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He had not been comfortable with it, but Saskia had insisted.
‘He did stand up for me,’ Saskia told Carla.
‘But not enough, it seems?’
‘It wasn’t really like that,’ Saskia said.
*
The matter had been decided at a family dinner at the Colbrook family home.
‘Any plans on when you might like to do it?’ Millie had said, dabbing her lips with a napkin after resting her knife and fork on her dinner plate.
‘We thought mid spring,’ Saskia replied. She was wearing a wrap dress she’d found in a vintage store. It was the same red as Mrs Colbrook’s. But while Saskia’s was a jersey cotton Millie’s was a tailored dress with a bolero and a high neck that stood stiff behind her head, like a cobra’s hood.
‘That’s not enough time to organise a wedding.’
‘We don’t want anything flash,’ Andy said.
‘Andrew —’ Millie implored. She sat erect at the head of the table, her arms resting flat on the tabletop. The chairman of the board.
‘Mother. We’ve agreed we don’t want a circus.’
She sighed and said, ‘Have it your way’, looking pained. ‘You’ll have to get started right away. Even a small wedding is a lot of work.’ She turned to Andy’s brother. ‘Paul, can you call Rob and have him draw up the papers?’
‘Papers?’ Andy raised an eyebrow.
‘For the premarital contract,’ Millie said.
‘No,’ said Andy. ‘No pre-nup.’
Millie looked sharply at her son. ‘You have to have a pre-nup.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Andy. Millie’s nostrils flared.
‘You’ve got to be practical,’ Paul’s wife Elaine said. She had flat yellow hair and a lipless mouth. She turned to Saskia and spoke to her for perhaps the second time in her life. ‘Women who marry Colbrook men just accept that pre-nups are going to be a part of the bargain, don’t we? Especially if . . .’ Her gaze fell to Saskia’s badly scuffed high-heels from Kmart.
‘If what?’ Saskia said.
‘Well, it’s the done thing these days, isn’t it?’
‘To be honest, we haven’t discussed it,’ Saskia said.
‘And we’re not going to,’ Andy finished, his voice firm.
Elaine’s mouth popped open like a goldfish as it dawned on her she hadn’t thought to fight the pre-nup when one had been presented to her.
‘Pre-nups are cynical exercises that weaken unions before they’re even been formalised,’ Andy said. ‘They’re just another opportunity for lawyers to bill you.’
Millie’s lips were pressed closed so tight they were
turning white.
‘You’ve only known her six months Andrew,’ she burst out, throwing her napkin on the table. The fabric was a heavy damask and the gesture had the same effect as if a dead pigeon had crashed into the middle of the meal.
Andy took his fiancé’s hand. ‘Saskia is sitting right here, don’t talk about her as if this conversation has nothing to do with her. We’re getting married.’
Millie scoffed.
Andy was on his feet now, still by her side, loudly saying his wife wasn’t going to be treated like ‘some sort of second-tier family member’.
Saskia had never heard Andy raise his voice to his mother. Paul stood and called for Andy to calm down.
‘You never signed a pre-nup,’ Andy said to Millie.
‘Things were different then.’
Saskia gave it thirty seconds’ thought and decided to diffuse the situation.
‘Andy I really don’t mind signing a pre-nup.’ She touched her fiancé’s arm. His skin was hot beneath his shirt.
She’d been prepared for this to happen.
A few months earlier Andy had taken her to an engagement party where he’d pointed out a pair of exes standing at opposite ends of a room. The man, a bonds trader, was thick-waisted and ruddy. A tube of fat sat around his neck like an inflatable priest’s collar and he looked a good ten years beyond his thirty. The woman was sinewy and blond. A catalogue model who propped up her income selling suits at Hugo Boss. She’d sold the trader two double-breasted suits, Andy whispered to Saskia, and he’d asked her out for dinner.
‘Wouldn’t you know it, they fell in love and got engaged quite quickly. After the announcement he mentioned the pre-nup. And wouldn’t you know it, they fell out of love,’ Andy said.
They’d giggled, their bodies turned towards each other, safe and smug in their new love.
So when Millie had thrown down the suggestion of the pre-nup over dinner, smirking like a poker pro with a house of aces, Saskia took great pleasure in calmly accepting the condition.
Millie’s expression had faltered. She was thrown off balance. Saskia smiled as sweetly as she could.
‘I’m so glad you understand,’ Millie said.
The First Year Page 5