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“You see, I wasn’t hyper. I’d just daydream my way through classes, and since we were so poor and the school not all that progressive, my difficulties either went unnoticed, or were dismissed.”
In the distance, an impressive yacht docked to a tiny pier with grace and poise. Chiara shivered in the wind. “All the while my mother dreamt about me being an accountant. That was literally all she wanted in life and all she ever talked about. And every time she did, I—who could not find my way through a multiplication table—shriveled up inside, until there wasn’t much left besides this overwhelming guilt.”
Vi squeezed Chiara’s arm, trying to reassure, to comfort, and Chiara laid her hand over hers, whether in gratitude or to stop her, Vi did not know.
“By the time my mother realized I would never graduate high school, it was too late for me. And she died with that burden. Her one dream, her daughter, a successful professional.”
Chiara sighed, her cheeks pale and her gaze fever-bright in contrast.
“And all I could see in those years were my mother’s eyes, kind, sad. Filled with so much disillusionment. When she looked at me, until her last day, it was like her dead dream was lying in state in those massive, beautiful eyes of hers. As if she was holding a wake every single time she saw me. I guess I reminded her of what could never be.”
Vi breathed in and out, slowly, as quietly as she could, to not disturb Chiara, who seemed a million miles away. Did she realize the sheer horror of what she was telling Vi? The way these moments and these memories shaped her as a person? Vi didn’t think so.
She wanted to reach out, to wipe it all away, because Chiara was brilliant, yet here she was, totally unmoored, consumed by guilt and self-loathing.
Vi thought about her own boarding schools, all six of them, and how girls with these types of difficulties were supported from an early age with appropriate interventions, and how they eventually thrived. Some were lawyers, actors, hell, even damn accountants…
Chiara visibly shook herself from her memories and continued.
“In any case, nothing could be done at the time. We didn’t have the kind of money a private school and tutors would require, and underneath it all, I simply couldn’t. Not until much later, when I was finally diagnosed and pursued the appropriate management for my conditions. I wish I could do my childhood over, knowing what I know now.” The smile was self-deprecating. “Still, sticky notes, phone reminders, planners, little marks with a pen on the backs of my hands… Whatever it takes, I do all right, don’t you think?”
Vi blinked, not expecting to be asked questions. Chiara did more than all right. Chiara was a genius. Everything she touched turned to gold. Her struggles as a child could have been avoided in a better system and with more support. If only Vi knew how to express all that.
“I drew. I had no attention span for anything else, but drawing was an escape. And then modeling became one, since I was so numb from losing mom, losing her in a way that made me think I was responsible. I still very much feel that way…”
Chiara trailed off, and Vi thought that so many other things in Chiara’s life were now more clear. Those shrouds of mystery, of bafflement that Vi often imagined surrounded Chiara, were now less shadowy. Her devotion to lost causes, to Frankie, to Lilien Haus even when nobody else cared and even when she was never given credit. Chiara was atoning. For her mother? That seemed plausible but also not quite. So what was the woman who carried so much guilt from such an early age doing penance for then?
Chiara’s voice reached for her and pulled her out of the gloomy thoughts and into a chillier reality.
“She died when I was seventeen. Just two weeks before I was discovered on the streets of Milano.” Chiara lowered her face, and Vi wondered if she even saw the beauty of the lake in front of her. Whether it was beautiful to her at all.
“She never watched me walk the most prestigious catwalks in the world, become an ambassador for the biggest brands. She never got to see that. Her heart gave out, Ms. Courtenay, because she was stressed all her life. Anxious and worried out of her mind about how a widow with no education or major skills would feed the toddler she was left with after her husband died in a boat accident. On this very lake.”
Chiara gestured with her free hand, the one holding Vi’s never leaving its place. “And you know, I never really knew about any of that stress and that anxiety and that worry until she was so close to the end and I asked her to look at how gorgeous the evening shore was.”
Vi saw tears shimmer in Chiara’s eyes and felt her own fill.
“She was so tired, she could barely lift her head, but she glanced up and she said something about how it was probably nice, but she couldn’t look at it, because this goddamn place had taken my father. She returned to work and I just stood there. My mother hated the damn lake. And despite loathing it as much as she did, she worked on it all her life, to provide for me. So in the end, the lake took my dad and then took her too, in a way.”
When Chiara finally faced her, Vi almost flinched away. She needed all her self-control to remain still as those eyes bored into her, the hand on hers cold and steady.
“Anyway, as you can see, when I am fascinated by a subject, I do tend to go on about it forever, and nothing has made me more of an expert than my ADHD.”
Chiara tsked, and Vi lifted her face only to observe her interlocutor shake her head.
“I always shy away from using the term. Even now. I know exactly where the guilt comes from. I have worked for years to extricate myself from its metaphorical embrace. But it’s such a deeply ingrained thing, feeling the way I do. My mother, who had nothing and who wanted me to have everything, really built her dreams around my future. And despite knowing that it’s not my fault, I feel like I failed her. The fact that I’ve been diagnosed now doesn’t change that. I can’t talk to her and explain. It’s too late, she’s gone, and half my life I didn’t even know I function differently.”
Chiara smiled crookedly, but her eyes remained sad. “Anyway, my extremely roundabout point—and I really have one with all this droning on about my mother and my neurodivergence—is that I may be doing my penance for sins seen and unseen. But overall, I quite literally don’t give a fuck about Frankie being stressed. My mother was stressed. Died from it, in fact. And yet, she never doused anyone in her poison of choice, not that she had one. She never threw temper tantrums about other employees interrupting her. I assume that’s what happened since Frankie abhors interruptions…”
Vi knew her eyes grew comically wide, and she sensed the hair stand up on its end at the nape of her neck. Did Chiara know? What should she say? Should she be saying anything at all?
“Ah, and here’s my wife! Resplendent in moonlight and fannish worship.” Frankie’s glistening red lips swooped, and she stood on her tiptoes to plant a wet kiss on Chiara’s cheek, giving Vi an exaggerated wink. “I can’t escape you, kid! Everywhere I turn, there you are. Quite the little stalker, eh, Courtenay?”
“Stop it!” Chiara’s cutting remark coincided with a sudden lull in music, and half a dozen heads turned in their direction, including that of the hostess. Neve gave them a long gaze out of those unreadable violet eyes and lifted an eyebrow at Vi.
What was it with all these older women around her executing the one maneuver that always made Vi totally helpless? All that was left for any of them to do was smirk or purse their lips. Miranda Priestly had a lot to answer for, Vi decided.
After a subtle shake of the head at Neve, she quietly stepped away from Chiara, who stood rigid and taut like a violin string ready to snap at any moment in Frankie’s arms. Before Vi could say anything undoubtedly unsuitable, Chiara shook off Frankie’s hands and walked in the direction of the mansion without a second look. Vi made to follow, only to have her forearm caught.
