Page 35 of Lorenzo

The book inspiring the fantasy had been Eloise at the Plaza. Anna and I must have thumbed our grubby fingers over that illustrated children’s book a million times.

And now here I am, just a few blocks down on Fifth Avenue, wearing a dress similar to the one Audrey Hepburn wore in the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

From the way tourists stare at me, I must really resemble that famous star.

A few aim their phones at me, and one even shoves an autograph book under my nose.

I dart into the rear seat of the limo as soon as possible.

“Your new dress looks classy, Signora Ricci,” he says, meeting my eyes from his rearview mirror as the car moves into traffic.

“Thank you.” My reply is automatic. But so is the thought: Will Lorenzo like it?

Why the hell should I care if Lorenzo likes it or not?

He hired Antoine to take me shopping. He paid for this dress and all the others. If Lorenzo doesn’t like it, it’s his problem.

When we reach The Circle, Ernesto helps me out of the car.

“Have a nice day, Signora Ricci,” he says in that gruff voice of his.

The title grates on me. I’m tempted to just ignore it. Yet if I do, I’ll hear it dozens of times before I finally leave this city for good.

“I’m sure you mean well, but please don’t call me Signora Ricci. I’m not Italian.”

“You’ve got it, Mrs. Ricci.”

I want to say: *Don’t call me that either, I’m not a “real married lady.”

But I just force a smile as I make my way through The Circle lobby.

Free at last.

I press the gold button of the private elevator and soar to the penthouse.

What would it be like to live so lavishly? For real?

When I enter the apartment, I see Ciro tearing lettuce in the kitchen. Meaty steaks rest in some sort of spicy-smelling marinade.

“Good afternoon, Miss Emily,” he says. “My, you look beautiful. Antoine’s work?”

How does he know?

Then again, as the family’s manservant, Ciro knows everything.

“Yes,” I say.

“Very becoming, Miss Emily.”

“Thanks.” I look at the two steaks. “I thought you said Lorenzo dines out on business or at his nightclub every night.”

“Change of schedule,” Ciro says. “Lorenzo said he wanted to have his first official meal with you tonight. He’ll be home in about an hour.”

“Oh. I see,” I say, feeling the tiniest burst of pleasure.

So it seems I’ll be able to converse with my new husband outside the bedroom. Well, at least in this outfit I’m dressed as the Mrs. Ricci of his imagination.

“Can I make you a drink while you relax in the living room?” Ciro asks.