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Alex couldn’t sleep. But then again, he couldn’t really work, either. In meetings, he found his mind wandering. At home, he found himself staring at the walls.
How could it be that a woman he’d known for less than two weeks could have done this to him? How could she have made it feel as though everything he had - his beautiful house in Naples, his work, even his family - were incomplete without her?
His father’s words rang in his head. “Do whatever you have to do.” But what, he wondered, was that? Had he not already made the ultimate gesture, asking her to come and live with him in Naples, already? And she had turned it down. What else could he do?
His father’s decision about the future of the company also loomed large in his mind. Ricardo now had all the proposed designs from all the candidates. Alex knew he was going through them, weighing them up, deciding. In truth, his father was probably looking at some of the most forward-thinking automotive designs in existence. How would his stack up? Despite his father’s early compliments, would they measure up at all?
Alex was sitting in his wood paneled office, which overlooked the beautiful streets of Napoli. On the walls were framed designs of Marino classics, but also reproductions of smaller sketches by the original Italian masters ... Michelangelo’s portrait sketches, Da Vinci’s work on nature and machines... The images were usually a great source of inspiration to Alex. But today, they left him cold.
Earlier that morning, his mother had called, asking to have coffee with him at a restaurant nearby in a few hours. They did this every month or so, a coffee and private catch up, usually after his mother had gone to have her hair styled at one city’s most well-known salons. Checking the time, he lifted his keys and headed out of the office, relieved to have somewhere else to be.
As he walked across the fourth floor, Alex passed by a meeting room, its door firmly shut. Inside were Edoardo and Mattia, part of the company’s marketing department. They were both leaning over the central boardroom table, their voices a little raised. From their tone and gestures, visible through the frosted glass, Alex could tell they were having a heated discussion. He stuck his head in.
“Morning,” Alex greeted, in Italian. “What’s going on?”
Edoardo dragged his hands through his hair. He was relieved to see Alex, but his frustration still showed. “Alex!’ he said, “It’s this year’s marketing plan. Your father ... he wants us to start drawing up English marketing materials for the entire Marino portfolio. It’s ... we can’t do it!”
For the last year or so, Ricardo had been talking about company expansion more and more. About growing the brand’s reputation beyond just Italy and continental Europe, where it was by far the best known. For him, the UK and USA were their next big targets. They were big, big markets. Markets with huge revenue and growth potential. But they were hard to crack. They had their own home-grown luxury sportscars, brands with local stories, local founders, and which were often still made by local engineers and craftspeople. As much as automotive enthusiasts wanted the best cars money could buy, they could also be fiercely loyal to manufacturers in their own countries. Doing a proper job of marketing the Marino brand in places like that was a genuine gamble. Expensive, time consuming and with uncertain results. There would be trade shows to attend. Exhibitions to stock. If they were to have any chance at all, they’d need, besides the right people, and the right platforms, an arsenal of brillant, passionate, detail-rich marketing collateral, written by an exceptional, first-language English writer. Edoardo and Mattia could do all they needed to in Italian. But in English ... they knew they simply weren’t up to the task.
Mattia groaned. “If you can help, Alex, we’d be very grateful. Your father! He has given us a challenge I’m not sure we can face, alone.”
Alex listened to the story then bowed out of the meeting room. “I’m just heading out,” he said. “I’ll give it some thought. See if I can help.”
When Alex arrived, Giana was already sitting at a table just inside the restaurant, her hair freshly styled, her ankles neatly crossed below her chair. She was wearing a well-tailored navy suit and a bright gold necklace.
“Alessandro,” she said, rising as her son walked in.
“Mama.” He kissed her on both cheeks. He sat, just as the waiter walked over to their table. “Ah, just a coffee,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Alex, you are looking a little thin. Have you lost weight?” Giana was an expert at detecting when all was not as it should be with her children.
“Yes, no. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You are eating alright? Why not order a slice of cake?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you, Mama. I’m fine.”
She sat back in her chair, regarding her son. “It does not suit you to cover up how you really feel, Alex,” she said. “You have never had a talent for it. Tell me. What is the matter?”
She looked at him for a moment without speaking. “Is it ... her?”
Alex gazed out the window and onto the busy Naples street. Beyond the glass, people were walking their dogs, talking on their phones, carrying shopping bags ... they all seemed to have such purpose, such energy. He envied them.
“Ah ... so you are lovesick,” said Giana, nodding, realizing what she was seeing in her son. “It makes sense.” Up to now, Giana had purposely not interfered in his son’s relationship with Lana. But seeing her son like this made her heart ache. “Papa tells me you invited Lana back to Napoli? And she refused?”
He nodded. “Yes, she refused.”
“And that hurt you, Alessandro,” said Giana. “I see that it did. But ... did you ever stop to think about why she might not have agreed to come back here?”
Alex had thought about it. In fact, it was all he’d been thinking about for days. Sure, there were things that might have caused her to hesitate, he said. For one, their relationship was new. Very, very, new. Secondly, Lana had just come to the end of a prior relationship with all the difficulties that brings. Thirdly, she needed to pack up her things, her life, in another city ...
“Not to mention her pride, my boy,” added Giana, wisely.
“Her ... pride?”
“I may not know Lana very well yet, but I can see that she is a very proud woman,” said Giana. “She is proud and independent. A free spirit. Do you know what you were asking her to do by coming here? She’d have had to give up all the independence she’s fought so hard for.”
Alex shook his head. “But I ... It wouldn’t have been that way.”
Giana raised her eyebrows. “Think about it. What would she have done all day? How would she have gotten around the city? How would she have felt, simply moving in with you, into a city she knows nothing about? Not speaking the language?”
“I would ... I would have seen to it that she had everything she needed,” said Alex softly. “Best I could have.”
“I know you would have done all of that, my son,” said Giana, placing a warm hand on her son’s wrist. “But would it have been enough? Would it have allowed Lana to feel ... strong? Independent? Capable? It seems to me she’s been carving her own path for a long time. Would your plan have allowed her to be the woman she is? The woman you ... fell in love with?”
Alex swallowed. He hadn’t thought of it quite that way.
“What Lana needs is to feel like she’s in control of her life,” said Giana. “Like she’s making choices that are right for her. That she’s doing something she’s passionate about. That she’s learning, growing as a person. Add all those things together with the great love two people feel for one another, and you have the recipe for a ... magnificent life. But take one part away and everything falls down. Think about it, Alessandro. Is there some way you can help Lana feel those things?”
The email appeared in Lana’s inbox the following morning. Subject line: Marino Automotive seeks English language copywriter.
Shaking her head with confusion, she opened it and began to read the job description.
Then, as she was reading, a second email arrived. It was a plane ticket to Naples, departing in three days, refundable only for the next 24 hours.
She was gaping at the plane ticket when, suddenly, a third mail appeared.
“No guarantees on the freelance work at Marino,” wrote Alex. “The role is being openly advertised, so you’d have to compete, send in an application etc. On the plane ticket ... think of it as an opportunity for an in-person interview? Only if you’d be interested in the role, that is. Of course, it would be wonderful to see you too, while you’re in the city. Let me know.”
Lana felt her heart lurch. Earlier that morning, Lana had received an email from Heidi, telling her to sit tight. She was working hard to place the book with a publisher, she said. It would take just a little while more. She wanted to make sure she sold it to a publisher that was as passionate about the work as she was. One that would work as hard as was needed to market it. One that would see her true genius and ask for both this book and whatever else Lana wrote next. She asked Lana to be patient.
Patient. The word had stuck with Lana since that morning, ringing in her head. It was the same thing Bella had asked her to be. The same thing she was asking of her own clients, while she made up her mind about what to do next. The same thing she was asking of ... herself? And all while her bank balance dwindled and nothing was certain?
A flood of adrenaline coursed through her. All this patience. All this waiting. All this ... inaction. She shook her head. Patience was a virtue, they said. But had patience ever truly changed the course of things for the better?
Lana took a deep breath, looking around Heidi’s gorgeous apartment. From her place at the dining room table, she took in the art, the expensive ornaments, the expensive granite counters in the kitchen. What was she doing here, biding her time, in someone else’s palace? What was she doing to shape her own life, to channel its flow in the direction she wanted? Did she think that merely waiting around, for a book deal, a better job, or anything else was going to get her where she wanted to be? Where she needed to be?
With a sudden flash of clarity, Lana knew what she had to do.
The backlog of client emails was pinned to the top of her email inbox, oppressing her with their demands. To each and every one, she wrote the same thing. Due to unforeseen circumstances, she would not be able to complete any projects from them for the time being. She apologized for the inconvenience, but suggested they get in touch with a contact of hers - a fellow freelance writer Lana had once met at a creative writing workshop.
Dani Roberts was a few years her junior, a very competent writer, and hungry for new clients. She was, Lana admitted, just like she herself had been a few years prior. Her clients would be in good hands. Enthusiasm was a big part of the writing business, she knew. And Dani had it in spades.
The second email she wrote was to Alex. “I’ll send through my application by the end of the day,” she said. Then: “If an interview helps my chances, I’m all for it. Pick me up at the airport?”
The third was to Heidi. “Change of plans. I’ll be out of your apartment in three days’ time. Thank you thank you thank you for the haven. But if you need me, I’ll be in Naples.”
Heidi’s reply came back almost instantly, as it always did. “Naples? My word! Magnificent! Love? A gorgeous man? No, wait. Don’t tell me. I want to hear the whole story, once it’s written. We’ll be in touch.”
Alex’s reply came next. “I can’t wait to see you.”
By that evening, Lana had submitted her application. Along with all the regular information, her resume and personal details, the application asked that she submit a page of test copy on a Marino car of her choice. The writing needed to show an understanding of both the technical and engineering aspects of the car, as much as it did the design and feel of the machine. Above all, said the brief, the writer needs to have an appreciation for the true soul that lies within all Marino Automotive vehicles, and be able to convey that effortlessly ...
Naturally, Lana chose to write about the XL. She could still picture it perfectly in her mind. Feel the strength and poise of it beneath her. Hear the hum of its engine. The words flowed from her fingers like water.
The next three days passed in a blur. If she was going to be leaving New York, Lana decided that she was going to enjoy every last moment of her time there.
Despite her dwindling bank balance, Lana spent her last days in the Big Apple exactly like a tourist. She took a hop on, hop off bus tour around the city. She wandered Times Square. She took in the Broadway musicals. She went to the Guggenheim Museum and the Met, ate at the city’s most famous - and reasonably priced - restaurants, bought pizzas from hole-in-the-wall joints, visited the Statue of Liberty and wandered the New York Library. She strolled Fifth Avenue, chewed on pretzels from street corner vendors and explored Central Park.
It was only on her last day in the city that Lana recognized what it was that she was doing. She was saying goodbye. It was her way of letting go of the city, and of her once-life there. New York was no longer her home.