Читать книгу Mistress - The Italian way - Delilah Jay - Страница 5

Phone call from my Swiss NetJets office. Get in touch with Dr Amos in Ferrara, he may be interested in purchasing a share in a private jet. Fine. I arrange an appointment, confirm it with the secretary and ask, naively:

“What line of business... what industry - is Dottore in?”

“You’ll have to ask him. I’m not authorized to give out any information,” she replies, almost embarrassed for me.

My visit to Ferrara: I remember that I was tired. Dr Amos, boring, early forties, sits opposite me. Thick black hair, dark blue made-to-measure suit, handmade English shoes. A soft smile that emphasizes his personal power as much as that of his office. Located in the most beautiful part of town - across from the cathedral -chrome, glass and marble, a perfect combination of old and new. Just like his white collar to go with the dark blue made-to-measure suit. Fashionable, conservative, simple, elegant.

“I’m not interested in a share of whatever kind of jet, Signorina,” he says, charming and distant. “May I call you Signorina?” A soft smile plays around the corners of his mouth.

“Prego Dottore.” He may.

“I’m a pilot myself and I intend to acquire my own aircraft. What are your conditions of work at NetJets? Can you come and work for me? I am preparing to set up a company to run a jet charter business in Italy. Interested? May I invite you to dinner?”

His smugness knows no bounds within this unending monologue he’s starting to get into. I decline, need to get back.

“How long have you lived in Italy? I’ve always had a thing for German women...”

Unbelievable, I think.

“How can I get in touch with you? When may I see you again?”

He describes his dealings and those of his company -he calls it a “holding company” - as “Mergers & Acquisitions”.

“I’m not interested in “merging” with you right now, and I’m not available for acquisition either,” I turn him down.

“No, ... thank you, ... my train to Milano leaves in forty minutes. But thank you again. Of course we can stay in touch. Arrivederci Dottore!”

The way he looks at me and holds my hand tells me that that’s exactly what will happen.

David would have asked me how it went anyway. NetJets was still in its infancy in Europe, run by David in Zug - for tax reasons. Legally represented by Ernesto Sprungler and backed by his MaxiJetCompany. Ernesto and his sensational know-how of dealing in jets. He was not even remotely like Saint-Exupery’s Little Prince. One plane in - one plane out, preferably in African countries. A huge list of contacts and appointments. Flying Gulfstreams to sales events and Citation 10s to Geneva, London or wherever the client wanted him. Transatlantic ultra-long range jets. Groundings of luxury class new planes - some on their maiden flight -navigated by our pilots out of Lisbon. Clients whose names were never made public, Tiger Woods being the only exception. The year is 1996. And I am drinking a quick, strong espresso at Ferrara station, waiting for my train back to Milano, with not the faintest inkling of what fate has in store for me...

I’m living at Franco Bossi’s stables between Como and Milano. Franco, former international show jumping champion, and Devina and Don Juan - my two darlings. I can cope with appointments like the one in Ferrara only because I come home to animals and nature. My consumption of some thirty cigarettes a day doesn’t quite fit that image - a small vice that I have since given up. David at NetJets is getting more demanding by the day and the winter months are so sad in damp, drizzly Northern Italy near Lake Como. To this day I fail to understand what the Germans and the English like so much about the Northern Italian lakes. For a start, Italians don’t even regard this area as Italy proper, it’s only Italy to northern folk. And once you’ve crossed the border into Switzerland, even the pasta doesn’t taste right anymore! There’s no sea, but there’s loads of fog and humidity. From November to February, you should never take the motorway to Turin before 11 a.m. - you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face. The same goes for driving from Milano to Ferrara.

“You’ll be based in the Swiss office here in Zug as from now, and not at home in your cosy stables near Como,” David informs me during my next visit at the Zug office.

The daily trip to the office is something I’ve not had for many a year; it’s not something I’m fond of. This caused me to make a fast but well-considered decision: I took a sheet of A4 paper and wrote a quick handwritten resignation.

“You can’t mean that!” David’s face crumbles.

Me, I’m impulsive, in a planned sort of a way - he hadn’t expected that. In retrospect I enjoy thinking about the power I had then and think I should have made more of it at the time. What went with me were the contact details of clients and potential clients. After all, I had been selected as their first Managing Director for Europe. And not just because I was fluent in three languages, knew the music scene inside-out thanks to my previous work at MTV, was great at establishing contact with people and always took “no” to mean “not just yet”. Of all my jobs to date, the most interesting by far has been this: being part of the birth of a new TV station. I was actively involved in the launch of VH1 in Germany, a subsidiary of Viacom and sister-company of MTV Europe. Took clients to rock concerts. Was Marketing Manager for Fortune 500 at mega events. Clients and potential clients of NetJets quite enjoyed meeting up with me, too: that was my advantage as a beautiful woman, daintily longlegged in stiletto heels, trying to find takers for those expensive private airplane shares. Swiss publishers, musicians of all nationalities, Russian oligarchs, directors of giant multi-nationals, owners of mid-size family businesses; tall, short, fat, thin, friendly, hostile, young but more often old, impotent, grey-haired, bald-headed, voracious, greedy-for-success, power-driven, controlling MEN.

“Don’t you ever come to Monte Carlo?”

“When can I see you in St. Moritz? I have a chalet in Suvretta. But not over Christmas, that’s when I’ll be there with my family.”

“Nice try!”

I’m paid well by NetJets, thank you. And I don’t do double-work: it’s either for money or...

But, instead of really savouring this feeling of power after tendering my resignation, I sat in my office, drank too much coffee, smoked one cigarette after the other and called Dottore in Ferrara. He would have to know, just like all the other clients and contacts, that in future he could no longer get in touch with me at NetJets. Arrogantly, he said:

“You rang to ask me for a job, didn’t you?”

How smug... A NetJets colleague warns me. He’s Italian, an engineer who maintains our planes and used to maintain those of the “multitude of bright colours” in the Veneto.

“Dottore’s family is in Sicily,” I learn. “There’s this lady billionaire he is, or maybe was, supposedly associated with, whose ex-husband is apparently in jail, put there by her because of corruption. A straw man fronting their illegal dealings,” my colleague Federico explains to me.

I think he’s mistaking him for someone else... Lots of people live in Ferrara after all. Wipe that thought away; don’t even allow it.

“Voglio la mia independenza!”

I want my independence! ... That’s what Dr Amos writes in his book. Independenza. A term, name, word with the simple meaning “independent” - he likes that very much.

“A good friend of mine named his yacht “Independence”,” Amos explains to me like a little kid talking about his toys.

He wouldn’t let it go, regarded my phone call as an invitation to tango.

“When can I see you?” he asks me. “Are you coming to Ferrara? Or Monte Carlo? To Milan?”

“No, I can’t. And I’m not calling to ask for a job. Have made plans, know what I’ll be doing,” I say confidently.

“So when can I see you?” He won’t leave it alone...

“May I call you?” Yes, of course, he may...