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Authors: Anne Fortier
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in residence was something else altogether. He was not handsome as such, but he was as tall as I and in excellent shape, and, more important, there was an explosive energy about him that was utterly intoxicating. Federico was a perfectionist, not only in fencing, but in the art of seduction as well, and although I am sure we both knew early on what the inescapable consequence of my private evening lessons with him would be, he spent several months focusing on my lunge and riposte and nothing else … before finally following me into the shower and teaching me the
coup d’arrêt
without a word.
Our affair lasted all winter, and despite Federico’s insistence thatwe keep it secret, I fully believed him when he called me the love of his life. One day soon we would make it public … get married … have children…. It was never explicitly said, but always implied. And when he suddenly fled back to Spain from one day to the next, without so much as a goodbye, I was so shocked and heartbroken I thought I would never be happy again.
Then came all the terrible discoveries: Federico’s many affairs around Oxford, the furious fiancée in Barcelona, and his ignominious dismissal from the fencing club … and yet I wrote him letter after tearful letter, pledging my love and understanding, begging him to respond.
He did. Several months later I received a fat envelope sent from a fencing academy in Madrid; it contained all my letters to him—most of them unopened—plus five hundred euro. Since he didn’t owe me any money I was forced to assume it was his way of remunerating me for my services.
I was so furious it took me weeks to decide that Master Federico Rivera, in his libertine wisdom, must have deliberately insulted me in order to cauterize my wound and—perfectionist as he was—complete my fencing lessons with the most honorable move of all: the
coup de grâce.
Even though I had never told my parents about him, they surely knew I had had my share of secret heartbreak. In fact, there were moments when I suspected that my mother’s persistent obsession with James Moselane was simply her own way of consoling us both. And what could be more soothing than the vision of an ideal future in which I lived at the manor just around the corner, happily ever after?
W HEN MR. LUDWIG RETURNED with our coffee, I put away the magazine and moved my jacket so he could sit down next to me. “Thanks,” I said, taking one of the cups, relishing its warmth against my nervous hands. “By the way, you never told me the name of the foundation sponsoring our current luxury.”
Mr. Ludwig eased the lid off his own coffee. “I’m a careful guy.” Hetook a tentative sip and made a face. “What is it with you Brits and coffee? Anyway, here is a name for you: the Skolsky Foundation. Sugar?”
Moments later, while I was frantically Googling the Skolsky Foundation, I heard Mr. Ludwig chuckle and looked up to find him shamelessly spying on my phone. “You won’t find anything online,” he informed me. “Mr. Skolsky prefers to fly under the radar. It’s a billionaire thing.”
Perhaps it was meant humorously, but I was not amused. Around us, the gate was bustling with airline representatives and travelers hoping to preboard the plane, but I was still largely in the dark about our voyage. “I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never heard of the Skolsky Foundation,” I said. “But I am assuming its offices are in Amsterdam?”
Mr. Ludwig bent down to put his cup on the floor. “As I said, Mr. Skolsky is a private man. An industrialist with an interest in archaeology. He sponsors digs all over the world.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. When he did not, I leaned forward a bit, making it clear I was expecting more. “Such as—?”
Mr. Ludwig smiled, but something in his predatory eyes told me he was getting irritated. “I can’t tell you until we get there. Skolsky protocol.”
I was so upset by his dismissive
coup d’arrêt
without a word.
Our affair lasted all winter, and despite Federico’s insistence thatwe keep it secret, I fully believed him when he called me the love of his life. One day soon we would make it public … get married … have children…. It was never explicitly said, but always implied. And when he suddenly fled back to Spain from one day to the next, without so much as a goodbye, I was so shocked and heartbroken I thought I would never be happy again.
Then came all the terrible discoveries: Federico’s many affairs around Oxford, the furious fiancée in Barcelona, and his ignominious dismissal from the fencing club … and yet I wrote him letter after tearful letter, pledging my love and understanding, begging him to respond.
He did. Several months later I received a fat envelope sent from a fencing academy in Madrid; it contained all my letters to him—most of them unopened—plus five hundred euro. Since he didn’t owe me any money I was forced to assume it was his way of remunerating me for my services.
I was so furious it took me weeks to decide that Master Federico Rivera, in his libertine wisdom, must have deliberately insulted me in order to cauterize my wound and—perfectionist as he was—complete my fencing lessons with the most honorable move of all: the
coup de grâce.
Even though I had never told my parents about him, they surely knew I had had my share of secret heartbreak. In fact, there were moments when I suspected that my mother’s persistent obsession with James Moselane was simply her own way of consoling us both. And what could be more soothing than the vision of an ideal future in which I lived at the manor just around the corner, happily ever after?
W HEN MR. LUDWIG RETURNED with our coffee, I put away the magazine and moved my jacket so he could sit down next to me. “Thanks,” I said, taking one of the cups, relishing its warmth against my nervous hands. “By the way, you never told me the name of the foundation sponsoring our current luxury.”
Mr. Ludwig eased the lid off his own coffee. “I’m a careful guy.” Hetook a tentative sip and made a face. “What is it with you Brits and coffee? Anyway, here is a name for you: the Skolsky Foundation. Sugar?”
Moments later, while I was frantically Googling the Skolsky Foundation, I heard Mr. Ludwig chuckle and looked up to find him shamelessly spying on my phone. “You won’t find anything online,” he informed me. “Mr. Skolsky prefers to fly under the radar. It’s a billionaire thing.”
Perhaps it was meant humorously, but I was not amused. Around us, the gate was bustling with airline representatives and travelers hoping to preboard the plane, but I was still largely in the dark about our voyage. “I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never heard of the Skolsky Foundation,” I said. “But I am assuming its offices are in Amsterdam?”
Mr. Ludwig bent down to put his cup on the floor. “As I said, Mr. Skolsky is a private man. An industrialist with an interest in archaeology. He sponsors digs all over the world.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. When he did not, I leaned forward a bit, making it clear I was expecting more. “Such as—?”
Mr. Ludwig smiled, but something in his predatory eyes told me he was getting irritated. “I can’t tell you until we get there. Skolsky protocol.”
I was so upset by his dismissive
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