Her letter, postmarked Portofino, was short. Too short. She explained her father had taken her by hired boat to a remote monastery. She was not allowed to write or call, but her new friend Giacamo agreed to smuggle out a letter. Now this Giacamo was a photographer for a big magazine in Milan.
“At first I thought you had sent him to rescue me,” she wrote. “But no, he does not know you. He says he will help me get out of here, to be one of the models for his magazine, and I’m thinking of accepting his offer.”
Giacamo? A photographer? Milan? I thought of emaciated young women in a drugged stupor, held captive by cynical rapacious manipulators. The sex slaves of High Fashion.
“Thanks for being such a good bridge,” she concluded. “I will never forget you, James.”
Words thrown back in my face.
Early on she told me she loved me. Then she asked me if I loved her. I replied, “For you I may be more of a bridge than a destination.”
At the time I thought it was a rather clever thing to say.