Flirting in Italian (7 page)

So don’t act like drunken foreign sluts with my son and his friend
, I translate. I’d whisper this to Kelly, but she looks frozen, and I’m afraid I might upset her. The little servant is coming around again, to clear our plates, and before I can stop her, Kelly tries to help by lifting not only the pasta bowl, but the underplate too; the woman has to stop her with a quick tap on Kelly’s wrist, instructing her to put down the whole thing, then lifting up just the pasta bowl and fork.

Oof
. There’s nothing worse, socially, than getting your
manners wrong and being corrected by the staff in front of the host. Kelly’s seat is next to Catia, and Catia’s beady eyes have taken in this entire faux pas.

Poor Kelly
. Table manners are so confusing. I mean, how would you know about underplates if someone hadn’t shown you? Kelly collapses back into her chair, blood rising in her face right up to the roots of her hair. Thinking quickly, I grab her glass of wine and hand it to her.

“Try some wine,” I say, hoping it will make her feel better. She mutters thanks, takes the glass, and dutifully has a sip; then she sits up straight, shakes her hair back from her face, and takes another, longer sip.

“This is really good!” she exclaims, looking surprised. She turns to Catia, her embarrassment swept away in the excitement of her new discovery. “It’s, like,
dry
. And light, like you said. When my mum gets wine, it’s much sweeter, and I never liked it. But this is great.”

Catia’s mouth curves into a small smile of approval. She gives one short little nod.

“Your mother probably drinks South African or Californian wines,” she informs Kelly. “Those are more fruity and sweet. In Italy and France, we prefer dry wines. We will do wine tasting and learn about it during your stay here. I am glad that you are interested.”

“I didn’t know I was,” Kelly says slowly, “but I am now.”

“Try to sniff it,” Catia says, picking up her glass and lowering her nose to the rim. “See what the bouquet is.”

Kelly copies her enthusiastically. I sit back, relieved that Kelly’s potential meltdown has been averted. Opposite me, Ilaria and Elisa are making desultory conversation, looking
bored; beyond them, two pairs of french windows, closed now, give a floor-to-ceiling view of the deep blue Italian evening outside, shimmering with the orange and red glow of the setting sun. I shiver in anticipation of something I can’t picture, but that I sense is waiting for me in the velvety night air.

It’s my future out there, waiting for me. I don’t know how or why I know this, but I do. My life is starting, finally. Though it’s lonely, in a way, to be surrounded by people I only met for the first time today, it also means that I can reinvent myself, be whoever I want to be, without my mother always looking over my shoulder, or coming up with some wonderful fun idea for the two of us to do together that somehow stops me from having ideas of my own.

The little woman is bustling in with an armful of dinner plates, our main course arriving. I smile at her, and she flashes a quick smile back as she slides mine in front of me: it’s a dinner plate neatly arranged with a few slices of cooked meat, dressed with a couple of spoonfuls of sauce, three small boiled potatoes, and some slices of a white vegetable I’m not sure I recognize.

“This is roast pork with herbs, fennel, and potatoes,” Catia informs us. “The fennel is very good for the digestion, so we often eat it with pork, which is a rich meat.”

Nodding dutifully to show I’ve taken this in, I can’t help wondering if Catia’s didactic tendencies are going to extend to every aspect of our lives; is she going to pop in when we’re getting ready for bed, to check we’re resting our heads on our pillows at the right angle?

I’m vaguely aware of some Italian being spoken around
the table. It’s only gradually, as I come back to reality, that I look around and realize that the atmosphere has suddenly become so tense that I understand, for the first time, the expression about cutting it with a knife. There’s a pall so heavy hanging over the table that it’s almost palpable.

“Umm …,” I mutter to Kelly. “I missed that last bit.”

But it’s Kendra who answers me.

“Catia was telling us,” Kendra says with an artificial sweetness in her voice that makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in fear, “that the word in Italian for pork is
‘maiale.’
The plural is
‘maiali.’
Which means ‘pigs.’ ”

I suck in my breath, realizing exactly why there’s so much tension in the room. Catia, Leonardo, and Andrea don’t, of course: they’re looking at us, puzzled, Catia’s fork and knife poised in midair, waiting to take a slice of the main course.

But we can’t explain. We can’t tell Catia that Elisa, her daughter, and Ilaria, Elisa’s friend, walked past us while we were sunbathing today and called us pigs. They could so easily deny it by saying that they were talking about what we were having for dinner; none of us speaks enough Italian to remember or repeat more than that single word.

And yet all four of us know, with absolute certainty, that Elisa deliberately looked over at us and used the word “pigs.”

It’s odd how loyalties shift and change so dramatically in the course of a few hours, or a day, like sands blowing over the desert, washing away ridges that were there before, flowing into new formations. I’ve seen it so many times at school: friendships breaking up, new ones being formed, best friends turning to deadly enemies and back again at the speed of light. Earlier today, I was loathing Paige and Kendra
with everything I had, because they laughed at me and Mum when she was having her sobbing fit all over the security barrier at Heathrow. I was sure they would be horrible, and determined to pay them back somehow for adding to my humiliation.

Now, in an instant, they’re my allies. Shoulder to shoulder, the four of us massed against the detestable Italian girls who are sitting across the table from us, smirking, knowing that we can’t challenge them on what they called us, because it will only make us look paranoid. I meet Elisa’s big dark eyes; she widens them still further in amusement, purses together her thin, pink-painted lips, and tilts her head to the side mockingly, her big gold earrings swinging. Ilaria, to her right, raises a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

You mean bitches
, I think savagely.
I’ll get you back if it’s the last thing I do
.

Elisa reaches for her wineglass, her bracelets tinkling in a way I’m finding increasingly irritating. She picks up the glass, and then, unforgivably, she turns her head to look at Kelly; the most vulnerable of the four of us visiting girls, the one who’s visibly most socially insecure, least happy in her own skin. Elisa raises the glass to Kelly; and, holding it so that her outstretched arm blocks her mother’s view of her face, she mouths
“maiali”
again, directly at Kelly.

Tears form in Kelly’s eyes. Pushing back her chair, she jumps up and blunders from the dining room; I hear her sob as she runs out the door and up the stairs. There’s an awful pause.

“Ma che cosa—”
Leonardo looks at us, his handsome face open and concerned, as ignorant as boys usually are of the
evil machinations of nasty girls. “What happens? Why is she sad?”

I’m already half out of my chair, wanting to go after Kelly, but Catia’s basilisk glare has me snapping back into the seat like a well-trained dog.

“She is homesick, I’m sure,” Catia decrees. “I will go to see her after we have eaten. Now we will finish our dinner.”

We all bend our heads over our plates and tuck into the pork in silence.
At least
, I think wryly,
we’ll all remember how to say “pork” in Italian
. Forking some potato into my mouth, I meet Paige’s eyes across the table. They’re narrowed, her jaw set tight; she looks not only furious but determined. Paige is clearly as resolved as I am to make Elisa pay for insulting us all. I can’t see Kendra; Leonardo’s in the way. But there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s just as bent on revenge as Paige and I are.

Elisa may have ridden roughshod over other girls who’ve done this summer course, made their lives a misery
, I think angrily.
But she’s met her match this time. How dare she make Kelly cry—ruin her first evening away from home?

I stare at Elisa until she looks back at me. And then I raise my glass to her, and, just as she did, with my arm blocking her mother’s view of my lips, I mouth
“maiali”
right back at her, watching with satisfaction as she bridles in fury.

You’ve got no idea what you’ve started
, I convey to her very clearly.
It’s war
.

“Kelly?” I push open the door of our bedroom hesitantly: it’s utterly dark and silent inside the room. “Are you all right?”

Stupid question
, I tell myself immediately.
You’re an idiot, Violet. Of course she’s not all right
.

“Kelly?” I say again. “We’re all going out for coffee and ice cream in the village. Leonardo and Andrea are taking us. We were hoping you’d want to come.”

I hear Kelly shift on her bed; the springs creak a little.

“No thanks,” she mumbles, her voice thick with tears. “I just want to be alone.”

“Oh, come on.” I’m not sure if it’ll make her feel worse if I insist, but I really don’t want Kelly to feel abandoned while we all go out to have fun.

It sounds as if Kelly’s face is buried in the pillow. “I just want to be alone, Violet.
Please
,” she mumbles again, so miserably that all I can do is take her at her word.

“Well …” I hesitate. “Don’t be too upset, okay? We all think Elisa’s a total bitch and we’re not going to let her get away with it. I had a word with Paige—she’s sure Elisa tries this on every year with the girls who come on the course. She probably doesn’t like the competition.”

Nothing but silence answers me. Kelly’s said all she wants to say.

“Well, if you’re sure …”

I’m desperate to rush off: I dive into the bathroom, reapply perfume and lipstick, grab my lip gloss for emergency repairs, and run downstairs again, scared that they might have decided I’m taking too long and gone without me. I’m not friends with Paige and Kendra, and I have no idea what they’re like with boys yet, whether they share well with others. They could easily have chosen to take the two boys for themselves, swept them off to the village, assured them that I’m going to stay behind and look after Kelly. I could miss out on all the fun, and they could say, wide-eyed tomorrow morning, that it had been just a misunderstanding, they’d thought I’d decided to stay upstairs with poor Kelly.

So it’s with a huge wash of relief that I see the four of them clustered in the hallway where I left them, chatting and laughing, the American girls’ colorful print dresses standing out brightly against the white-painted walls.

“How is she?” Kendra asks as I join the little group and we head out the front door.

“Not great. I hate to leave her, but she said to go. When
Catia went up before, she was crying. Catia just thinks she’s homesick.”

“Well, we know better,” Kendra says, a martial light in her eyes. “Ugh, that Elisa
totally
needs a reality check.”

We’re outside now, walking around the house to the parking lot; Leonardo clicks his keys and a light flashes on a small Fiat. We pick our way over the gravel—we’re all wearing sandals with heels—and climb into the car, boys in front, girls in the back.

“We’ll get her back,” Paige hisses to me as the car pulls away. “She’s got
no idea
who she’s messing with!”

“Shh,” Kendra says, nodding at Andrea and Leonardo in front of us: Andrea’s already swiveling around, smiling at us.

“So!” he says, as the car bumps over the dirt road and we all squeal and hold on to each other, the seat belts ineffective against potholes. We’re all lightly tipsy on the unaccustomed wine with dinner. “We go for
caffé
and gelato, and then we go to dance?
Si?
”

“Ooh! Dancing! Cool!” Paige says happily, and I brighten up too: I love to dance, and have a pack of friends who all live in central London, near decent clubs, so we go out a lot. I’m relieved I didn’t wear high-heeled sandals tonight, though I thought about changing them when the idea of going out to the village came up; luckily, the ones I have on are strappy silver kitten heels, broken-in enough that I can walk miles in them and dance all night if I want to.

But it’s exciting just to be out in the warm Italian night, the smooth, velvety air on our skin as we pile out of the Fiat in front of the village bar. It has a big garden in front, with a tall, wide canopy hung with white canvas over long
trestle tables, and a low wall on which lots of boys are sitting, checking out all the new arrivals. Fairy lights twinkle from the posts holding up the canopy, to the trellises along the far wall, and the bar beyond is brightly lit, neon strips in the ceiling bouncing light off the shiny tiled floor and the glass cases of cakes and ice cream.

My heart is racing like a high-speed train. Everyone turns to look at us as we walk into the garden, all the boys on the wall swiveling theatrically, leaning over to stare at us, unashamedly goggling, low whistles following us like a vapor trail. Andrea and Leonardo are smug as peacocks as they shepherd us in, throwing comments over their shoulders at the boys who toss questions at them; I hear the words
“inglese”
and
“americane,”
whose meanings I know, but that’s all I understand. I feel suddenly very vulnerable, in a strange country, where the boys can say whatever they want about us and we won’t know what they mean. I’m really glad that I’m not alone, that Paige and Kendra are with me, strong, confident girls who don’t look like they’d be pushovers for the first boy who comes along.

But wow. The
boys
. I couldn’t blame any girl for being a pushover in this country. Once we’re settled at an outdoor table, positioned in the center, under a big light
—like trophies Leonardo and Andrea are showing off
, I think in amusement—drinking strong bitter espresso from small china cups and eating fresh, sharp lemon sorbet that comes in real half-lemon shells, I can snatch glances around me at the display of sheer male Italian gorgeousness, taking it in with disbelief.

Boys with short curly hair, boys with shaved heads, boys with long tousled hair. Boys with earrings, or silver
chain necklaces, or big leather watchstraps hanging from their wrists. Boys in tight, bright T-shirts over snug ripped jeans or equally snug white trousers. All of them with tanned, smooth skin; lean, muscly arms; sexy, confident stances. None of them seem shy; none of them are remotely embarrassed about staring at us openly as they stroll past, or lounge against the walls, or cock their hips and lean on nearby tables.

There are other girls here, of course; pretty, thin girls in miniskirts and lots of makeup. But they’re all a very similar type, and the girls at our table definitely are not. Paige is the only tall, fair-skinned blonde; Kendra the only girl darker than a Mediterranean tan. I’m less unusual, and I accept fairly humbly that I’m not the star attraction, though the way I’m dressed clearly marks me as “not from around here.”

Elisa and Ilaria have come down to the village too. They’re standing at the bar, drinking Campari and playing with unlit cigarettes, deliberately ignoring our table. I sneer at them, but they’re talking to the burly bartender and don’t notice. Boys are whooping as they play table football over by the wall, bouncing the table, spinning their players, making extra noise to draw attention, trying to stand out, get the girls to notice them; there’s a palpable sense of excitement and possibility, of flirting and laughter. Guys keep coming up to our table, ostensibly greeting Leonardo and Andrea, but not even looking at them; they squeeze in on the benches, flashing big smiles at us, shaking our hands. It’s like a male beauty parade: they’re showing off for us, opening their peacock tails to display the bright colors.

I glance at Paige and Kendra, who look just as wide-eyed and dazzled by all the attention as I feel. Paige, with her bubbly personality and blond curls, is literally surrounded by boys, and I can’t tell if she likes any of them in particular. Kendra is flirting with Andrea and a friend of his, her technique the opposite of Paige’s. Paige is loud, expansive, reaching out to draw more and more boys in; Kendra speaks softly, sexily, so boys have to lean in to hear her, entranced by her spell.

“I am sorry about my sister,” Leonardo says to me, and I jump, realizing that again, I was lost in thought.

I’m not sure how to respond, and besides, having him talk directly to me is a bit dizzying; he’s very good-looking, dark and lively and fun, with his sexy stubble and his self-assurance.
Italian boys are as confident as grown-up men
, I think;
English boys are really shy by comparison
. I’m not used to being chatted up by boys this happy in their own skin;
I like you, you like me, maybe we could have some fun together?
says his bright glance, straightforward and utterly charming.

“She is a
stronza
,” Leonardo’s saying. He grins. “It is a bad word. I don’t know the English.”

I grin back at him.

“Well, why is she such a
stronza
?” I ask, making him laugh.

“Good!” He claps. “You have a good accent! She is a
stronza
,” he says, leaning closer to me, “because she does not like my mother to have the foreigners in the house. She does a cooking course, some yoga courses, it is not just the girls for the summer. But I say, my mother has to
fare soldi
!” He
rubs his fingers and thumb together in the universal symbol for money. “It is normal! My father gives my mother Villa Barbiano, but not much money.”

“Are your parents divorced?” I ask sympathetically.

But he looks amazed at the question.

“Oh no!” he says easily. “
Mai
. Never. It is not necessary. He lives in Florence, my mother in Villa Barbiano. But Villa Barbiano, it is expensive. She must have people here to make money. And Elisa is—” He struggles for the word and finally finds it. “Proud,” he concludes triumphantly. “She doesn’t like to have people paying to stay in the house. But, you know, she has her car, her pretty dresses. Nice things. She is okay. So I say to her, she must be nice to the people who come. But she doesn’t like to be nice.”

I can’t help feeling with a tinge of amusement that it’s easy for Leonardo to say—after all, he has the better side of the bargain. If the house were filled with four foreign guys every summer, he might well be grumpy about it, while Elisa would doubtless be relishing the attention. Still, that doesn’t justify her being a total bitch to us.

I shrug.

“We’re not so bad,” I say cheerfully.

“Oh no!” Leonardo laughs. “Not so bad! You are much better—you are very nice!
Molto bella!
”

And he picks my hand up from the table and raises it to his lips, kissing it as he kissed Kendra’s when he paid her a similar compliment. I didn’t realize before that he looked straight into her eyes when he did it; wow, it’s absolutely mesmerizing. It makes me feel hot all over. I’m more glad than I can say that I’m sitting down, because honestly I
think I would go totally weak at the knees and grab at something for support if I were standing up when he pulled this super-seductive move on me.

Elisa was right about her brother
, I think, having enough experience to recognize when a boy’s flirtation skills are set to automatic pilot. Leonardo isn’t homing in on me with any kind of special interest, he’s just having fun with the girl he happens to be sitting next to at the moment.
Leonardo is a big slut
.

But I rather like it
.

Just as I’ve reached that conclusion, and am smiling at my own observation, something happens that is the oddest thing I’ve ever experienced. There’s no way to explain it but by some sort of extrasensory theory, and as a rationalist I don’t believe in any of that stuff.

Well, not much.

Because while the most charming boy I have ever met in my life is holding my hand, staring into my eyes, his mouth warm and moist on my skin, I have that particular, prickling sense between my shoulder blades that tells me, inevitably and unmistakably, that someone is staring at me. And instead of ignoring it and smiling back as seductively as I can at the charming boy, as any remotely sensible girl would do under the circumstances, I’m compelled to turn my head in the direction of the stare.

There are plenty of boys clustered around the wall, laughing, shoving each other playfully, yelling, competing for the attention of the girls. But somehow I know that the one who’s staring at me is the boy leaning against the post holding up the canopy, his shoulders square to it, his head
ducked over the cigarette he’s holding, a tiny red point flaring in the shadow as he pulls on the filter.

I shake my head and say firmly to myself,
Smoking’s disgusting
.

I’m still looking, though. He’s tall and slim, I can tell that much. And his hair, dropping over his forehead, is jet-black, as if he were a hero in a manga book, drawn with pen and ink, two or three thick glossy strands separating into perfect dark curves.

I snap my head back from the lurker in the shadows to the actual boy still holding my hand, only to see that Leonardo is looking over my shoulder in the same direction.

“Luca!” he exclaims, dropping my hand to wave at someone.
“Finalmente!”

I am determined not to turn. Just in case it’s the same boy. I don’t want to look too interested, or too eager.
Besides, he might be really ugly. Or spotty. Or have some silly chinstrap shaved onto his face—

“Eccolo!”
Leonardo’s saying happily, and it would be silly of me, by now, not to turn to face the person who’s strolled over and is leaning aganst the side of the table.

I look up at him, and my heart stops for a moment.

“Luca!” Andrea says, echoing Leonardo.
“Finalmente!”

“This is Luca, our friend,” Leonardo says happily as I think:

Luca. Finally
.

“Ciao,”
Luca says, nodding at us, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt tucked into black jeans, and silver rings on a couple of his long fingers, the cigarette held loosely between them. His
inky hair tumbles over his forehead, and I see, with a shock like a knife to the chest, that his eyes, heavily fringed with thick black lashes, are the midnight blue of sapphires or deep seawater.

I can’t speak.

“Hey!” Paige waves flirtatiously at Luca, one of those girl-waves where you open and flutter your fingers while flashing a brilliant smile. I hate to admit it, but Paige totally pulls it off. “I’m Paige. And you’re hot!”