Girls Who Travel (23 page)

50

“S
O
THE
VI
LLA
we're staying at is outfitted with Vietri tiles and Murano glass lighting fixtures,” gushed Elsbeth as we bounced along southern Italy's scrolling roads. She jabbered with the animated stamina of a teenager describing her prom dress. “And all the bedding is from Scandia Home, and the bathrooms are stocked with Carthusia products.”

I nodded even though I had no idea what she was talking about as we nosed down the final curve. The car made a jagged stop at the outer gate of a villa clinging to a cliff. Elsbeth adjusted her oversized sunglasses, which made her look like a Waspy Sophia Loren.

“Elsbeth, you did not have to talk this place up,” I told her as I climbed out of the car.

The whitewashed villa was traced in terra-cotta and sitting among lush tropical hanging gardens: handsome, ancient
olive trees; thick palms and pines; lemon trees drooping with fruit; and flowers in punchy, flashy colors.

We entered through the foyer, which led to glass doors introducing a sun-bleached veranda. On the veranda, a tinkling fountain competed with a swimming pool that shone like a pillow-cut sapphire and overlooked the crescent of Positano and the cerulean Tyrrhenian Sea below.

(“It's the Tyrrhenian, not the Mediterranean, lamb,” Elsbeth corrected me. “A common mistake.”)

I had been to postcard-perfect southern Italy once before but as a low-rent backpacker set on seeing the salt-preserved bodies in Pompeii and maybe making out with a hot Australian backpacker in one of Italy's trashy, fever-dream nightclubs.

This trip is going to be a teensy bit different
, I concluded as the staff (yes, the
staff
) showed us to our rooms, though everyone but me had been here before.

The wonderful thing about Positano was that there was nothing to do. I couldn't wait to marinate in the Italian Limoncello sunshine—but of course I was here to work, I reminded myself. Though I was tempted to ask for a day or two for myself to do some scouting, I concluded that this was not the time to slack off on my au pair responsibilities. I had big plans for the girls this week, and I brought along boxes of watercolor paints, playing cards, and beach toys. I had planned day trips, seashell hunts, and beach games for us.

This was my moment to shine as an au pair extraordinaire by allowing Elsbeth and Mr. Darling to have their luxurious vacation while ensuring that the girls had a great time, too. Asking for time off now would seem flippant of me.

And so I would repurpose my acidic, hair-raising anger at
Lochlon as drilling motivation to ensure that I would go after everything I wanted in life—especially when it came to staying true to the promise I made to myself that I would try my hardest at this job.

Now, I just had to get access to
il telefono per un momento
. (I dug through the Italian dictionary for an hour to figure that one out.) I needed to tell Aston that I liked him, and then I could get on with it. You see, the longer I waited to do so, the more I doubted his feelings for me:
Did he
really
come off as strong as I remembered? And did he still feel that way about me after seeing me with Lochlon?

51

“S
TOP
BOUNCING
UP
and down.” I wrangled Gwen to the ground, slathering her with sunscreen.

“Can't stop! Won't stop! Too excited!” she said, bobbing up and down like a Whack-A-Mole. “Can we go to the pool now? Can we? Can we?”

“Mina?” I angled my neck toward Mina's adjoining room, connected by a Turkish bath–inspired lavatory—all heated marble floors and glorious fluffy white towels. “Are you almost ready? Gwen is about to pee herself.” My voice echoed off the imported tiles. My room, a Blue Grotto spectacle, was located right across the hall from the girls' rooms.

Mina walked into Gwen's room already in her bathing suit.

“As long as she doesn't pee in the pool,” she said, looking peculiar without her cell phone; it was like she was missing an appendage.

Speaking of, the plan was to get the girls in the pool, then see if I could borrow a phone off a maid or a cook or someone.

Apparently the villa “came with” (sounds so wrong) a staff of ten, as well as a German shepherd named Mussolini, which also sounded a little wrong.

Yet so far, we saw no one besides the butler: a mushroom of a man with tiny legs that bloomed into a massive, operatic chest. He said a whole bunch of stuff to us including a whole slew of “
mamma mias
” (seriously didn't think Italians really said that), sprinkled with “
bellissimas
,” then showed us to our rooms.

Elsbeth's first order of business was to get herself a seaweed wrap in the solarium. She said she'd meet us for dinner.

Mr. Darling was out driving a Ferrari or a cigarette boat, pretending to be in a Bond movie. (Not to sound unimpressed, but after a while all these ridiculous displays of wealth just blurred together.)

And me? All I wanted was to make a quick phone call and then take the girls down those winding stairs carved into the rock face and jump into the water, which was so frothy it looked carbonated.

Initially, I was a little surprised that everyone went off to do their own thing. Weren't they going tech-free to have family time? But then I realized that it was just a way to spend the whole day apart without having to stay in contact with one another.

“Are you guys sure you want to go into the pool instead of the ocean?” I asked the girls as they led the way to the patio.

“The ocean's too cold this time of year, Kika,” said Mina, shaking an aerosol can of sunscreen. “But the pool's heated.”

“Yeah, the pool's super fun,” said Gwen. “Let's go.” She
grabbed my hand. The girls had been coming here for years, so it was nothing special to them. But I couldn't ever imagine tiring of it.

On my count of three, both girls cannonballed into the pool, shattering the pristine stillness like glass. I clapped vigorously on the sidelines.

Another butler or waiter (I didn't want to call him a “servant” for God's sake!) came out onto the patio with freshly squeezed blood orange juice in too-fancy glasses.

“
Buon giorno
,” he greeted us politely and unloaded the tray of drinks onto a little frosted glass table beside my sun lounger.

I motioned for him to come closer to my lounge chair. “Excuse me, sir, but do you have a telephone I could borrow for a moment?”

He shook his head and babbled noisily, “
Mi scusi, mi scusi, non parlo inglese
.”

I motioned for him to lower the volume—I didn't want the girls to hear.

“Hmm, okay. Brrrrrrring! Brrrrrrrring!” I blared idiotically, forgetting all the Italian I learned a mere hour ago. I curved my hand into a phone shape and held it to my ear.

“Halo? Halo?” I said in an appalling generic foreign accent. I sounded way more Swedish than Italian, but it worked, and the young man began prattling in rattling-fast Italian.

“Non abbiamo i telefoni. Sono state rimosse come richiesto.”

“Kika Shores!” shouted Gwendy. She hoisted herself out of the pool and padded toward me.

The young waiter shrugged his shoulders up and down comically like a bird ruffling then smoothing its feathers. He
backed away with a routine of little bows while repeating:
“Mi scusi! Mi scusi!”

“You know you're not allowed to use phones,” Gwen said with her fists planted on her waist. Drips of chlorine water spattered on the pavement.

“Sorry, Gwendolyn. I know,” I said. “I just need the phone for one teensy second, though.”

“No dice, lady.” She picked up her blood orange juice and made a fish face around the straw.

“Mom called and made sure all the phones and computers were disconnected before we came,” said Mina, getting out of the pool as well.

“No shit. Really? She can do that?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” Mina said, like it was obvious. “One year, when she decided that we were all eating gluten free, she had them remove all the pasta from the premises. She literally took the
pasta
out of
Italy
! Having a few phones shut off is child's play for her.”

I looked at her, horror-struck.

Mina nodded. “We'll find some way to deal.”

I wrapped the girls in downy towels, and we slurped our juice wordlessly.

“It's actually not so bad being without my phone,” said Mina. “I guess it's just super annoying that it has to happen now when Peaches and I are
actually
friends. I mean, couldn't we have gone on vacation when I used to play Candy Crush on my phone and only pretend like I was texting?”

In a glorious turn of fate, Mina and Peaches had become genuine friends stemming from their mutual appreciation of preppy American fashion. As suspected, Peaches was just jealous
of Mina—even though she'd never admit it. But once Peaches saw who Mina really was (i.e., someone who'd let you borrow her cool American clothes rather than just use them to one-up you), Peaches changed her attitude. Now I just had to hope that Mina would rub off on Peaches and not the other way around.

I positioned the girls' chairs under giant, ice cream–colored parasols straight out of a Fellini film.

“Speaking of which . . . where are the Snotty McSnots Benson-Westwoods going on their school holidays? Somewhere standard-issue faaaaaabulous I'm sure.”

Mina shook her head. “Nope. They're staying in England—they're going to the countryside. Peaches says their estate is haunted so they're selling it. They have to clean out all their stuff.”

“Selling a family estate? That doesn't sound like much fun.”

“No,” said Mina, crossing her blue-white legs. I chucked the sunscreen over to her.

“They've been selling lots of stuff. At first Peaches didn't like it, but now she knows she's getting all new stuff, so she's okay with it.”

I raised my eyebrow. “What else have they been selling?”

“Peaches' nanny walks her home from school now because they sold the nanny's car. But it's okay because Peaches said they're getting something cooler. An awesome Italian sports car, a Linguine or whatever.”

“Hmm.” I nodded. “What else?”

“Peaches' mom made her sell her Louis Vuitton bags. She only has
one
Louis Vuitton bag left—the old one with the giant ink stain on the bottom. She said her mom took her others because she's getting a Paraty Chloé bag—the one that's made
from real python skin. So she doesn't care about her Louis Vuitton bags anymore.”

My mind drifted. I wondered if I would ever be the kind of girl to care about Chloé bags, seaweed wraps, or sports cars. I mean, just because Lochlon was going to be a farmer and father didn't mean I was going to just up and change one day, did it?

I would be lying if I said I wasn't blown back by how quickly he gave up the existence he wanted for himself. It's scary when someone similar to yourself morphs 180 degrees—it makes you think that one day it could happen to you.

But it won't happen to me
, I assured myself, setting my orange juice onto the table and crossing my legs.

“So Peaches is happy,” Mina concluded.

“Really, she doesn't mind? You'd think Peaches would be devastated having to sell all these things. Especially her precious bags,” I said.

“Well, she's not allowed to talk about it. She only tells me because we're for real best friends now.”

“I see,” I said. “Are you girls hungry? I can go into the kitchen and rustle up some grub if you want.”

“No, Kika.” Gwendy leaped up and trotted over to a silver panel intercom affixed to a wall curtained in bougainvillea.

“You just press here when you want something.” Gwendy sunk her chubby finger into a silver button.

“
Buon giorno, come posso aiutarla?
” asked a detached, static-tinged voice from the intercom.

“Hello, friend! This is Gwendolyn Prudence Darling III. Can we have more bloody orange juice and some delicious snacks?”

“Say please, Gwen,” I added from the sidelines. (Just because
we would have our every desire tended to didn't mean we could forget about our manners.)

“Please?”

“Of course,
piccola signora
. And where would you like it? At the pool?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very good,” confirmed the voice.

“Thanks!” said Gwen, looking very impressed with herself. I gave her a thumbs-up.

Mina turned to me to elaborate, and Gwen went back into the pool. “There's a button in every room that connects to reception. Just press it whenever you want anything. They speak English, but most of the staff don't.”

“Thanks for the tip. Life here is not so bad, huh?”

“Nope, even without a connection to the real world, it's not too bad,” Mina said, resting her hands behind her head.

A little while later, the same young waiter from earlier arrived with a tray of olives, tangy cheeses, and cured meats, along with another carafe of blood orange juice.

“
Qui ci sono gli ‘
snack
,' belle ragazze
,” he said merrily as if we had any idea what it meant. He set out the food with delicate care and beamed us a toothy smile.

“
Grazie
,” said Mina shyly.

His thick eyebrows jumped.
“Si parli italiano splendidamente, signora!”

Mina blushed violently. I surveyed him and guessed him to be around age fifteen or sixteen, and it occurred to me that Mina might be trying to flirt with him.

She shook her head at the young man, growing redder. “
Imparo a scuola
,” she said meekly in a clumsy accent.

I lobbed a fat, oily olive into the air to catch in my mouth but then froze mid-throw when I heard Mina speak. “Mina, do you speak Italian?” The olive bounced off my nose with a greasy thud.

Gwen fell over in a fit of giggles—she always had a thing for slapstick.

“Not really, I just told him that I'm learning Italian in school. Don't tell my mom yet because she wants me to take French. But Italian is so beautiful, and next year I can take both languages.” She looked shyly proud and leaned back on the swanky sun lounger.

“Bravo, Mina! How admirable. Ask him his name, would you? I feel bad bossing the poor kid around without knowing his name.”

Mina bashfully turned to the young waiter to ask him, and he responded slowly, drawing out the syllables: “Beeee-niiiiii-to.” He proudly stabbed his chest with his fingertip.

“Benito,” we all repeated, and then we introduced ourselves.

“Tell him, ‘
Grazie, Benito
,'” Mina said to Gwendy, and she complied most cutely. Benito swooped out with a half bow and left us to bake in the sun, our tall glasses of juice growing sweaty with condensation.

“So, Mina,” I began airily, “do you know how to say, um, I don't know”—I wafted my hand in the air as if wracking my brain for the first word that popped into my head—“like . . . um, ‘cell phone'? Do you know how to say that in Italian?”