A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  lean on the bar as I order a double espresso. How did I get myself into this? Why am I not just hanging out with Bob and making weird art? Oh right, I actually sleep at night. But I didn’t come for a frères à trois either. As the bartender serves me my espresso, I notice two attractive girls on a couch nearby, one with her head on the other’s shoulder as they share a guidebook. Tourists. They’re also in matching bathing suits and towels. Must be waiting their turn in the tub. They remind me of Yin and Yang. Suddenly I miss my friends. I walk over and ask if I can sit.

  “Sure, honey! We’re not havin’ any luck with the boys anyways,” says the one on the left. “You seem to be doing okay over there though!”

  “Oh! You aren’t together?” I ask.

  “Gawd no!” they laugh. “We’re from Houston, not Austin!”

  “Sisters?” I ask. They nod. Of course. They look just alike. Perfetto. “You ladies see those two guys? They’re Sicilian brothers—sweet, handsome, smart, and great tour guides. But in a few minutes, they’re going to be very lonely, because I’m going to my room to take a shower and work on my book. Maybe you could help entertain them so I can get some work done?”

  “You had us at Sicilian brothers!” laughs the one on the left.

  As I watch the girls walk over, peel off their towels, and climb into the hot tub, the shocked look on the brothers’ faces makes me smile. I pick up my bag from the chair and fumble for my room key, feeling my phone vibrate. I pull it out. Another message.

  Chapter 30

  How Not to Have Phone Sex

  Pensione Vista Celeste, Taormina: Saturday, 9:46 p.m.

  More Portuguese. I’m beginning to feel more like a researcher than a flirt.

  Estou bem sem você,

  Como um pássaro sem asas.

  Eu caio sem você, eu falho sem você.

  This translates to:

  I am fine without you

  Like a bird without wings.

  I fall without you, I fail without you.

  I fall without you? I shake with excitement. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m standing here in my wet bathing suit? I strip off and jump into a nice warm shower, where I think about his message over and over. I fail without you? He still wants me. It’s definitely the same song. I quickly towel off and jump straight into bed naked. Burrowing down in the duvet, I grab my tablet and pull it inside my cocoon to start my search for the song. I’ve got more lyrics now, should be easy. Wrong. I’ve got two stanzas and still can’t put it together. I wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in The Da Vinci Code.

  But then, I realize I’m searching in English and the original song is Portuguese. I try a search with the Portuguese lyrics. BINGO. “I Am Without You.” It’s a song from a Brazilian singer in the 1980s. Wow. This guy knows his music. I catch myself smiling, staring at this tanned, Brazilian heartthrob with David Hasselhoff hair, in a banana yellow shirt. I play the song on YouTube. It is totally 80s, cheesy, sweet, and perfetto. There’s even sax, or as I call it, the classic 80s sex-ophone. Grinning, I text back a sexier lyric from the song.

  Sem o seu beijo, eu estou nua.

  Without your kiss, I am naked.

  I lie in bed, thinking of Frantonio’s kisses that first night in the back of the restaurant by the bathroom. Those beautiful brown eyes behind his designer glasses—which I probably broke as I kneed him in the groin and ripped open his shirt. I think of his face, red with anger and unwanted desire as he stood in front of me in the library—after I had literally pissed on his artistic endeavor and stomped on his ego. And he still wants me.

  Have I finally mastered Regina’s lessons? Have I harnessed the sexual gaze? Or have I just fallen into the right man’s arms at all the wrong times? Whichever it is, I’m still thrilled. I turn out the light and slide lower under the duvet. My hands caress my breasts and I imagine Frantonio’s lips on them. My fingertips tease my nipples as his tongue did. My other hand slides around my bare ass, and my fingers find their way between my legs, the way Frantonio’s did as he held me up against the wall—BUZZ!

  My hands instantly go into the air like I’m being robbed. NOTHING! NOT DOING ANYTHING! But it’s only my phone vibrating loudly on the bedside table. It stops. Okay, just another message. I’m thankful it’s not a call from Rosalie. She has always had the uncanny ability to interrupt my moments of solo pleasure, even when I was in college, living with my roommate Laurel. It’s like she’s got sexually repressed Protestant guilt radar.

  I grab the phone in the dark and pull it toward me, but it’s yanked out of my hands onto the floor by its cable. Right, I plugged it in. I slide half out of the bed, still naked, grope for the phone on the floor, and open the message, hanging off the bed, tits dangling. YES! It’s from him.

  Sem você a vida não tem aventura.

  More lyrics? Come on dude. I sit back into bed and translate these with Trusty:

  Without you life has no adventure.

  Okay, so let’s have some adventure. Stop playing games. Feeling brave, I text back.

  Serenades are lovely,

  but the words of others.

  I wait for your voice,

  under the covers.

  Overly proud of my ability to rhyme, I smugly snuggle down and wait. How could he not call now? Then I realize what I’ve done. It’s after ten, I’m in bed. I’ve just sent an invitation for phone or video chat sex. My whole body cringes at the thought. I’m really not good at this. I tried once with a Canadian firefighter I’d met on vacation, but had botched it badly and awkwardly rushed through it as if one of us was paying per minute.

  HELPFUL HINTS FROM MY PAST FAILED EXPERIENCE IN VIDEO CHAT SEX:

  1. Don’t start the conversation in a vocal register you can’t sustain because you’re trying to sound like Scarlett Johansson or Kathleen Turner.

  2. Don’t try to channel your inner phone sex operator.

  3. Don’t forget that photos can be taken during the video chat.

  4. When you remember this, don’t then try to take a photo of your ass so you can see what it looks like on camera.

  5. Don’t try to watch yourself while you talk to him.

  6. Don’t say more than he does.

  7. Don’t show more than he does.

  8. Don’t forget to charge your device, the battery will die before you—

  I’m desperate not to make the same mistakes tonight. I jump out of bed and check the mirror: the corpse of a drowned clown with half dried hair and smeared makeup stares back at me. Oh my God! I quickly clean my face and tousle my hair, going for a sexy bedtime look. It just looks messy. I tousle it more and rub some product in. Now I look like Cyndi Lauper. I grab my makeup bag to start fresh. Wait. Makeup in bed looks high maintenance. I go with naturally sexy Cyndi Lauper, ditching the makeup and jumping back in bed. I check the tablet to make sure I’m signed in. Phone on the left, tablet on the right. I position the sheet perfectly over my breasts to show just a hint of cleavage. Actually, there isn’t much cleavage. Pulling a pillow under the duvet I bolster my breasts, arch my back just enough to look sexy and be uncomfortable, and reposition the sheet. Now I’m ready for my Playboy cover.

  I wait. Why is it so hot in here? I realize I’m sweating. Will he be able to see that? What will I say on the phone? I can’t talk dirty in French or Italian. I can barely talk dirty in English. I grab the tablet and quickly Google “phone sex for dummies.” This is a really bad idea. Do not EVER do this. Trust me. Your laptop or computer will be immediately deluged with advertisements for escort services and photos of naked women rubbing phones on their breasts and vaginas. Gross. I wouldn’t even want to use my own phone after I rubbed it on my own vagina.

  RING! A video call! Oh my God it’s him. No, wait—it’s not him. Why is Will calling me in the middle of the—oh, it’s the middle of the day for him. Do I answer? What if Frantonio calls? Will can see I’m online. I can’t not answer. I reach over to turn on the lamp, pull the sheet up to my neck, and answer.

 
“Hello?” I try to sound groggy. Maybe he’ll call back tomorrow.

  “Marina?” Will is sitting on his back deck at home. I’m not prepared for the feeling his deep, soft voice produces in me. I had no idea I missed him so much until this exact moment. However, I quickly stuff this down deep and ignore it.

  VIDEO CALL

  Call—Will Kittridge—10:47 p.m.

  “Hey. This is a surprise,” I say.

  “Yeah?” He seems a little confused.

  “But it’s nice to hear from you.”

  “Oh.” He looks down. I can’t really see his eyes. “You sure?”

  “Totally. What’s up? How are you? Everything good?”

  “Marina, are you okay?” he asks. Am I acting strange? I glance down at my phone. Nothing yet. Keep it together. Will looks back at the camera. “You seem . . . weird.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just . . . I was expecting a call . . . from someone.”

  “Oh.” His expression completely changes. He stares at me. “You were.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were expecting a call from someone, naked in bed.” His soulful, hazel eyes blink away something I don’t quite get.

  “Uh . . . yeah.” I look away. Everything inside me feels sick.

  “Well, I better not keep you.”

  “It’s fine—I can talk—”

  “All good. Just checking in. You’re keeping busy, so that’s—yeah. I gotta go.”

  “Will, I—”

  “I’m actually late to pick up Mom for lunch so—”

  “Will, we’re not together anymore. I don’t have to feel guilty.”

  “Nobody’s making you feel anything.”

  “You’re still doing boyfriend stuff, like driving from Miami to give me books—”

  “And FedExing tablets. You’re right,” he says roughly. Touché. Now he’s looking at me again. “That book I gave you was a loan. I need it back.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “Seriously? If you’re asking me that, you haven’t even opened it.”

  “Yes I have. I read the first four pages!”

  “And you missed the inscription from Hailey?” His eyes are hard now, the way they used to get after we had a fight. A lurch of guilt washes through me. Shit.

  “I guess so. I’m sorry, Will.”

  “I gave it to you because it was her favorite book. I thought you needed it for a while. Take care of it please.”

  “Yes. Of course I will.”

  “I gotta go, Marina, have a good night.”

  “You too. I mean, lunch,” I say. He looks right into the camera.

  “Look after yourself.”

  He hangs up. I turn off the tablet. Shit. Shit. Shit. I just gave away a book my ex-boyfriend’s dead sister gave him. I have to get it back.

  Chapter 31

  How Not to Do Things the Easy Way

  Alitalia flight AZ1780 Milan: Tuesday, 1:46 p.m.

  I’m on a plane, on my way to Milan. The events and conversations that transpired to put me here, in seat 14E, thirty-eight thousand feet over Italy, sipping a tomato juice with lime, still seem like a highly blended cocktail of excited panic, ridiculous ideas, and dubious choices. Whether a love potion or a Molotov cocktail has been created remains to be seen.

  After my desperate phone calls to the number I’d been using to exchange flirty song lyrics with Frantonio went strangely unanswered, I called Regina and spilled my guts. She told me Frantonio was famous for his moodiness and games, so it didn’t surprise her that he was playing it cool. Just last week, at her villa, he had relentlessly coerced her into being his date for a charity masquerade ball he was hosting in Venice this Friday, but he had yet to call and give her details. Presuntuoso! Did he think she had costumes of every sort, just standing by? (In truth, she had her personal dresser in Milan on standby, but that was beside the point.) Without a moment’s hesitation, Regina decided that I should go to the ball in her stead. She had Piero #2 booking me a flight before I could blink.

  “Go see Sheela first, in Milan. She’ll get you decked out in something fabulous. Then, you go to the ball in Venice, get your book and whatever else you want from him. È Perfetto, carina.”

  “Wow. That’s definitely one plan. Or another plan could be, I know this sounds crazy, just get him to FedEx me the book,” I say, laughing.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Because, he’s expecting you at the charity ball, Regina, not me.”

  “My dear, his ego wants me there. His penis would prefer you.” I hoped she was right.

  “Who is Sheela in Milan?”

  “My stylist. She dresses me for all my events.”

  “Didn’t you say this was a masquerade ball? I’ll need a costume, not just a gown, right? She can help me find one?” I ask. At this Regina just laughs.

  “I’ll tell her you’re coming. You’ll stay with her a couple of days in Milan, then we’ll get you a car to Venice. You’re doing me a favor, Marina. I hate these functions. Surrounded by rich, non-creative people who just want my autograph, photo, or money. Faticoso.”

  “Totally. I hate fattycosos. They won’t want my autograph.”

  “Not yet, my cara autrice.” I can hear her smile. “Not yet.”

  “Regina . . . thank you.”

  “Non è niente, carina. Have fun. I want to read it all in your book.”

  “My travel blog,” I laugh.

  “Meglio! No editor to cut out the sexy parts.”

  Teatro alla Scala, Milan: Tuesday, 5:43 p.m.

  No, I am not taking a tourist side jaunt to one of the most famous opera houses in the world. If the iconic sails of the Sydney Opera house or the ballerinas of Degas in the Paris Opera now jump to the front of your mind, it’s because you’re not a true opera aficionado. (Neither am I, but after a quick online search, I realized I was in for a treat.) In 1778 La Scala was the preeminent meeting place for the noble and wealthy. Puccini, Verdi, and Rossini premiered their operas here. La Scala is the crème de la crème of opera.

  “Tours are over for today,” a man in a gray suit informs me. I tell him I’m there to see Sheela and his expression becomes indecipherable. Surprise? Fear? Pity? He lets me in and instructs an underling in a vest and ponytail to take me to the costume department. I follow her through a series of hallways, down a series of steps, down another hall, into the bowels of the ancient building. Everything smells old, and fancy. Dust and brass. Marble and velvet. As we reach the door to the costume department, the girl stops and just points. This is as far as she goes, I guess.

  “Sheela works in there?” I ask. The girl cocks her head and peers at me sideways with contemptuous, narrow eyes.

  “Signora O’Shaughnessy è la capo costumista per Aida.” Her brow wrinkles and her ponytail wags. I want to reach up and pull it down like a doorknocker, to straighten her head.

  “Thanks.” She shakes her head and disappears. I stand outside the door, unsure. Capo costumista? I know capo means head. Head costumer? Regina’s personal stylist just happens to be the costume designer for La Scala’s upcoming production of the legendary opera Aida? And she’s going to dress me for a charity ball? I digest this revelation. Uhhhh. Fuck yeah. I swing the door open with gusto.

  Inside the costume department are people dyeing fabric, people sewing, people painstakingly working with feathers, leather, velvet, and metal. There’s an entire room of women making and styling wigs. I gawk as I wander through the busy workshop. This is a peek inside the theatrical underbelly that is not on the tour. The machines are loud, but even louder there is Verdi playing from somewhere. Everyone is too busy to notice me. Finally, I see a door with an antique brass sign, Capo Costumista. Bingo. I knock, but there is so much noise, I’m certain nobody heard. I crack the door open and stick my head in. There is a middle-aged, stylish woman with red cat-eye glasses and 1960’s mod makeup sitting behind a computer. Above her on the wall is the head of a fuzzy unicorn costume, mounted like a hunting trophy. Od
d. I step inside.

  “Excuse me, Sheela? I’m Marina Taylor. Regina sent me?” The woman looks me up and down and purses her lips. The unicorn above her stares at me vapidly with his black cheesecloth eyeholes. I think he likes me more than she does.

  “Yes, we received her message,” she says unenthusiastically.

  “I guess, I need a costume for this charity thing she wants me to go to?”

  “Mais bien sur. We are not busy designing an opera. We can drop everything to make a costume for an American girl to go to a party. Oui?” she says. French? Sheela O’Shaughnessy is French?

  “So . . . that’s a yes? You’re going to help me with a costume?”

  “No. I am not,” she says. I’m silent. Completely thrown.

  “Marie, are you being a bitch to our guest?” croaks a voice from behind me.

  “Sheela is going to help you,” says the French woman as I turn around. Behind me stands the living Medusa. Only, instead of snakes there is a writhing, sprawling, crawling, dangling head of dreadlocks. They’re every color including her natural gray. She can’t be less than seventy. The fullness of her face hides many of her wrinkles, but her neck looks like a tree stump covered with bread dough wearing more jewelry than an Egyptian corpse. She’s wearing a simple black sheath dress, purple knee socks, and high-top vans. An unlit cigarette dangles from her lips.

  “Get the fuck out of my chair,” she barks at Marie. “I don’t want it smelling like fettuccini farts.” Her voice sounds like Lauren Bacall with a diluted Irish brogue. She’s obviously smoked her whole life and worked all over the world.

  “I had a salad!” Marie objects sharply as she gathers her stuff.

  “Like hell. I may be seventy-six but I can still smell a garlic fart.” With bright green fingers Sheela pulls the unlit cigarette from her mouth and smiles at me. “Please excuse Marie. She’s got a fire poker up her arse, and she can be a bore, but she’s more organized than a German watchmaker. I can’t live without her.” Marie exits in a huff, throwing me a withering glance. Jealousy? I wonder if their relationship is more than professional.