by Silvia Zucca
“You don’t say? Does nobody appreciate a nice game of ‘I tie you up and stick pins under your fingernails’ these days? What has the world come to?”
We split up again to comb more areas, and when I ended up near the production room, Luciano leans over the video mixer and stops me.
“There you are, Alice.” For a second I worry that he wants to give me a lecture, too, but instead he nods toward the phone. “Nardi called. He wants you in his office. He told me to tell you that he found it. I don’t know what, but he found it.”
I charge the stairs two at a time. Now the little pest is going to get it.
When I throw open the door, however, I am taken aback. Davide turns toward me, without getting up from his armchair in order to not wake Riccardino, who is sleeping in his arms like a little angel.
“I found him next to the snack machine. He was already asleep, with his little hand tucked in the cabinet door.”
All these words are buzzing in my ears because all I can think is that there is nothing more captivating than a man with a sleeping baby in his arms.
He stands up. “I could use your help . . .”
Only when he reaches me do I notice that one of his hands is planted inside the child’s mouth, firmly between his teeth.
“Oh, oh god!”
“He won’t let go, and he doesn’t seem to have any intention of waking up. I don’t even know how he did it, since he was sleeping.”
I shrug my shoulders. “It must be a reflex, like with sharks.” I pinch Riccardino’s nose and less than three seconds later, the boy’s mouth snaps open, releasing his prey.
“You’re a woman of many talents,” comments Davide, passing the child to me and massaging his hand. “Be careful.”
“I dare him to try that with me,” I say with a wink. “I’m beginning to think that the witch from Hansel and Gretel had cause for what she did.” I try to shake off a lock of hair that has slipped onto my face and makes me want to scratch my nose, but with Riccardino in my arms I can’t get it; I keep blowing and blowing as it bounces up and down. Davide tries to help me, brushing my cheek with his fingers. As I feel red blotches burning into my face, I turn around and go out into the hallway.
“Thank you for finding him. And for calling me and not Enrico. For . . .”
“For not being the monster I’m supposed to be? Despite my job?”
“No . . .”
“Well, that’s what you were asking me before: How could anyone do this kind of job? Alice, I try to save companies, not destroy them. I want you to understand that. Really, it would mean a lot to me.”
“Sure. Of course, I understand,” I manage before hurrying away, because in truth I really don’t understand anything.
• • •
When I get to the production room, the show is over and almost everyone has left, but Raffaella is still there and flashes me a big smile.
“Enrico told me that you had problems tonight. Don’t worry. I handled everything here.” With her hand on the doorknob, she turns back to me. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Sergio got fired. I’m afraid that the slaughter has begun.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Who knows who will be next?”
She walks away, and I feel like I’m in a bubble. I hear Davide’s voice begging me not to be angry with him because it is nothing personal if he has to fire someone. Suddenly, I flash on an image: a memory from tonight when Davide answered that phone call and I was left alone in his office. At the time, not thinking about his role in the company but casting him in the lead role of one of my usual pseudoromantic projections, I had gone over to the desk and seen Sergio’s résumé—right next to mine.
Who knows who will be next?
Outside, it’s raining heavily. I hadn’t even noticed. I run toward my car, because the only thing that I want is to drive, turn on the radio full blast, numb myself with music, and not think about what is going on. I don’t want to think about Sergio, who no longer has a job; about Davide, who sent him packing; or about myself, who as usual didn’t have a clue what was going on.
But when I reach the car, I realize that once again I’ve been an idiot, because I left my purse with my car keys and everything else in the production room.
I go back in, slamming the door violently. I am furious.
I’ve had it with Davide, because he lied to me, because he’s not the person he seems; and with myself, because I keep interpreting every tiny thing as if I were wearing rose-colored glasses. I am so angry that I am out of breath. My blouse is soaked through to my skin, clinging so horribly that the only option is to remove it.
I’ve already done that when I realize that I’m not alone. Standing at the door to the production room, Alejandro doesn’t say a word but stares at me with his dark, distant Latin eyes. I don’t say anything either, but I approach him without removing my eyes from his.
With a fluid, tested motion he takes off his shirt, revealing those competition-worthy abs. I need this. I need to lose myself.
His lips have the salty taste of my despair.
11
* * *
Into the Wild Sagittarius
You did not do that!”
“Paola, it was just a kiss, it’s not like I made a porno on the production room counter.”
Honestly, I am gloating as I tell her, because yes, it was just a kiss, but a kiss as scorching as the Gobi Desert.
I felt like the beautiful, uninhibited women in American movies, the kind that walk into a bar and don’t even have to make an effort. Just one of their passionate, confident looks will instantly earn them a free drink, a man for the night (who of course would turn out to be their soul mate in any good romance film), along with a wedding gown, a country house with a pool, the latest Williams-Sonoma has to offer, and maybe even the best in orthopedic mattresses.
“You’re not exaggerating?” asks Paola, who, like a good best friend, is at the control tower, initiating my landing maneuvers. “Alice, listen, I’m happy that you experienced something so . . . so passionate, but I don’t want you to have any delusions about this guy. A guy who goes around half naked like an ape with a six-pack you could grate cheese on, and who jumps on top of you before you’ve even exchanged a hundred words, with full intentions of unleashing the anaconda . . . I don’t think that’s his way of looking for a soul mate.”
“You’re making this sound like a trip to the zoo,” I say, snorting. “And besides, I wouldn’t have been able to go all the way.”
“Thank God, Alice. I’m happy that you showed at least an ounce of self-control and that the irreparable didn’t happen.”
The “irreparable,” as she calls it, would have been at most a nice diversion for my nether regions that are now in early retirement and wouldn’t have said no to a carousel ride or, to continue the Tarzan metaphor, a swing on the vine.
“Yes, Granny, that, too. But it’s more because I have to clean up the area. Tomorrow, I have an appointment for a full wax, and then, if I find myself in the firing line again, it’s every man for himself,” I reply, teasing her.
On the telephone with Paola, it’s easy for me to play the fabulous femme fatale who has men falling at her feet at the snap of a finger, but in reality, I’ve never been able to snap my fingers. Maybe that’s why I’ve had to pull every trick in the book to get even a poor excuse for a boyfriend.
Given my results, maybe I should really practice snapping.
When I stamp my card on Monday morning, I am still rubbing my thumb on my index finger, in an attempt to produce a snap worthy of the name. More than anything else, I do it to release tension, although Tio’s message should have put me in a good mood.
Good morning, Libra
You are bursting with energy and zest for life and this is a disaster for the people around you. You can thank not only the Full Moon in Libra, but also the conjunction between Venus and Uranus that favors relationships and new friendships.
Be wary, however, of the Square Moon in Negative Transit with Neptune that leads you to give in to delusion, to abandon reality for a dream. Uranus in conjunction with Venus could cause you to fight with a loved one or even make you impulsive in your romantic choices and in drawing conclusions. However, the Sextile of Mercury with Pluto seems to indicate that you are on the right path to assert your personality and affirm your strength, especially in the work environment, where Saturn will back you up, encouraging concentration and allowing you to handle even stressful tasks with tranquility.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping to fill my lungs with strength and determination. However, when I let my breath go, I also exhale all the good intentions Tio has tried to instill in me. As much as I would like to abandon myself to the fantasy of being a superwoman who never asks for help, I can’t ignore the layoff that could be right around the corner, and I can’t avoid seeing Alejandro and facing the embarrassment of our Wednesday-night rendezvous. Then there’s Davide; I must face Davide.
The only person around right now is Conchita, who is emptying the trash, dusting the desks, and watering the plants. It occurs to me that she may truly be the only one around here who does any work.
“Hey, Conchy, do you know where everyone else is?”
She shrugs and then makes a gesture of bringing an invisible glass to her lips, with her pinky carefully lifted.
“Toes,” she says. And when I shake my head because I didn’t understand, she adds, “Café.”
As I cross the hallway toward the cafeteria, I hear a growing buzz. When I push open the revolving doors, everyone is there. They are toasting with coffee and fruit juice.
“Congratulations!” Enrico exclaims, giving Carlo a pat on the back and a warm handshake.
“Congratulations, Cristina!” says Raffaella, handing over an enormous package.
This is not your average “good job” professional toast. I have crashed the baby shower for Carlo’s future offspring.
“You are all amazing and too kind. Thank you, friends,” says my ex-friend, so sugary sweet that I want to vomit.
As Cristina starts to unwrap the package, Raffa sees me and suddenly, as if in slow motion, lifts her hands and brings them to her mouth. “Alice!”
Everyone turns to look at me. Carlo takes a step forward but stops dead in his tracks after a death stare from his soon-to-be wife and soon-to-be mother of his child.
“Um, Alice, welcome,” says Cristina. “And thank you,” she adds, indicating the beribboned package.
Raffa steps toward me, surrounded by the Secretaries of Eastwick from upstairs. “Actually, Alice wasn’t part of the gift,” she says, then turns toward me with an understanding look. “It seemed kinder not to tell you about all this,” she added only to me, confirming that I was purposely not invited to their lovely little party.
All that I am able to come up with in response is, “Excuse me.”
I take a step backward, and in a desperate attempt to reach the door, someone grabs my arms.
“To tell the truth, Alice did know about this gathering. I told her when I asked her to help me pick out a gift.” Davide drags me forward. “In fact, we decided to get it together. Here it is.”
I stare into his eyes while that annoying gnat Cristina breathily gushes.
“Oh, wow, thank you. You are too kind. Right, Carlo? Aren’t they so kind? Both of them. Davide and Alice.”
“Thank you, Davide. And Alice,” says my ex-boyfriend. “Thank you for giving us a . . . mini acoustic guitar.”
“Um, I imagine that Carletto Junior will enjoy it . . . in a few years,” says Cristina.
I see Davide blush. Davide Nardi, the fastest firer in the West, who probably just put my name at the top of his lengthy hit list. Incidentally, it’s not like everyone has let up on their death stares since Davide came to my rescue. If you’re born the Grim Reaper, you can’t suddenly start calling yourself Lancelot and attempt to be the most chivalrous knight of the realm.
“I don’t know about you, but I need a coffee,” I tell Davide to remove him from the awkward situation with Carlo and Cristina. It’s the least I can do to repay him.
“I’d love one,” he says, following me to the counter.
We stand together in complete silence as the barista makes our coffee.
“How did . . .”
“Do you know . . .”
We speak over each other, just as the cups hit the saucers.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Go ahead.” He shakes his head, still not looking me in the eye.
“I just wanted to ask if you knew how the first episode of Astrological Guide went.”
“Oh, sure. Well. I think well, but we are going to check the share later with the president.”
I sigh and gulp down my coffee, hoping that this is really the case.
When I see Davide frown and look at a point over my shoulder, I instinctively turn around, and I see Conchita in front of me, with her mop in one hand and a yellow rose in the other.
“For-ju,” answers Conchita. “Brang now. For-ju.”
“I think she wants to say that they brought it for you just now, Alice,” explains Davide. “Thank you, Conchita.”
Davide slips the flower out of the woman’s hand and gives it to me, but I remain frozen, with my eyes interlocked with his, because at that precise moment an arm finds its way around my waist, and a pair of soft, warm, Latin lips land on my neck. A voice behind me whispers: “Mi amor . . .”
If it weren’t for my current situation, perhaps I would start laughing, imagining myself as Morticia Addams and responding to the pinch on my butt by saying, “Thank you, Thing!”
But there’s nothing to laugh about. Not while I’m looking at Davide, anyway. Rose in hand, Davide stands there long enough to watch Alejandro dancing the lambada against me at nine in the morning, then puts the flower down on the counter.
“Well, I have to go,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Have a nice day, Alice.”
12
* * *
Libra Girls Are Easy
Back in the day, I was a big fan of Agatha Christie, but never in my wildest dreams would I have thought my life would someday start to resemble a thriller . . . And yet, I find myself grappling with the Mystery of the Yellow Rose.
It’s not a very original title, but here’s the gist: I haven’t the slightest idea who sent that rose to me.
I admit, at first I assumed it was the work of Steel Jeeg, given that the handsome Alejandro materialized practically in sync with the rose, but he denied it immediately.
“Hello, Mom?” I ask, when I hear her voice at the other end of the telephone.
“Hi, dear, what’s up?”
“Um . . . Did you or Dad send me flowers at the office?”
“Guido, someone sent Alice flowers and she doesn’t know who!” yells my mother.
“They made a mistake!” cries my father charmingly from the other part of the house.
“Why does it have to be a mistake? I can’t get flowers?” I whine, hurt.
I hear my father in the background: “If someone sends you a flower or two, it’s because he’s not sure what to do, but he wants to go to bed with you.”
I sigh. “OK, I have to go. Thanks for the poetry, Dad.”
When I hang up, I feel a strange shiver run down my spine. What if this is the first move of a stalker?
This really is the limit. Here I am, without even the slightest hint of a boyfriend, and someone falls in love with me and starts stalking me by sending roses. If this guy had some guts and just made himself known, I’d probably at least give him a shot.
“Who knows what sign he might be . . .”
At lunch, I try to distract myself from the imminent threat of a stalker by eating with Tio.
“Come on, you received a flower, not a human ear!” he teases.
“Yes, but I want to know who sent it.”
“Because you are as curious as a monkey.”
He looks around the cafeteria. “Nardi? I see him as a secret admirer.”
Davide. I lift my gaze toward the mezzanine level of the cafeteria. He’s at a table with Mr. President and the head of HR.
“I don’t think so. He seemed surprised when Conchita showed up.”
“Conchita? Or Abdominal Man?”
I haven’t seen Davide again since this morning. I should be happy about Abdominal Man’s—I mean Alejandro’s—attentions, but thinking about that moment makes me feel a little uncomfortable.
“Speak of the devil . . . and his biceps appear.”
Tio’s words make me turn to stare at the revolving doors through which Alejandro appears, surveying the terrain like a gunslinger in a saloon.
At the table next to ours, the assistant from Mal d’Amore, Mara, beckons him over, and he approaches with a cheetah-like gait, fluid, languid, and full of sex appeal.
Except he doesn’t sit in the place that she freed up by moving her bag. One step away from the chair, Alejandro shakes his mane and deviates toward me, eyeing Tio like a competing stallion.
“Aliz, mi amor, there you are.” He takes my hand, delicately removes the salad-laden fork from my fingers, and plants a kiss on my knuckles.
“I eh-search mucho. I miss you . . .”
Then Alejandro pulls my hand toward him, in a motion that suggests we need to leave the cafeteria. Now.
“Ven conmigo, querida.”
Swayed by the Spanish timbre of his voice, I feel almost as slinky as a cheetah myself as we walk out.
• • •
“Why don’t we put it to a vote,” I say, raising my hand. I’m sitting opposite Tio, staring quizzically at the cell phone on the desk between us.
“It’s a no from me, Alice. Absolutely not,” says Paola from the other end of the line.
“So, in your opinion, I should go out with Alejandro tonight like this . . . without waxing?!”
“You asked me and I’m telling you. If you don’t wax, it won’t even remotely cross your mind to give it up on the first date. It’s a tactic, Alice. With men like that, all it takes is a half-smile and you’ve lost your underwear. Have some sense!”