Mad About You

by Anna Premoli

  It rings something like five or six times before he decides to answer. Once upon a time it took him two seconds tops, but once upon a time, Fil had other priorities, evidently.

  “Giada!” he says, sounding almost surprised to hear from me.

  “Filippo!” I cry back, imitating his tone of voice. For once he seems to realize his mistake and tries to hide his amazement.

  “Are you going to bed?”

  “Actually, I’ve just got back from work.”

  Even though I can’t see him, I know perfectly well that he is rolling his eyes.

  “Well, I’m not going to say anything, because you already know how I feel about that.”

  Know?! Jesus, I don’t just know, I could write an encyclopedia on Filippo’s vision of life, a condensed version of which runs something like ‘Commitments? What are commitments?’

  “It’s normal that it’s hard at the beginning. I have to learn the job and get up to speed with everything,” I reply even though I know perfectly well that I’m wasting my breath.

  “Or maybe companies should stop asking one person to do the work of four,” he says. Yeah, well, if everyone had his enthusiasm it would take four people, never mind twenty.

  “I’m not on my own, there are two of us.”

  “Well at least you’re not getting bored,” he says distractedly.

  I wait for him to ask me if I’m working with a man or a woman, but no comment is forthcoming from the other end of the line. Or at least, not the kind of comment I would expect.

  “Listen, Giada, I’m really sorry but I’m with the guys from the band and we’re planning how to organize some dates that we have to play...” he says, politely bringing an end to the call. He used to be much more direct and had no problems at all telling me what was on his mind, but now it’s obvious that he doesn’t want to open up with me. I wonder if maybe I’ve learned to keep myself detached too without even realizing it, and how long this emotional distance, which is gradually turning into an abyss, has been growing.

  No one knows better than me how difficult it is to end this relationship. It used to be able to make me forget all my shortcomings and my difficulties with my parents. I was a rebellious and angry young girl when I met Fil. He accepted me when I wasn’t even able to accept myself, and he taught me to defend myself and to go my own way. It feels terrible to think that in a way the confidence he helped give me is what is now driving me away from the person I used to be in such perfect harmony with. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since the last time that I felt that things were going well between Fil and me, but is it really too late for us to save our relationship? Too late to turn back the hands of time?

  “Okay, well, see you then,” I say, suppressing the urge to scream. It’s powerful, this urge to get some kind of reaction from him. To hell with this innate politeness of mine and the power it continues to have over me and my instincts.

  “See you,” he replies and hangs up.

  For a moment I sit there motionless staring at the phone screen as it goes dark. Everything in my life feels pretty dark at the moment to be honest. I give a snort of annoyance, cover my eyes with a hand and drop my phone onto the bed.

  I’m agitated and I need to let off some steam with someone and I’m just about to call Lavinia and unleash a torrent of emotional psychobabble on her when the screen of the phone lights up again. I snatch it up curiously and read the message which has just arrived from an unknown number.

  Get home okay? A.

  I blink in surprise several times, then smile in spite of myself and quickly type my answer.

  Who gave you my number, Bertha?

  Giovanni. Who got it from Lavinia.

  The traitorous cow!! But you already had my work number...

  For some reason, I’m finding anything that has any connection with work depressing after spending all day in the office. And I didn’t want to risk incurring the wrath of Iris. Tough day, eh?

  The thing is that it actually was, really tough, and that he is the only person on the face of the earth who at this very moment knows just how tough. The rest of them can imagine it, but Ariberto Castelli – the man with whom I had practically nothing in common before the start of this week – is the only one who has actually seen first-hand how hard it was to get that damn presentation for tomorrow morning ready.

  I reply quickly.

  Well one good thing came out of it: I now detest Power Point.

  I already did.

  Good for you: I’d never bothered with it. Before today.

  By the end of the six months you’ll hate it even more than you hate me ... :-)

  I don’t hate you at all, Bertha. We’re just different.

  As I type the words I am a bit surprised to realise that I actually believe it. Why is everything so weird today?!

  That must mean I’m climbing the ladder out of purgatory, then: I bet you still hated me yesterday morning.

  I shake my head and smile in spite of myself. Yes, it’s true, he wasn’t one of my favourite people on the planet. Not that he is now, mind you, but I have to admit that I misjudged him. After spending the whole day working side by side with him, I’ve had to surrender to the evidence that he isn’t stupid, he isn’t winging it, and he isn’t even difficult to get on with. In fact, if I have to be totally honest, he’s actually quite friendly...

  It annoys me a bit to think that I was so prejudiced against him, but it’s not the end of the world. If I’m totally rational about it, it’s much better for me that I was wrong, because if I’d been right it would have meant having to work with a total idiot for six months. All’s well that end’s well, as they say.

  Let me remind you that I hid under my desk to stop you from finding me.

  Hah, I’d almost forgotten that!

  I don’t believe that for a minute.

  You’re right not to. :-) I’m planning on telling that story to my grandchildren.

  You’re a sadist, Bertha.

  Naaah I’m not.

  Why are you messaging me instead of using your time more productively?

  Why? Aren’t I making you laugh?

  Oooh, you have no idea how much...

  My message is meant to sound sarcastic, as usual, but I have actually been feeling a bit less depressed for the last few minutes and I’m even starting to relax here on the sofabed.

  Right, now that I’ve done my duty as a colleague, I can stop bothering you...

  Ah, so you admit that you were bothering me! :-)

  Goodnight Giada.

  Goodnight Bertha.

  You’re never going to call me Ari, are you? :-)

  Never, Bertha. Sweet dreams.

  Same to you, Ms. Spikes.

  *

  It takes me about a week to really get into the swing of it. By the middle of the second week I’m almost proud of myself and have started to feel vaguely adequate in the role of newbie business consultant.

  Shortly before the lunch break, a curious email that is sent around the whole office immediately causes great agitation. To tell the truth, it’s the first time I’ve seen some of the people around here look like they’re awakening from what I’d started to suspect must be their winter hibernation. Some people are absolute geniuses at pretending to be vitally important and always busy, and you need to learn how to tell whether it is true or just a very clever strategy.

  Ariberto finishes reading the email and his face assumes a strange expression. “A tennis tournament?”

  “I very much doubt interns will be invited...” I hasten to reassure him. If I’ve learned one thing over these first days here, it’s that interns have no rights. Nothing, nada, zero. Just keep your head down, work hard and never complain. Which is why I really can’t imagine anyone wanting to extend the invitation to the tournament to us. Which, given that I’ve absolutely no interest in playing, I’m not particularly cut up about.

  “Oh everyone participates. Absolutely everyone,” says Iris, appearing be
hind me as usual. Now there’s a woman who really likes making a surprise entrance. “Do you two know how to play?”

  It’s been a while since I last held a racket but I reckon I can hold my own – my parents always thought that playing tennis came immediately after learning to walk and talk in order of importance for a person in our social circle. Or rather, in their social circle. I don’t feel like I’m part of anything anymore, let alone a circle.

  When I was a young girl I spent so much time at the local tennis club that I almost started considering it home. It’s a pity that I refused to carry on with it when I became a teenager – not because I didn’t like it as a sport, far from it, but because it was something my parents liked. It’s a pretty contorted motive, I know, but I’ve always been a complicated girl. It would be nice to be able to say that since then I’ve grown profoundly development and that today my actions are all the result of my own desires, but no, I can’t deceive myself. As much as I might want to cut for once and for all the unhealthy umbilical cord that connects my choices to the opinions of my parents, I haven’t quite got there yet.

  “I do,” Ariberto promptly replies. Not that I had much doubt: he has the vaguely athletic air of someone who plays every sport going, or has at least tried them all.

  “And what about you, Giada?” asks Iris.

  For some strange and inexplicable reason, I really want to pick up a racket. And this time around, my parents would never even know.

  “I used to play ages ago...” I answer cautiously. But it’s enough for Iris, whose eyes light up immediately.

  “Great! Another couple of participants will come in really useful. Especially because the tournament is in mixed doubles. Well, consider yourselves signed up, guys!” And so saying she disappears from our sight with the same speed with which she had appeared. This annoying ability of hers to appear and disappear in the blink of an eye is really starting to freak me out. I’m not sure she’s human. I think she might be teleporting.

  “We’ve been shafted...” laughs Ari.

  “We’re worse than shafted, Bertha,” I sigh.

  “How well do you play?”

  “I used to be good, like a decade ago or something. Do you reckon that still counts for something?”

  “Hopefully it’s like riding a bicycle, isn’t it?”

  “I doubt it’s like riding a bicycle... “

  “Don’t be a pessimist. You’ll see, it’ll be fun,” he says, affecting absolute tranquillity. And for the first time in history, I hope he’s right.

  *

  I’m clutching the racket that one of Ariberto’s friends has kindly loaned me and praying that the palm of my hand will stop sweating. I’m not nervous, I’m literally terrified. I used to think this game was fun once upon a time – let’s hope to God it still is.

  Ari – dressed in blue shorts and white T-shirt with popped collar and looking like the living personification of a tennis snob – turns to me and gives me a reassuring look. I really don’t understand how he could have thought that making me serve first was a good idea. Everybody knows that in mixed couples, the person with the strongest service is the one who is supposed to start the game, so why am I now standing on the sideline nervously bouncing a tennis ball and preparing to get things going?

  As well as that, if I were him, I’d get away from that net and position myself a bit more defensively. He’s taking it for granted that I’m going to be able to handle cross-court shots. Which, unless it’s accidentally, I very much doubt.

  After having taken multiple deep breaths, I make the sign of the cross and then serve with all of my strength. And obviously, the ball hits the net full-on.

  “It’s not a matter of life or death, Giada,” he reminds me with one of his relaxed smiles, “it’s just a silly game.” I don’t know how he always manages to be so damn Zen about everything. I couldn’t be as calm about everything as he is even under hypnosis. “And if you don’t relax you’ll never manage to play it,” he adds.

  This small provocation reignites a spark of the competitive spirit of the past inside me, and my second service – although much slower than the first – successfully passes over the net. But my moment of inner exultation only lasts a second, which is just long enough for me to realize that the guy on the other side of the net is about to send the ball flying back towards me at the speed of a missile. Oh God...

  The only thing that stops me from closing my eyes is the realisation that at that point I’d have absolutely no hope of hitting it. But while I’m busy trying to convince myself I ought to start moving towards it, Ari stretches out along the net with unbelievable ease and cuts off the ball with a swing so effective that our opponents don’t have time to move to stop it.

  Holy smokes – so that’s why he was standing there.

  Of course, being over six feet tall helps a lot, but that athletic gesture was still pretty damn impressive. And I’m not usually easily impressed.

  “Wow...” I say before I can stop myself.

  Ari bursts out laughing as he retrieves a ball and turns to throw it at me. “Just a stroke of luck,” he says, but I wasn’t born yesterday. That was no luck – this guy knows his stuff, at least when it comes to tennis. And I wish I could say that I don’t find tennis players attractive, but I always get this kind of weakness in my knees when I’m around them...

  It’s not just that, though – the fact that for once he was modest and didn’t show off his obvious tennis skills more than necessary, makes me feel so relaxed that I’m even able to respond to a smile. I mean, however bad it all goes and however crap my playing is, there’s a pretty good chance that Ariberto will still be able to remedy whatever mess I end up making.

  And this time, now that I’m concentrating properly, my service bounces off the baseline without our opponents even getting near it. Wow, that was surprising!

  He turns in my direction. “Not bad...”

  “Listen, I don’t want to be rude but are you two former professional players or something?” asks the worried-looking guy standing on the other side of the net.

  “Just beginner’s luck,” I reply with the utmost diplomacy, to the amazement of our adversaries, who are evidently innocent souls who have never previously come into contact with people like me. And their bemused gaze don’t escape me either, because although Ari might look like the picture of a perfect tennis player, I’m wearing a black t-shirt, black shorts and bright green trainers. Just for a touch of colour, you know? It’s pretty clear that Miss Pink Clothes over there finds my look a little disturbing, but the feeling is absolutely mutual – pink is one of the few colours I would never dye my hair, which ought to tell you how much I hate it.

  Ari throws me another ball while I prepare to serve for the second time to the right. It always used to be my favourite side. In theory, if I manage to serve along the left too, I could actually get a decent result here. This time the feeling of the ball between my fingers is almost familiar and the movement of the racket automatic. I suppose all those hours spent practicing actually did pay off after all.

  The service comes out perfectly balanced, fast and deep enough so that the guy on the other side only just manages to touch the ball, sending it flying high into the sky. Ari, who is standing in ambush at the net, hits it with an absolutely impeccable smash.

  I smile at him with satisfaction as I watch him walk over to high-five me.

  “Bertha, we’ve finally found a use for this disproportionate height of yours!”

  “Actually, there are other, more interesting uses for it...” he says in a low voice. He’s kidding, right. I mean, I hope he’s kidding.

  “Pull in your neck and concentrate on your game,” I say in an authoritative tone.

  “Hey, I can do two things at the same time,” he replies with a laugh.

  “No you can’t. Men and multitasking don’t mix.”

  Ari bends down to pick up a ball and throws it at me. “Serve, tennis goth.”

  “You’r
e not suddenly going to go all dominant alpha male on me, are you?”.

  “Don’t worry, being more alpha than you would be impossible,” he laughs, before heading off back in the direction of his beloved net.

  Thank goodness I’ve started playing decently because, now that I come to think about it, his lower back, which was just in plain sight there for a moment, could prove to be an annoying distraction.

  The result is an extraordinary 6-0, 6-0 for us. Our male opponent gives us a rather annoyed glare. “Good job you aren’t professionals...” he mutters as he walks away from the court.

  Pah, bad losers... Ok, maybe we could have let them win at least one set, but is it my fault if Ari is even more competitive than I am? I thought I was a one-off, but he played like his life depended on it, rocketing from one side of the court to the other. Very impressive. Not that I’m going to tell him that, of course. The lad’s not stupid – he knows very well how brilliantly he plays, so he doesn’t need any more compliments from me.

  *

  “So did you get to the regional championships?” I ask in a quiet voice as we sit at a table in the tennis club, waiting for our next match. We’re not going to be very well-liked around here if we carry on like this.

  “Err, the nationals, actually,” he replies, puffing out his chest a little.

  “That is totally out of order of you, Bertha...” I tease him.

  “What do you mean? Are you saying it’s my fault they lost? Nobody asked me what level I play at, they just asked me if I played, which is not the same thing. So yes, I do play – and I play very well, if they want to know,” he replies half-seriously, opening a small bottle of water. But before raising it to his mouth, he offers it to me as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

  Oh God, I hate nice people! Especially when they’re nice practically without realizing it, as though it were just second nature for them. It makes me really uncomfortable, because I’m not nice. Not nice at all. I’m quite the opposite, in fact.

  I shake my head even though I’m actually pretty thirsty. I can always use the tap in the locker room, crossing my fingers that the water is drinkable. And if it isn’t... well, I’ve survived worse.