by Anna Premoli
Like Lavinia said, the difficulty is often not just finding the right person, but also finding them at the right time for both of you. Finding them, and finding them at a time when you both feel ready. Because the two things don’t necessarily coincide.
I suspect my clock and Ari’s clock are nowhere near synchronized, but for the moment I don’t want to worry about it and before he leaves my apartment I say goodbye with another intense kiss.
Maybe this thing won’t last forever but then, as I’ve learned recently, almost everything has an expiration date.
Chapter 12
I am typing furiously on the keyboard of my PC, completely engrossed in my work, when I realize that Ari is staring at me insistently. He doesn’t even look away after my eyes meet his. Interesting. He’s not trying to hide it at all; he wants me to realize he is scrutinizing me.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask him with a smile.
He shakes his head and smiles back at me. I’m not proud of it, but lately I’m no longer able to look at him with a normal expression. I’m not detached and I don’t even pretend to be. And if his eyes look like mine, this thing is serious.
“When you focus intensely on something you get a funny wrinkle here,” he tells me, pointing to between his eyebrows.
Wrinkles at my age?
“Bertha, wrinkles are never funny!”
Ari laughs in amusement at my horrified reaction.
“Calm down, you’re not falling apart yet. I mean, sure, if I were you I wouldn’t waste any more precious time,” he teases me. “I’d try and hook some guy while your skin’s still in good enough condition to allow it...”
He’s so good at annoying me when he wants to, the bastard.
“Oh no, I want to grow into an old maid and at the age of fifty find myself a toy boy who’s all muscles and no brains,” I shoot back.
“Really?” he asks with a laugh.
“Absolutely. Do you have any idea how hard it is to win an argument with someone like you? You might only have two neurons but they work very hard.”
Before he can contain himself, Ari bursts out laughing. It’s a good job that neither of us pays much attention to the heads continually turning in our direction anymore. I don’t even understand why they bother, to be honest. If I were them, I’d have thrown in the towel. We’re not that interesting.
“You, girl, are really funny,” he says to me, almost crying with laughter.
I’m really not, actually. Or at least, that’s what everyone else thinks. Except for him.
“Don’t you have any work to do?” I ask him politely.
“Oh yes, but looking at you is way more interesting,” he replies without batting an eyelid.
“Try telling that to Iris,” I suggest shaking his head. A part of me still can’t get used to Ari’s being always so direct, for better or for worse. But it’s for better, if I’m honest. I’m not the kind of person who feels comfortable when faced with sugary words and gestures. They make me uncomfortable because I don’t know how to reciprocate. I just freeze, unable to say something nice even to people who really deserve it. Ari knows that, and I think he’s doing everything he can to overcome my natural resistance.
“I can always tell Iris that you’re more interesting than all this financial rubbish...” he says with a wink.
Another of the things we argue about from time to time is this habit of his of considering the state of our pseudo-relationship to be public. I’m sure that everyone in the office knows perfectly well there is something between us, but I prefer to pretend otherwise and, if possible, to not create any strange expectations. Yes, ok, we sleep together, we work together, but this isn’t a relationship. At least, not in the classic sense of the term. There are no plans, and I don’t want there to be. The time I require, the time that Ari promised me but only actually respected up to a certain point, means that I need a long break from the dramas of a real relationship - from that passing from ‘me and you’ to a ubiquitous ‘us’ as though it was no big thing. At times, that ‘we’ is likely to suffocate you, either because you’re not used to it or because you’re not actually an ‘us’, even though you’re supposed to be. Yes, I know, it’s a bit of a convoluted way of looking at it. Nobody ever said that relationships were simple.
“You, Bertha, deserve to be spanked,” I say grimly.
“If you absolutely insist...” he replies allusively, deliberately ignoring my tone. “But what way would that be to treat a man who’s about to celebrate?”
My eyebrows rise instantly. “Is your birthday coming up?” If this had been an actual relationship, I would have asked him when he was born. But this isn’t a relationship...
“Next Sunday,” he confirms, adding without hesitation, “And yours is November 15th.”
I blink in puzzlement. I don’t like this psychological advantage of his one little bit.
“Yeeeees...” I reply uneasily. He must have used his usual sources.
This isn’t a relationship, I repeat myself for the thousandth time, and it is perfectly normal for me not to know when his birthday is. It’s actually better, because if I had known when it was, I would have felt obliged to give him a present and to organize something. The way, unfortunately, I now feel I should.
“I was thinking...” he says in a voice that makes all the hairs on my body stand up to attention. Including those I no longer possess thanks to the wonders of permanent hair removal. His tone is meant to sound neutral, but it totally isn’t, and my expression grows sterner while I wait for the hammer to fall.
“Bertha, I’ve already told you: it’s better if you don’t think,” I try to shut him down by turning it into a joke.
But Ariberto’s eyes become intense - even more intense than usual – and a look of determination I now know well appears on his face. “I have to go home for my birthday and I thought you could come with me.”
I must have misheard him.
“You mean, to your parents? In Piedmont?”
“Yeah, that’s where they live,” he confirms, looking uncomfortable. His cheeks are flushed and there’s agitation in his eyes. He’s not as relaxed as he wants me to believe. This is a big one, and he knows it
“Ari...” I start, but I immediately falter.
“Ari nothing,” he replies vehemently. “It’s just my birthday. That’s all. I’m not asking you to swear eternal love to me in a ceremony where we exchange blood or something, Giada...”
I almost feel like pointing out to him that until today, nobody had even mentioned love. Well, apart from me, a bit. But I decide not to provoke him. Ari doesn’t often get angry, but when he does, he’s able to argue until he is exhausted. He’s definitely an obstinate one...
“Can I think about it?” I ask cautiously, not knowing how to worm my way out of it in a dignified manner.
And there, in plain sight and without any attempt to hide it, an expression of profound disappointment appears on his face. I swallow with difficulty, feeling at a bit of a psychological disadvantage.
“As always, you can do whatever you want,” he replies piquantly, and then lowers his head and goes back to work, hiding behind an unusual silence.
Maybe he’s right, maybe it is just a stupid birthday after all...
*
“Of course it’s not just a stupid birthday,” says Lavinia, destroying all my hopes with a single phrase. And just when I’d almost managed to convince myself.
“But I mean...” I say, trying to plead my cause with no little agitation.
“Giada, no,” she replies. “Babe, I’d love to lie to you, but I don’t think it would help you or him.”
Personally I have a vague suspicion that a few lies here and there couldn’t make my life get any worse. Quite the opposite.
“It’s true, taking you to meet is parents is a big thing,” adds Alessandra. What the... is everyone against me today?
“It’s not the bloody nineteenth century! And I’m not the fiancée who has t
o be officially presented! I’m just someone he’s been sleeping with for a few weeks,” I mutter, folding my arms.
Lavinia and Alessandra roll their eyes in such a perfectly synchronized movement that you’d think they’d been practicing. “Forgive me for being frank, but when you were with a person who you never actually slept with, that was a great relationship, but this thing with Ari, which has been going on for more than a month now, is nothing serious, even if you work, live and sleep together every night?” says Lavinia doubtfully.
I hate it when other people make me face a truth I can’t refute.
“He’s the one who always turns up at my house,” I point out.
Vinny’s expression speaks a thousand words. And a few more for good measure. “Yes, but you’re the one who lets him in...”
“And what am I supposed to do? Leave him out there on the landing?” I’m only being kind, for God’s sake!
“Do you think she’s actually stupid or is she just trying to pretend she is?” Lavinia asks Alessandra.
“The second, definitely the second. But she is pretending soooooo hard...”
“Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it,” says Vinny, turning back to face me, “you shouldn’t go.”
Eh? What? That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?
“Why not?” I ask with little conviction.
“Because you are in two totally different phases, of course: he’s crazy about you and wants to introduce you to his family, you have problems even admitting that you let him into your bed voluntarily,” she replies in a sarcastic tone that I can’t help noticing.
“Ariberto is not crazy about me...” I say, trying to reason with her.
Lavinia’s lips curl up in a sneer of amusement. “Ha ha...” is all she says.
“Ha ha,” echoes Ale.
What is this, laughter practice workshop?
“Am I supposed to go ‘ha ha’ too?” I ask in an annoyed voice.
“Don’t go,” Vinny repeats to me a second time, even more peremptory than before. “Don’t let yourself be talked into it: if you genuinely don’t want to have a relationship with him, stick to your guns. Don’t let feelings of guilt get the better of you. You’ve only ever been straight with him. To tell the truth, I’ve never met a person who overthinks things as much as you do...”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “So I won’t go, then. I’ll stay here in Milan while he celebrates his twenty-fourth with his family in Piedmont,” I repeat, trying to convince myself it’s the right thing to do.
Lavinia and Alessandra nod with satisfaction, but deep down I feel like a complete piece of shit. On paper, Ariberto Castelli might be the last person who should do it for me, but he is still a good guy, and I don’t like hurting him, even if it is to avoid greater suffering in the future.
*
I decide to go home late, in the hope that even if Ari did come by the house, he got tired of waiting and left. But no, apparently patience is just another one of the gifts bestowed upon him at birth. And in fact, there he is, sitting on the step in front of my front door, intent on reading something by the faint light of the streetlamp.
“Ari …” I say, trying to tell him off, but my heart is beating madly at the idea he has been waiting for me all this time. Goddamn him and his persistence! Goddamn him in general, to be honest. “Didn’t your mother tell you you’ll ruin your eyes reading in such a bad light?”
He jerks his head up and smiles at me with a naturalness that takes my breath away.
“She did, actually... But I’ll admit I never really listened to her.”
I pretend to be scandalized. “Who? You? The perfect son?”
“Much less perfect than you think.” He actually thinks it’s true.
“Castelli, stop pretending to be modest because it really doesn’t suit you”. I’m trying to act detached, but it’s really hard: the closer I get, the more I feel my precarious self-control get out of hand. I’d like to stop wasting time trying to resist him and drag him off home with me. To bed. Or even to the floor, to be honest, I don’t really care. I know, I’m a shallow woman who can’t resist temptation...
Which makes it even more difficult for me to find the courage to refuse his invitation to Piedmont.
“Ari,” I say, in an agitated voice, after having stopped in front of him. But I don’t have time to add anything further, because with feline agility, he jumps to his feet and puts his arms around me. A second later he’s kissing me with such intensity I can hardly remember what it was I wanted to tell him. His tactic is designed to annihilate any resistance to his wishes, and I can’t say that it’s not working.
“That’s playing dirty,” I say accusingly, pulling away from him slightly.
“Every time you start a sentence with ‘Ari’, I know I’m in big trouble,” he says. “You never call me Ari, unless you’re about to tell me something I’m not going to want to hear.”
God, he’s right!
“Bertha …” I say, trying to correct myself.
“Ah, no, now I understand what you are trying to do,” he warns me, grabbing the keys to the front door from my hand. He opens it and beckons me to enter.
Really, how do you get rid of a man you don’t actually want to deprive yourself of? Ariberto Castelli might be a bit clingy, but has plenty of other redeeming qualities.
“Ok, you can come up,” I say, surrendering to the facts, “but listen – we need to talk.”
“Do you know what your problem is, Giada?” he asks me with a defiant light in his eyes as he imprisons me at the elevator door.
“That I’ve got a shitty character?” I wonder aloud.
Ari bursts out laughing and then kisses me. “No. Well, that too... but luckily for me I actually quite like your shitty character. No, your real problem is that you think you are a great strategist, but your face is an open book. Wide open.”
It didn’t use to be like that before I met him. It used to be tightly close and inscrutable.
“Oh really? In that case, what was I going to tell you a little while ago?”
“You’re looking for excuses not to come with me this weekend,” he replies as if it were obvious. He doesn’t seem either surprised or offended.
As I walk out of the elevator, I take advantage of the brief moment while I fiddle with the keys I’ve now got back from him to try and reflect on my strategy. It is obvious it needs some tweaking.
But once we’re inside my apartment, Ari takes full advantage of the element of surprise and pins me to the door with yet another kiss – one of those ones that give me goose bumps instantly.
“Ari …” I plead in a dreamy voice. “Stop it.”
I’m perfectly conscious I’m being a weak woman. A very, very weak woman.
“I’ve only just started,” he replies, kissing me on the neck. “It can get much worse than this ...”
And then he shows me in minute detail just how much worse it can actually be. I don’t think I’ve ever loved doing the wrong thing more.
*
“Okay, so let’s hear it, then,” says Ari, lying in my bed after having thoroughly shaken up both me and my weak hormones.
My head is resting on his chest and his big hands are caressing my hair in way that is both sensual and intimate at the same time. It has become his distinctive gesture, and he has refined it to absolute perfection.
“You already know what I want to tell you,” I protest unconvincingly. I’m terribly tired and I just want to fall asleep like this, while he runs his hands over every part of my body.
“You’re not getting out of it that easily,” he warns me with a laugh. “I want to hear the weird excuse you’ve come up with in that Machiavellian little head of yours.”
I raise my head – which, to tell the truth, is anything but ‘little’ - and give him an offended stare. Or at least I try to. It’s difficult to pretend to be annoyed with someone who was responsible for such intensely pleasant feelings only a few moments ago. “It’s no
t an excuse!” I exclaim emphatically.
“Well I’m all ears.”
“Honestly, I’m not a coward, far from it, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like the idea of going to your parents is a bit risky,” I finally manage to say. Judging by Ari’s expression, though, he doesn’t seem too impressed.
“Oh yes, you are afraid... Because you think it’s some really big deal.”
“Yeah, well, forgive me for thinking that going to meet a boy’s parents at their house is a big deal!”
“My folks are nice people. A bit formal maybe, but they’re realists, and they’re in step with the times. They don’t read too much into things. So, if I tell them that I’m bringing a female friend with me, they don’t automatically imagine they’re about to meet their future daughter-in-law.”
He makes it all sounds so easy.
“Just someone who is sleeping with their son at the moment,” I argue, raising my eyebrows.
“They might imagine that, but they wouldn’t judge.”
“Because you’ve taken a lot of girls home over the years ...” I probe.
A strange grimace appears on Ari’s face. “A few...” he answers vaguely. Very vaguely.
“How many?”
“Err, one,” he answers in a low voice, avoiding my gaze.
“One besides me?”
“One if I can convince you to come,” he finally admits with a sigh.
I sit bolt upright. “Bertha!” I exclaim. I’m so shocked I almost hit him in the face with a pillow. “Have you gone mad?”
“I knew you’d freak out,” he sighs, raising his eyes to the sky.
“So if you knew, why are you trying to your best to persuade me to come?”
“Masochism. Pure and simple masochism, by the looks of it,” he murmurs disconsolately. After a few moments of silence, he sits down and gives me a determined look. “Listen, I don’t want to play games with you: Sunday is my birthday and I’d like you to be there. It’s that simple.”
I open my mouth to tell him that no, it can’t be done. But those eyes have been boring into me for months now and it seems, after all, that for some reason I can’t actually deny him anything.