by Anna Chillon
When I opened the door I found Vincent leaning against the door frame, armed with a bottle of wine. He was studying Mum’s evergreen wreath, wearing jeans and a dark shirt rolled up to the elbows, as usual. Seeing what I was holding he couldn’t resist poking fun.
“Hi Giada, have you robbed a bank and gone shopping or is your Aunt in town?” His irritating sense of humour was unmistakable.
“I nicked your new Leica, sold it and used the profits to go shopping. Less risky than robbing a bank.” I knew he was very precious about his photographic equipment. I wrenched the bottle out of his hand. “Have you decanted beer into a Chardonnay bottle?”
His face clouded over. Probably I had blasphemed without realizing. “It’s Passito from Pantelleria.”
“Sweet?” I hoped.
“Strong. Too strong for you.”
It always worried me how he was capable of going from mocking to being absolutely serious. One second earlier he was making me laugh and next he made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help retaliating. The older I got, the less seriously he took me and the more we bickered at each other like a couple of crows.
“I’m eighteen now.”
“Congratulations, soon you’ll be a danger with a license. He put his hand on my forehead, under my black fringe, leaning his wrist on the door frame as if he was going to stay there permanently. “Do you foresee letting me in within the next eighteen years?”
“Lalla, leave Vincent in peace!” Mum shouted from the kitchen, using my childhood nickname. They had heard us because our house was open plan. The lounge, and kitchen were joined by the dining room with the long table for family lunches in the middle.
“Dad’s in the office” I told him, letting him past. “He needs to ask you a favour.”
He always came out the winner in our little exchanges of repartee. In one way or other his experience and age worked in his favour often ending in my mortification.
“What kind of favour?” He asked as he passed by.
I shrugged. “I don’t know...”
Before sneaking off to the office, he gave the wine to Mum and took a Tennents from the fridge, then closed himself into the little office to mumble with Dad.
The only ones missing were the new neighbours, moved in recently at the end of the road. My Mum said she’d found her very kind, whereas the husband was a lawyer and could be useful to ask all the bureaucratic questions about the farmhouse, which is why we had to butter them up.
It was going to be a lovely scene, basically full of fake smiles.
I opened the door to the new neighbours. I shook Mrs Violante’s hand, smiled at the husband and was about to close the door when the hand of a third individual blocked it open.
“Our son is here” She said cheerfully. “I hope it’s not a problem that we bought him with us.”
“Of course not, you were right to bring him.” I smiled politely and let the door open. When I saw who was behind the door the smile on my face froze… almost hysterical. He looked at me with a similar expression to mine, but without the smile.
“Come in Simon” urged his Mum.
My arse he was American. He was Italianissimo.
The dealer of my dreams was at my house for lunch. Fantastic.
I stepped aside and we shook hands like two perfect strangers. His was a bit clammy. His hair was mussed up perfect. His eyes looked tired but were still hypnotic. He had the air of someone who’d had a really heavy, late night.
“The two kids can sit next to each other” said my Mum inviting everyone to take their seat while adding a place setting. Dad and Aunt Frida were the heads of the table; next to them our new neighbours, while next to me sat Simon, in front of us were Vincent and Mum.
Just before eating my appetite had left me, and I was desperately trying to think of something sensible to say to escape the embarrassment, I felt so relieved to have to get up and help serve. Simon didn’t seem to have my problem, joking and chatting away, ignoring me.
“What do you do Simon?” My Dad asked after a while.
He looked up fleetingly at Duilio. “At the moment I’m... unemployed, even though Dad wants to employ me at his office.”
“As an accountant” explained his Dad.
Simon in a lawyers firm? Accountant? This really was a joke.
Obviously his parents wanted to confine him to the office to keep an eye on him, hoping that nobody would find out about his antics or his current ‘commitment’, without realizing however that it would have been a pretty difficult secret to keep in that gossipy place.
I repressed a smile biting my lip and when I looked up I found Vincent fixing me with a suspicious glare from the other side of the table that took any trace of fun from my face, making me feel like I’d just been caught out. Convinced that I’d hidden the truth quite well I didn’t understand why I’d attracted his attention all of a sudden.
He wiped his mouth with the napkin taking his glare away from me. “It’s a good opportunity for you, Simon.”
“It’s true, lad” said my Dad. “Not everyone can count on the unconditional support of their parents.”
The lawyer filled his fork with potato, faking distraction. “Correct me if I’ve got the wrong person Vincent, but the postman told me your Dad was a criminal lawyer.”
“You’re not wrong” he replied drily, putting a veto on the subject.
A veto that Simon didn’t care about. “Are you a criminal lawyer too?”
Before he answered, our neighbor slowly finished chewing, studying Simon’s ‘all nighter’ eyes. “A photographer.”
What had brightened Simon’s secret hopes to be free to decide for himself, made Aron reply: “All things considered it could be worse: when we were seventeen he got it in his head that he wanted to be a stuntman.” He used a teasing tone, but I was convinced that he was hiding a secret admiration.
“I was great on the Vespa... and excellent at falling off” he defended himself, smiling inside a glass of red.
“Simon has a rare advantage, I’d like him to make the most of it” Duilio underlined bringing the subject back to the table.
The young dealer was more interested in Vincent’s story. “Did your father want you to become a barrister?” he insisted.
“My father died when I was very young, only a little older than you now. I imagine, rather I know that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but even if he had lived longer to plead his case, I’m afraid he wouldn’t have found satisfaction.”
I presumed that, at the end of the day, Vincent wasn’t interested in his father’s approval, neither was Simon, and maybe, nor was I.
I was wrong on all accounts. No man or woman doesn’t want the approval of the person who gave them life, just that this time it seemed to be less painful not to admit it.
“Do you want a life that’s comfortable, successful and to be appreciated?” Vincent continued leaning back in his chair. “If that’s the case listen to your Dad, while you can still enjoy his advice. Photography doesn’t make much money.”
“Ah, but look, he didn’t care at the time”
I’d heard enough. There was a rebel inside me, I wanted to do my own thing and I had a massive urge to escape. My parents also always said they were doing everything for me, for my future, but they’d never asked me if all this ‘everything’ was what I wanted or if I cared even a bit about this fucking farmhouse in Tuscany.
Mum asked me to help so I got up to collect the plates from the second course and that was when the real discussion started. Dad talked about the farmhouse, of the work necessary to get it going and the splendid opportunity it would be for our family.
The investment required was enormous, which was why they didn’t want to rush anything. The agreement which I didn’t know anything about was that my parents would work alongside the current owners at the weekend for a couple of months while they pondered the important decision.
“You said that you’d wait till school had finished” I c
omplained. I had no intention of going to Tuscany every weekend. I needed to get used to the idea of leaving and I wanted to make the most of the days I had left to spend in Rome.
My Mum smiled at me compassionately. “You could stay at home alone and go to school Saturday. It’s the last year, we don’t want you to miss any lessons.”
It certainly wasn’t school that interested me.
Wait a minute. Did she say “home alone?”
I tried to stop my sulking face transforming into a massive obvious grin; two months of free weekends was an opportunity that never happened to an eighteen year old girl. But it was happening to me!
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
I was dancing the samba inside.
I quickly pushed aside the idea that I might be frightened all those nights alone. The stories of burglars coming into houses while the owners were in bed scared me even when my parents were in the bedroom next door, but I’d never have complained in front of Simon.
“Before we told you we wanted to be sure that there was someone available in case you needed anything. We will of course have our mobiles on...”
My Dad looked at Vincent. “I asked Vincent to come and check that everything’s OK and I gave him a bunch of keys.”
He meant that he had asked him to keep an eye on me, to make sure that I wasn’t getting up to no good.
Vincent pulled out the bunch of keys from his pocket and jangled them like a prison warden watching over his prisoner, with an air of sadism of someone who has just broken somebody’s dreams of freedom.
Aron, my father, forty three years old, a little over weight but wore it well on his heavy build used his most authoritative tone. “Now you’re eighteen, you’re a grown up and we trust you. We know you’ll behave.”
“In fact I don’t need a guardian” I said.
My Mum interjected, with the gentle tone she used when she wanted to be persuasive. “Lalla, we need an adult. With everything that happens around here, people need to know that we haven’t left you alone in the house.”
I felt forced to admit that they weren’t wrong.
“Now that we know, you can count on us too.”
Violante didn’t hesitate to offer her help. “I’ll leave you my mobile number.”
She didn’t offer to give me her son’s mobile number, as would have been natural, she herself knew he was a lout.
Aunt Frida felt the need to offer her help. “I can come and see you sometimes. We could go shopping together for your tags, It’d be fun.”
She lived sixty kilometers away, if she found herself available I’d prefer she was out of my way.
“I’ll be fine Aunt, really there’s no need, you’re all worrying too much.” Meantime images of American college style parties filled my mind. Shame I didn’t have the necessary friends to make it happen... and I’d been placed under the watchful eye of a guardian that wasn’t stupid.
“Your tags?” asked Simon, surprising me by having picked up on the most frivolous part of the conversation.
Aunt Frida didn’t miss the opportunity to highlight what she considered one of my many idiosyncrasies.
“Giada collects clothing tags.”
Shit…. not in front of Simon! And they’re not only tags from clothes!
“Really?” he asked laughing.
I wanted to disappear.
“Yes. It’s...” I rubbed my hands between my knees, embarrassed, “...it’s one of my hobbies.”
“Why don’t you take him upstairs and show him?” At that moment I realized that my Mum didn’t have the least idea of what might interest a guy. If he came into my bedroom the tags would have been the last thing on his mind.
He faked interest, probably wanting to escape the lunch as much as I did. As we went upstairs I was trying to work out how to tell Zoe telepathically that I was taking Simon up to my room.
I was so flustered.
God, if I’d known I would’ve worn something other than the dress with a pleated skirt, in fashion only in the seventies, when it was in fact Mums. She kept everything and I liked wearing her old stuff, but I would’ve preferred that no one else knew, particularly Simon.
As soon as I opened the door he looked all around my room: the pink wicker wardrobe, a wrought iron bed with painted pink roses, the wallpaper... no need for me to tell you which colour that was. The desk and the bookshelf having been bought later on, were dark walnut.
“You like pink” he commented.
I sighed. Why pathetically deny it? Better to shamelessly lie. “Ah yes, I love it.”
Some of the tags were filed in folders on the bookshelf by value, year and object. Those that coincided with memorable times in my life were hung in a large frame on the wall.
Simon didn’t deem them worthy enough for a look. He went and made himself comfortable on the desk chair and did a half spin, crossing his shin over his knee and leaning back into the chair. It was so sensual.
I though, was standing in the middle of the room as if I’d never been in there before. Compared to him I felt irrelevant and old-fashioned.
“So you’ll be home alone for a good few weekends?”
He asked moving about here and there on the chair.
“Yeah.” I couldn’t just think about it, I needed to say something and say it quick. “And you? Do you think you’ll go and work for your Dad?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so. I’ll think about it once I’ve done another three months of breaking my back.”
I wasn’t really interested in which career he’d choose, I just wanted him to throw me onto the bed and vent himself on me. I wanted his legs to imprison mine, for him to grab me by the wrists, bring them up to my head and kiss me. I wanted him so badly I felt sick.
I caught my reflection accidentally in the mirror on the side of the wardrobe, I still had Pippi longstocking’s plaits. I started to undo them.
“If your Mum had told mine that you’re doing community service for dealing she wouldn’t have even let you in the door.” I thought out loud.
“Shh, don’t say that, are you mad? My parents think I’ve finished with that stuff!” He jumped to his feet and grabbed my arm. “You won’t say anything, will you?”
I was panting from his touch. “No, course not. I’d be in trouble as well if something got out, and especially now when they intend to leave me home alone.”
His expression changed and he let me go. “Will you throw parties?”
With no friends? I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a popular girl.
“I think so. If you want to bring some friends...”
“I can bring something better” he winked in a way that made me melt. I was too stupidly bowled over to worry about the fact that he might take advantage of the situation and deal in my house.
“Tim didn’t tell me you lived here” he said running his fingers across the chest of drawers and tapping his fingertips on the surface.
Simon had asked his friend about me? Probably to reassure him that I was trustworthy, given our last meeting. “I don’t think Tim knows. Why should he?”
“Because he thinks you’re pretty.”
“Ah.” Great response.
And you?
“I think you’re pretty too” he replied to my silent question.
“Ah.”
I think you’re fucking gorgeous.
He stepped forward even though we were already very close. His tired eyes from the night before sparkled with cunning. “I could come and see you sometimes when your parents are away. Give me your number.”
“Three, three, nine, six...” I gave him my number.
He took his mobile out of his pocket and a second later I heard mine ring with the song ‘The jungle’ by the Ambassadors, the ring tone I chose on my birthday.
“Cute” he said pulling his fingers through his hair without managing to comb it in any way. He knew he was gorgeous, which made his tendency to use a limited number of adjectives irrelevant
. I could think of tons of adjectives for him: sculpted, vigorous, divine, just for starters.
Now I too had his number, risking losing my new freedom before I’d even tasted it.
“It’d be a disaster if Mum finds out. You’re not a good boy.”
He took it as a compliment. He put his hand on my back stroking me with his index finger. “I bet you’re the type that pretends to like the good boys, then fucks with guys like me.”
Well done him.
He bent down towards me till he was almost touching my lips. “You’ll call me?”
“Don’t you want to follow me into the jungle?” The ringtone had stuck in my head, acting as the perfect soundtrack for that moment.
I was holding my breath without realizing, undecided if I should wait for him to make a move or lean closer to him to get that damned, unexpected kiss.
A strange cough made me jump back half a meter.
Vincent stood at the threshold of my room cleared his throat loudly. “The coffee’s ready, kids. Adele sent me to call you.”
We hadn’t heard him turn the handle or even open the door that normally, as soon as it moved, let out a loud squeak. My cheeks must have been the colour of Snow White’s apple.
“Thanks, we’ll be right down.” I had to react, because my accomplice, and the one responsible for this scene didn’t make any effort to reply. He headed to the door a bit annoyed. I did the same.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” Vincent asked me letting Simon pass by and blocking my exit.
“OK” I stayed where I was and touched my hair, the plaits had left it wavy. I picked up the brush and ran it through my hair, to have something to do and to avoid looking him in the eye, fearing that he’d be able to sense the excitement from before.
“So, what were you up to?” He went to push the door to.
I turned my back on him as I did when I wanted to avoid awkward questions. “Nothing.”