Girls Who Travel

by Nicole Trilivas

  “Qui ci sono gli ‘snack,’ belle ragazze,” he said merrily as if we had any idea what it meant. He set out the food with delicate care and beamed us a toothy smile.

  “Grazie,” said Mina shyly.

  His thick eyebrows jumped. “Si parli italiano splendidamente, signora!”

  Mina blushed violently. I surveyed him and guessed him to be around age fifteen or sixteen, and it occurred to me that Mina might be trying to flirt with him.

  She shook her head at the young man, growing redder. “Imparo a scuola,” she said meekly in a clumsy accent.

  I lobbed a fat, oily olive into the air to catch in my mouth but then froze mid-throw when I heard Mina speak. “Mina, do you speak Italian?” The olive bounced off my nose with a greasy thud.

  Gwen fell over in a fit of giggles—she always had a thing for slapstick.

  “Not really, I just told him that I’m learning Italian in school. Don’t tell my mom yet because she wants me to take French. But Italian is so beautiful, and next year I can take both languages.” She looked shyly proud and leaned back on the swanky sun lounger.

  “Bravo, Mina! How admirable. Ask him his name, would you? I feel bad bossing the poor kid around without knowing his name.”

  Mina bashfully turned to the young waiter to ask him, and he responded slowly, drawing out the syllables: “Beeee-niiiiii-to.” He proudly stabbed his chest with his fingertip.

  “Benito,” we all repeated, and then we introduced ourselves.

  “Tell him, ‘Grazie, Benito,’” Mina said to Gwendy, and she complied most cutely. Benito swooped out with a half bow and left us to bake in the sun, our tall glasses of juice growing sweaty with condensation.

  “So, Mina,” I began airily, “do you know how to say, um, I don’t know”—I wafted my hand in the air as if wracking my brain for the first word that popped into my head—“like . . . um, ‘cell phone’? Do you know how to say that in Italian?”

  Mina lifted her sunglasses.

  “No,” she said flatly.

  52

  IT WASN’T UNTIL the night of the dinner party that I finally had my chance to get to a phone. The staff had prepared a gourmet feast in preparation for a few of Mr. Darling’s colleagues who would be joining us at the villa that evening.

  The terrace was laid with white candles and white wine, and the air was fragrant with a blend of fresh garlic from the kitchen and night-blooming jasmine.

  “Italians eat late, so we do, too, when we’re here,” said Elsbeth, who was wrapped in a white pashmina, even though the terrace was dotted with heat lanterns.

  “Well, when in Rome, or south of Rome,” I added.

  Over our heads, a grape leaf canopy was knotted and wiry with verdant twisting vines and fat dangling grapes. Over the grapevine trellis, constellations like darkroom photographs were beginning to develop in an effort to outshine the winking lights of Positano.

  I dressed the girls for dinner, and they looked like little sun-kissed peasants in angel-white linen dresses.

  Since we were around Mr. Darling’s colleagues, I tried my best to ensure that the Darling girls lived up to their surname, but Gwen was already tired and cranky from another long day in the sun.

  “So, Gwen, I thought tomorrow we could leave the villa and check out the Emerald Grotto. We can take a boat.”

  “Will I see mermaids?” she asked skeptically.

  I pushed my mouth to one side. “Hmm, not sure.”

  “I want to see grotty mermaids, for pizza’s sake!” She balled her little hands into fists.

  As Gwendolyn got worked up, one of Mr. Darling’s friends paraded by us. I glanced up just in time to see a shiny cell phone sticking out the back pocket of his high-waist khaki trousers. My eyes glued to the phone. Finally, my chance has come! I stared at it with starry-eyed wonderment, as if the phone was just begging me to pluck it right from his—

  “Oh my God! Kika, did you just check out that old guy’s butt?” Mina interrupted with a blend of incomprehension and revulsion.

  I bolted out of the hypnotized trance, recoiling as I realized that it probably did look like I was captivated by that guy’s behind.

  “No!” I refused. “Of course not.”

  “You totally did,” she said in shock.

  I was really looking at his cell phone! I wanted to shout, but if the girls knew what I was after, they’d foil my plan.

  “Ew! Old butts! Gross!” Gwendy added in a far-too-loud voice.

  Mina folded over in laughter, and Gwen looked delighted with herself and copied Mina.

  “Shh, you two,” I whisper-hissed, but my overenthusiastic reaction just made them laugh louder. I poked Mina in the ribs. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, chuckles.”

  “Kika likes old man butts! Old man butts! Old man butts!” chanted Gwendy.

  I held my head in my hands, traumatized, willing her to stop. I wanted to laugh, too, but I knew this would only embolden her.

  Thankfully, the staff emerged with steaming trays of hors d’oeuvres, and Gwendy began jumping up and down, changing her chant from “Old man butts!” to “Feed me first! Feed me first!”

  I was so grateful that Gwen stopped singing about old man butts that I didn’t even rebuke her for her queenly mandates. As Gwen and Mina fearlessly devoured fresh oysters, I used the free moment to scout for the old man’s butt—I mean his cell phone!

  The guy with the phone was a jolly-looking, if not a bit puffy, man introduced as Amjad Nazari.

  His sourpuss British wife, a willowy string bean of a woman named Primrose (Brits and their flower names!), hadn’t acknowledged my presence once, unless you counted me in her blanket statement about the staff:

  “The help seem rather slow tonight,” she had told Elsbeth with a frown that was relegated to the bottom half of her face; her forehead had been Botoxed into paralysis.

  My plan was simple enough. I’d wait for the tray of hors d’oeuvres to approach the semicircle of guests, and while they were distracted by the food, I’d simply pluck the phone from Amjad Nazari’s pocket, send a brief text to Aston, delete it (this is of paramount importance), then, just as simply, return the phone. Easy.

  The much harder part was figuring out what to say to Aston once I got the phone. I was thinking something along the lines of: “Hey, Aston, I just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t what it looked like with Lochlon. Will explain everything when I get home.”

  Then maybe something like, “Oh yeah, and also: I have feelings for you. Maybe we could hang out sometime if you still like me?”

  Anyway, the details obviously needed to be worked out, but I’d cross that bridge when I burned it—or whatever. Right now, I just needed to focus on getting that phone.

  My chance came with a tray piled high with cured meats—Amjad Nazari couldn’t keep his eyes off it. I tiptoed into position like a creeping vaudevillian.

  Mr. Nazari leaned over the tray and dithered happily.

  His wife, Primrose, said, “Think of your heart before eating that sausage, dear.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Amjad hesitated with his chubby hand suspended over the silver tray with ladylike deliberation.

  This was my chance. I clasped my hands behind my back in a casual stance. Then, with my back facing his, I took a few baby steps backward to get as close as possible. I positioned my hand so it was in line with where his pocket would be, and I reached out my fingers and ever so stealthily pinched—

  “Oooooooooooo!”

  Amjad jumped away from me, sucking in his behind. Propelling his chest forward, he knocked the tray out of the waiter’s hold. Amjad grabbed his behind with both hands and sharply whipped around in my direction.

  Holy shit. I just pinched that old guy’s butt!

  Everyone stared at me. Rounds of soppressata rained down on us from the heavens.

 
; “I am so sorry, Mr. Nazari,” I stammered in mortification.

  “What are you doing, dear girl?!” he roared.

  I opened my mouth. “Um, there was a bug, and I was just trying . . .” I looked over to see Mina’s hand firmly placed over Gwendy’s mouth. Thank God she wasn’t free to sing the “old man butts” song or I would have jumped straight off the terrace then and there.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” shrilled Primrose to Amjad as she sent a demonic glance in my direction.

  I held my breath as Amjad craned his neck to look at his backside. Mr. Darling stared at me like I just ruined Christmas. I didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone.

  Amjad grumbled coarsely, “Now, now, honest mistake. You needn’t fret about it, Prim.” Amjad took his wife’s hand in his and patted it kindly.

  I giggled awkwardly, mumbled some excuse, and walked away as fast as I could without breaking into a full-on sprint.

  53

  “OK, I GET it. I’m not getting a phone this trip,” I spoke aloud to the great cosmic comedian who had scripted this shit because clearly my life wasn’t enough of a comedy of errors and shitty timing. I would just have to wait to tell Aston how I felt about him when I got home. I couldn’t risk pinching someone else’s ass. I slumped on one of the outdoor sofas and took Gwen protectively onto my lap.

  “You don’t really like old man butts, do you, Kika?” asked Gwen with a half yawn, as we both waited for dinner to just be over already. I willed my mind to erase what just happened. I didn’t answer Gwendy.

  For the rest of the evening, I collected Nordic-cold looks from Mr. Darling, but other than that, dinner passed without further incident, and finally, it was time for everyone to leave.

  Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be my last interaction with the Nazaris. Tomorrow, they were coming with us on a little yachting trip for a few days down the Amalfi Coast.

  On her way out, Primrose Nazari passed me with a cold stare. Behind her, Amjad trailed. He stalled in front of me and let his wife go ahead. I braced myself to be scolded.

  When Primrose was farther away, Amjad looked me straight in the eye and gave me an unmistakable wink before rushing to catch up with his wife. My forehead smacked into my open palm.

  • • •

  AFTER PUTTING THE girls to sleep, I freed a lionlike yawn and padded across the cool terra-cotta floor toward my own room.

  But the light from the veranda snagged my eye. I slipped outside soundlessly. The air was cooler now, brackish like fresh mussels.

  The moonbeams crested off the dome of the church of Santa Maria Assunta, tiled like fish scales. I could hear the demanding roar of the sea below and the wet flapping of fishnets in wind. The silvery light skimmed off the chrome waves, and the tide nodded rusty fishing boats into one another, the distance shrinking them into pool toys. “Now you’re just showing off,” I said to the view.

  I made my way into the kitchen instead of going straight to bed. I veered toward the fridge for a midnight snack and took out a cellophane-wrapped platter of meats and cheeses. I set it out on the butcher block. As I plopped salty cubes of pecorino and pepperoni into my mouth, I flicked through an Italian tabloid discarded on the table.

  A black-and-white face in the spread of social photographs caught my eye. I snatched the paper and brought it to eye level to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. No. No. No.

  As I frantically searched the kitchen for the light switch, the paper crinkled in my sweaty grip. When I couldn’t find the switch, I resorted to using the refrigerator and pried open the door to employ its humming blue light.

  The photo was only a few inches wide and printed in grainy grays. The focus was blurry enough for me to need to double-check the fine print.

  It can’t be him. It just can’t.

  But then I remembered something Elsbeth once said: The press considered him an international playboy. But he wouldn’t be with her, would he?

  A rotten taste took over my mouth. I spat out the half-chewed meat. There, under the black-and-white photo, was a caption in Italian. There was no longer any denying who was in the picture:

  Aston Hyde Bettencourt con ereditiera fidanzata, Chantelle Benson-Westwood, a Londra

  I boomeranged my vision around the kitchen as if there were someone around to decipher the Italian for me. I had to find out why they were together like this.

  Even before reading the caption, I could tell it was Aston. His head was slanted down, away from the paparazzi’s flashbulbs, and his hand was outstretched, tugging Chantelle through the crowd.

  Chantelle was lively and waving to the cameras in true aristo-brat fashion. It looked like they were at a movie premiere or another major celeb event in Leicester Square. Why were they holding hands? And furthermore: How could this have happened so quickly? I had only been gone a little over a week!

  I never missed technology more than I did at that very moment. I couldn’t translate the words, and the villa staff was asleep in their quarters. I’d have to wait and get help tomorrow. In the meantime, this surely did not look good.

  I glided the tray of meats and cheeses back into the fridge without eating another bite. Shockingly, I was no longer hungry. But I was never not hungry. Even after breaking up with Lochlon, I stress-ate a whole box of macarons. What was happening to me?

  54

  FOR A MOMENT, we all stood in a reverent silence.

  The eye-squinting sun made the glistening mega-yacht look even shinier and whiter and yacht-ier.

  “It’s a one-hundred-seventy-eight-foot, luxury-crewed motor yacht,” said Mr. Darling, breaking through our soundless awe. “It accommodates up to twelve guests in six luxury cabins and has five separate deck areas, a crew of fifteen—”

  “Oh, stop it, lamb. You sound like a brochure.” Elsbeth swatted her hand in Mr. Darling’s face, righted her wide-brimmed sun hat, and charged right through the distinguished moment by sauntering up the sloping gangplank.

  The yacht, simply put, was the coolest thing I’d ever seen, like, ever. I had to make a physical effort to stop saying “wow” as we toured the multileveled boat equipped with massive sun beds, a pool, a hot tub, and what could only be called an outdoor living room with teakwood sun beds and cubed white cabanas.

  The inside looked like a South Beach hotel with crisp glass bars and Scandinavian furniture. There was even an Abachi wood sauna. (Like I knew what Abachi wood was; I was just quoting Mr. Darling.)

  On the top deck, the girls and I laid out turquoise-striped towels on the sun beds around the pool and spent the day swimming and playing card games.

  Elsbeth and Mr. Darling were tasked with entertaining Amjad and Primrose Nazari. Primrose was positively translucent in the daylight. Thankfully, I had been able to avoid them so far. They drank Campari in the shade while the girls and I giggled nearby.

  “If only my boys were here to keep your girls company,” trilled Primrose from under her shaded fortress.

  She’d been babbling incessantly, but watching her speak was mesmerizing because of the Botox: The lower half of her face was a constant whirl of mouthy animation while the top was totally still. Watching her talk was like watching an Irish step dancer.

  “The boys don’t have their holidays now, Prim?” asked Elsbeth as I eavesdropped.

  “Oh yes.” Primrose hiccupped, already drunk. “But they’re at boarding school—James is at Harrow and Jasper is at Le Rosey in Switzerland. And they stay at the school during their breaks. They just adore it there.”

  Or they want to be far away from you, I thought to myself.

  Amjad interjected, “And they have made wonderful lifelong contacts with their networking. They are both to be neurosurgeons.”

  Elsbeth and Mr. Darling hummed appreciatively.

  “And how old are the chaps now?” asked Mr. Darling. “Graduating this year, are th
ey?”

  “Nine and eleven,” said Primrose.

  I rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses.

  Elsbeth gave Mr. Darling a coy side-eye, and he rapidly switched subjects. Something was up. But I had bigger problems to deal with.

  The tabloid newspaper was tucked away inside my beach bag. I was waiting for the right moment and the right person to translate it for me.

  “You lost, Kika,” said Gwendy, sprawling out the winning cards with a grin on her face.

  “You’re telling me,” I responded absentmindedly.

  Gwendy suddenly yelped, “Benito!”

  Benito, who had come along with the yacht staff much to Mina’s delight, gave us a wink and went to refresh the Campari Sodas.

  Mina checked her posture as Benito came over to us.

  “Ciao, Benito,” we chirped in unison, and Benito put on a big show of being very impressed with our toddler-level Italian.

  I heard Elsbeth say to Primrose, “We’ve been coming here for years now, and I’ve never asked any of the staff their names . . .”

  • • •

  THE DAY OOZED on in a slow summer way, but soon enough the sun began to dip down behind the island of Capri.

  The group oohed and aahed over the sunset, wisps and puffs of baby blues and cotton candy pinks that looked good enough to eat. Gwendy perched atop Mr. Darling’s shoulders, and he gamely let her play bongo drums on his bald head. (Ah, parental guilt.)

  But I was too distracted to properly enjoy it. I couldn’t wait any longer. I poked Mina’s arm and jerked my head so she would follow me. Mina was more interested in watching Benito on the other end of the boat than the sunset, anyway, so she didn’t mind me pulling her away from the group.

  “What’s up, Kika?” she asked as we moved to the back deck where no one could hear us.

  We took a seat on the polished wood benches where there was still a great view—I mean, we were floating off Capri: It was drop-dead beautiful any which way you looked.