Urban Venus

by Sara Downing

  ‘Thank you, you lot,’ Leonora says, throwing an arm around the two friends closest in proximity – me and Lanzo. ‘I really appreciate this, all of you trying to cheer me up.’ We amble along in companionable silence for a few minutes before we spot a bar that is (a) still open at this unearthly time of the morning and (b) displaying no sign of fights, drunken youths or dodgy old men hanging around the doorway. That probably has something to do with the fact that it’s the Savoy Hotel’s very upmarket L’Incontro Bar on the Piazza della Repubblica, open for as long as it needs to be for any residents who care to carry on drinking and socialising to this hour. They seem happy enough to admit entrance to a group of sensible, respectable-looking students (is that really us?) who are willing to open their wallets wide enough to let the vast sums of money which are required in a drinking establishment such as this float skywards.

  ‘We’ll just stay for the one,’ Stefano suggests sensibly, ‘or we’ll all be getting phone calls from the bank on Monday morning.’

  The bar is atmospherically lit, with some amazing artwork on the walls and waiters who look far too fresh-faced to have worked the entire evening shift (and night and a substantial part of the morning). We find a corner to park ourselves in and one of these elegantly attired baristas is by our side almost immediately, proffering the cocktail menu. Think we’ll give those a miss, just waters and beers and fruit juices all round on our budgets, thank you very much.

  Across the bar from us an extremely attractive but slightly over-dressed young woman is seated alone, alternately twiddling her hair and checking her mobile phone. She can’t be unaccompanied as there are two glasses in front of her, one a lavish-looking cocktail. Not sure I could stomach one of those at this time of night… I’m caught up in my contemplations when her companion reappears from the direction of the toilets. It’s none other than Vincenzo. Well it would be, wouldn’t it? And he’s working on his next conquest, by the look of things, taking her to flash bars and plying her with expensive cocktails before luring her back to his den. In fact given the time of night, I’m surprised they’re not already in his den, in which case he’s not quite the fast worker I though he was. I wonder if she’s another student, perhaps his next model and muse-in-waiting? I can’t help the outwardly imperceptible but strong jolt that runs up my spine when I realise it’s him, and I see what he’s up to – again. But I can’t deduce if it’s envy, relief that it’s not me sitting there, or just plain curiosity running through my veins as I watch this mating ritual unfold before my eyes.

  ‘….. what do you think, Lydia?’ I catch the tail end of Stefano’s question and realise that I have been completely ignoring the conversation I should be following whilst fixating on Vincenzo and his latest love interest. Stefano follows my gaze and as he realises who I’ve been watching, I see a brief but dark cloud pass across his animated face. I’d not given much thought to what Sophia had said about him liking me as more than just a friend, but if it’s true, then he has done very well to keep his feelings in check till now. Quite understandably he won’t care too much for Vincenzo, or any other man I might happen to give the once-over to. But that’s not really what I’m doing; it’s purely interest, or should I say concern, that history doesn’t repeat itself and another young student’s heart gets broken. It’s that oddly morbid fascination we all seem to have with people who constantly screw others’ lives up.

  As we leave the bar, I pull back towards the rear of the group and fall in alongside Stefano. I decide not to say anything about the Vincenzo thing; I don’t want him to see that it bothered me, or that I’d noticed his own reaction to it. There’s no reason why I should need to justify anything; Vincenzo is my tutor and nothing more. I know Stefano has heard about his reputation and doesn’t much care for him, but that doesn’t have to matter.

  The aforementioned flirty tutor had departed with his new conquest pretty soon after we’d spotted him – probably feeling as though his safe territory had been infiltrated – following a cursory pause by our table for a quick exchange of pleasantries, and introducing the girl as Stéphanie, who was clearly French and, up close, a lot younger than she’d first looked. Not my place to comment, of course….

  As Stefano and I fall into easy conversation I can’t help thinking what a lovely bloke he is. And who could ask for more in the looks department? At home this man would be fighting off the girls; a lone tall, dark stranger in a sea of pasty-faced Brits. I for one would have been at the front of the queue. It just shows how spoilt for choice the ladies of this country are – lucky things – and I count myself amongst these favoured few now that I live here too. I should have been born Italian; after almost three months in Italy I can fully appreciate just how beautiful their men are, but not be rattled by it.

  Not only is Stefano gorgeous, he’s a really kind guy, and a very special friend. (I’m starting to feel like I’m writing a lonely hearts ad for him here!) I have been so impressed by how all three of these close male friends of ours have handled Leonora’s news, and just how supportive and non-judgemental they’ve been.

  So at that moment I have a bit of an epiphany where he’s concerned and bravely decide to go for it; if Stefano does like me and wants more from our friendship, then what exactly is holding me back? I don’t have to marry the guy, after all. We could have some fun, he would be a distraction from the confusion of my dreams, and…..stop me thinking about Vincenzo. There, I said it. I don’t think about Vincenzo a lot – honestly – but I do have to be true to myself and admit that there’s something about the man that fascinates me, despite my better judgement and my sure and certain knowledge that I don’t want to become another of his many notches on the bed-post. How fair it is to use one man to take your mind off another, I really don’t know, but hey, it happens, and I think I could be missing out on something lovely with Stefano if I don’t at least try. But I’d hate him to think I was using him, so I have to go into this whole-heartedly or not at all.

  ‘So… do you fancy meeting up for a drink or a coffee or something sometime, you know, just the two of us?’ I begin nervously.

  Stefano’s face lights up as though with a thousand neon lights and he looks as if he has just won the lottery; it dawns on me at that moment just how much he likes me. ‘Or we could catch an exhibition or something, anything you like, really?’ Shut up girl, stop gabbling at him and give the poor guy a chance to reply.

  ‘I’d be honoured to,’ is all he says.

  ‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’ I ask, to which he replies with a nod and a huge smile. We’re now a few yards back from the rest of the group, and he looks across at me, then down at my hand, then cautiously takes it in his own, and squeezes.

  ‘Is this OK?’ he asks tentatively as he keeps hold of my hand, his fingers finding the gaps between mine and interlacing with them.

  ‘It’s very OK,’ I reply, and I am surprised at the warm, comfortable feeling that shoots through my body, as well as the sudden pang of lust that springs from nowhere. So I do fancy him after all, I tell myself. There is a spark of chemistry there. I’m glad, post-Ed and the trauma surrounding that little episode in my life, that I’m not entirely immune to the charms of a beautiful Italian man.

  ‘Come on you two, keep up!’ yells Lanzo, spotting that we have fallen back quite significantly. Then: ‘Hey, where did that come from?’ he asks, pointing towards our joined hands, voice rising into something of a surprised squeak. Sophia gives him a huge, very unsubtle comedy nudge whilst she smiles at me over her shoulder, and he shuts up, giving us both a wide, approval-laden grin. Clearly Sophia isn’t the only member of our group to have picked up that there was a spot of unrequited love going on.

  I’m relieved when I wake up and find it really is the weekend, and I haven’t accidentally stayed up this late on a week night – something I always regret. But I’m not so delighted to find that someone has stolen my entire night-time and my precious eight hours sleep. Oh yes I remember now, that was my reckless alter e
go, out on the town till the small hours. One quick glance in the mirror is enough to prove that the very same thief has also made off with my youthful glow, glossy straightened hair and taut, bag-free eyes. Oh well, at least not too much is expected of me today, thank goodness. I can sit around with a complexion like a bowl of congealed custard without scaring anyone or committing offences to personal grooming standards.

  It was a great night out though, and on seeing the impact it has had on my looks I feel I need to quantify it as such to make the after-effects seem bearable. Leonora had a great time and said she felt much better, even at 5.45am when we got back to the apartment, so our goal had been achieved, at least. Plus I have secured myself a date with Stefano so I have that to look forward to sometime this week…

  We’d picked up freshly baked pastries from a little panetteria tucked away in the backstreets near the Duomo and rushed back the rest of the way to devour them whilst they were still warm. Catching bakers opening up in the early morning has to be the perk of an almost-all-nighter, I reckon. After munching my way through a pandoro and best part of a bombolone I’d actually gone to bed feeling like a human being, albeit a very well-stuffed one, so it was odd that now, with a few hours sleep under my belt, I felt like something recently dug up from a graveyard. Oh well, such is the life of a party animal….

  Eyes still half-closed, I struggle to the kitchen in search of coffee, stopping in my tracks as I’m confronted by the remains of that bag of pastries, doing its calorie-laden best to stare me down into submission. No, I can’t go there again. I will turn into a pastry at this rate. But a small peep inside the paper bag reveals, amongst other things, a solitary pandoro, it’s festive, icing-sugar-coated peaks one of the few indications that it’s actually nearly Christmas.

  How differently they do Christmas here compared to at home, where the shops are madly festooned with all things seasonal from what seems like mid-September, and we all feel like we might decapitate a few plastic Santas if we’re subjected to the strains of ‘Merry Christmas Everyone!’ one more time. It’s so much more subtle here; the Italians do love their Christmas, there’s no doubting that, but they don’t let it take over their entire calendar, and it’s so much less commercial than in the UK. Unlike us, they seem to have clung on to some vestige of remembrance of what Christmas is actually all about.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating how I can reasonably avoid having to go home and make the obligatory parental visit for the festive season, pandoro filling my cheeks like a half-starved hamster and coffee in hand, when Leonora surfaces.

  ‘Ciao Lydia, come stai?’ she asks way too perkily, looking like she has just surfaced from twelve hours of pure, uninterrupted sleep. How does she manage to do that, and be pregnant too? Not that I’d wish it on her, but shouldn’t she be throwing up for Italy in the mornings by now? Knowing nothing whatsoever about pregnancy and childbirth and all that goes with it, I can’t profess to even have a clue what ought to be coming her way at this stage, but I can’t help the momentary, and very uncharitable, twang of envy that fate can deliver her to the kitchen looking like this, when I look like Lady Gaga after a fight with a bulldozer.

  One extremely large sugar- and caffeine-hit later, and I am feeling a little less unfriendly. Leonora helps me polish off another pastry, and the two of us sit there together companionably, alternating comfortable silences with the odd observation or snippet of gossip from the night before.

  ‘So, you and Stefano,’ she begins, inevitably, a huge smile lighting up her face. ‘Finally! I’m so pleased for you.’

  ‘Well, nothing has happened yet, but I’m going to call him today, see if we can meet up in the week or something,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s great, you’ll make a gorgeous couple, the pair of you,’ she goes on. ‘And thanks again for last night. I know I keep saying it but you are all so lovely. Where would I be without you….!’

  ‘We all know you’d do just the same for us. Although maybe not the gay club!’ I joke.

  ‘It was funny thought, wasn’t it?’ she giggles. ‘Couldn’t believe Matteo and his friend, what are they like!’

  When Sophia eventually emerges, around an hour later, I have knocked back enough coffee to keep an entire city awake for a week, and Leonora, as a sensible concession to her pregnancy, has moved onto the decaffeinated version. Stuffed to the eyebrows with carbs, we vow never to touch another pastry as long as we live. Well, at least for the next week anyway.

  Sophia is full of ideas for the day – she’s another one with far too much energy after a late night. How do these girls do it? Maybe the warm Mediterranean climate gives them a bit more get-up-and-go than we Brits, but whatever it is, I haven’t managed to absorb it by osmosis, and I am simply planning a lazy day here, with Signore Di Girolamo’s Titian book that Vincenzo lent me. I haven’t yet had much of a chance to read it, so that is me sorted for today, plus I have some real work I need to catch up on too. Oh, and I will definitely give Stefano a call sooner rather than later; I don’t want to leave the poor man hanging on for too long, after giving him so much hope last night.

  I’ve managed to convince myself, without actually having to try too hard, that the whole me-and-Stefano thing no longer feels like just a plan to rid myself of any inappropriate thoughts I might have been having about Vincenzo. Lying in bed last night in those few lucid moments before slipping into an alcoholic stupor, I realised just how much I really do like Stefano, and I can’t wait for our first date, just for its own sake, not with some ulterior motive bubbling away underneath.

  I will wait until a little later, when I can string two coherent words together and give him a call…

  Twelve

  Stefano holds tightly onto my hand, as though he can’t quite believe his luck that we are there together, terrified that I might at any time make a run for it. We stroll from room to room in the Galleria dell’Accademia, our ‘first date’ going really well so far. It’s funny how the dynamics of a friendship can morph so suddenly into something more substantial, and away from the rest of our group of friends we are completely different with one another; totally at ease as we are well past those early days of unfamiliarity, but also highly flirtatious and – a surprise to me – just a little bit naughty.

  I have to say, I haven’t really taken in much around the gallery as we’ve strolled from room to room, but then I have been here countless times before, so it’s serving its purpose as a neutral place for a date, without me feeling I’m actually missing out on the whole Art Experience. We’ve chatted incessantly, about anything and everything, each of us keen to know more about the other’s background, likes and dislikes, families, all the stuff that makes us tick. Things you just don’t talk about when you’re merely a couple of friends in a big group.

  I love this place, although it’s never held the same fascination as the Uffizi for me, for obvious reasons, I suppose. I didn’t want to take Stefano there on our first date though, again for obvious reasons. I have decided I’m going to tell him all about the dreams when we go for lunch later; not because I’m giving him the chance to get out of this relationship quickly if he decides I’m a total fruit-cake, but because the dreams are beginning to crystallise more and more in my head and I feel I need someone else that I know well to share them with and to help me rationalise everything. I have no doubt he will be as understanding as I’m expecting him to be.

  As we stand in front of David – the real Michelangelo one – he makes a joke about David’s physique as compared to his own, but then the jokey atmosphere changes instantly as he pulls me to him and suddenly we are in the centre-point of one of those corny moments when it feels as though the milling crowds around us have simply disappeared off the planet. Were we in a film, all those extras would fade into the background in soft focus whilst we were propelled to the foreground in sharp relief, camera zooming in from afar to capture ‘the moment’ between the hero and heroine, music rising to a predictable crescendo to coinci
de with the moment our lips first meet.

  Corny film moments aside, our first kiss is a very sweet one indeed, full of the promise of passion to come, and I am surprised at how, when we do eventually come up for air, my knees are undeniably weak and my heart is pounding. So, Stefano can do that to me, that’s encouraging! I’d been so worried, after Ed, that I just wouldn’t be able to feel anything for another man and that my ex had totally killed off any desire I might have had. So, Ha to you, Ed, you haven’t, there is life for this girl beyond you and your betrayal.

  I’m not usually one for such grand displays of affection in public places, but actually I’m not embarrassed in the slightest when I see onlookers regarding us with that ‘Get a room’ expression on their faces. They’re just jealous….

  Our first taste of passion produces an immediate hunger for lunch and two angrily growling stomachs, so we head off in search of a little trattoria Stefano knows, tucked insignificantly into a quiet back lane off the busy shopping street Via dei Calzaiuoli. Despite being situated just behind of one of the big Florentine department stores, remarkably there are very few tourists in here, and the overall impression is of Italian being spoken, not English, German, Japanese and whatever else all mixed into one discordant cacophony.

  We devour huge bowls of spaghetti con le polpette, slurping as the rich tomatoey sauce runs down our chins and laughing as we share a single strand, both sucking until our lips meet in the middle. We exchange a little kiss before biting through the perfect al dente pasta. As we are waiting for our desserts to arrive, I decide to tell Stefano about my dreams – with some trepidation as I remember only too well the reaction I received from Vincenzo when I imparted the same news to him across a dinner table.