Words are trembling on my tongue. I want, very badly, to ask if there’s anything she wants to tell me. Anything that she might not have felt comfortable telling me before. Anything remotely to do with Italy. Or the fact that I look so different from my Norwegian relatives.
But she’s being so lovely, so supportive, that I simply can’t ask. I can’t pry into a possible secret that my mother may have chosen not to tell me.
“I’ll tell your father,” she says. “But I’m sure he’ll be fine. One thing I will say for him, he’s never stingy with his money.”
Dad left Mum over ten years ago, for an awful Danish woman with a name—Sif—that sounds like a brand of toilet cleaner. (Dad really does like Scandinavian women.) I hate her. It’s not that I blame her for stealing Dad away—I mean, I do blame her, but it was Dad’s fault much more than hers. She’s just a horrible cow who wants to pretend Dad didn’t have a life, or a wife and daughter, before she met him, and she does everything she can to stop me seeing him; she even got him to move halfway around the world, to head up an investment fund in Hong Kong.
But at least Mum and Dad didn’t have a messy divorce, like the parents of a lot of my friends. No custody battles over me, or making me tell the judge who I want to live with, or sending me to mandatory therapy, ugh, like poor Lily-Rose, who had to go to a counselor for two whole years. Mum said Dad was great in the whole settlement thing. She had savings of her own, from her modeling days, but he’s taken total care of us both, giving us enough money to buy this lovely flat in Kensington, ensuring we don’t want for anything. Mum isn’t remotely extravagant—we don’t live some sort of jet-set life. But if I want to do a two-month course in Italy, which costs, I must admit, what looks to me like an awful lot of money, I don’t need to worry for a moment that we can’t afford it.
And yes, I know how lucky I am. I really do.
“Maybe I could come to visit for a weekend?” Mum says in a small voice. “I could stay in Florence, rent a car, come and see where you’re staying … you could be my guide and take me round the galleries you’ve been to.…”
“Oh, Mum! Of course!” I hug her even tighter. “And I’ll email you the whole time—I’ll have my phone, you can ring me whenever you want to—”
“I won’t ring you every day,” she promises in an even smaller voice. “I promise. I won’t be one of those awful smother mothers. Honestly, I won’t.”
And though a little warning bell is ringing inside my head, she’s being so wonderful that I ignore it and tell myself that I believe her.
“Violet! My baby! Violet, darling …”
Mum is sobbing, full-out weeping, a river of tears pouring down her face, taking a lot of her mascara with it. That’s the real downside of her inability to pretend to emotions she doesn’t feel; it also means that she has no control over them. This has led to the occasional embarrassing incident when I’ve had tiny parts in school plays (tears of pride, overapplauding at my split-second curtain call as Peaseblossom or Second Lady). But nothing has ever been as remotely bad as this.
The worst part is that I’m frozen to the spot. I know I should be hugging her, reassuring her, but I’m so scared by the idea of getting sucked into the scene she’s making that I just stand there by the departure gates, one hand on the pull handle of my carry-on bag, the other holding my passport and boarding pass. It’s the most awkward place for a scene that I can imagine. Anything more public would be hard to picture.
“Violet, darling … I tried to be brave, I really did!” Mum’s sobbing, her arms outstretched to me. “But it’s two months! Two months! I’m going to be so worried about you all the time—I don’t think I can bear it!”
“Madam, could I ask you to move a little to the side?” one of the security guards says, visibly uncomfortable. “We do have quite a press of travelers today—”
“My daughter’s going away!” Mum wails. “She’s leaving me! My daughter’s leaving me!” And to my horror, she grabs on to the arm of the poor woman, who looks as appalled as I feel.
“Madam—” she starts, looking around frantically for help.
For a few awful, shameful seconds, I seriously contemplate dashing through the gate and joining the line at Passport Control. It’s moving fairly quickly; in the minutes it will take Mum to recover any shreds of composure, I’ll be into Security, where if she tries to follow me, she’ll be detained by the guards.
I’m a bad daughter even to think that. A terrible daughter. Not only am I leaving my mother on her own for two whole months, I’m fantasizing about running away from her and possibly getting her arrested.
Galvanized by guilt, I dash over to Mum’s side, peeling her hands off the security guard, apologizing profusely.
“I’ve never really gone away before,” I mumble. “She’s very upset … sorry.…”
Mum collapses on my shoulder, folding over me like a rag doll because she’s so much taller than I am. She looked so lovely today, I was so proud of her; in her slim gray trousers and white linen sweater, her blond hair pinned back from her face, a big silver necklace wrapped around her neck and cascading down the front of her sweater, she looks so young and smart. I could see men glancing sideways at her admiringly as we walked through Heathrow, and my heart swelled with happiness at how fantastic she looked, how great she was being, holding my hand, swinging it back and forth, talking about what a wonderful time I was going to have in Italy.
She’s been so brilliant, too, during my exams. For the last few months I’ve been revising nonstop, drilling myself in French conjugations, learning Shakespeare quotes, staring at Rembrandt self-portraits till I dream about his face every night, and Mum has been a star, making sure I have my favorite meals, dragging me out to get some fresh air now and then, reassuring me when I break down and panic that I’m going to have mental blocks in the exams and forget everything I’ve learned.
She looked after me, and now I have to look after her, I tell myself as I pat her back and do my best to tell her I’ll be okay, that two months will go by really fast, that there’s nothing to get upset about.
But a nasty little voice inside my head points out that I threw my messy sobbing fits in private. Not at the departure gate at Heathrow airport.
I dart a glance around me to see if anyone’s staring. And I promptly see two girls standing by the currency exchange, whispering together, all-too-obviously staring in our direction. I notice them at once because they’re both carrying big white bed pillows wedged under their arms, something I’ve never seen before. They look older than me, with smooth hair pulled back elegantly from their faces, which are equally smooth and so well made up that if they were in uniform, rather than jeans and hoodies, I’d think they might be air hostesses. One’s white, curvy, with lots of blond hair, and one’s black and very slim; they make a striking pair, and from the way they carry themselves, it’s clear they know it.
The black girl meets my eyes for a moment, and smirks; she turns to say something to her blond friend, who laughs in response.
Cow, I think angrily. Maybe it’s the fact that Mum and I are being openly sneered at that makes me take Mum’s shoulders, lift her off me, and say:
“Mum—I really have to go now. There might be lines at Security, it takes ages to go through.”
“Violet, darling, my precious little girl … why did I ever think this was a good idea?” Mum grabs a tissue from her bag. One thing mothers always seem to have, I notice, are tissues. She wipes her eyes, wincing at the amount of mascara that comes off in the process. “You can always come back, darling. Just one phone call—one text—and I’ll be on the next plane to come and get you. I promise. I know it’s a long way away—”
Not even a two-hour flight, I think.
“—but I’ll be there straightaway!” She grabs my hand and stares intently into my eyes, her own blurry and red. “And I’ll email you every day, darling! Every day! Honestly! Just in case you’re homesick! Oh, God—why did I ever let you talk me int
o this? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know!”
Oh, Mum.
“I love you, Mum. I’ll text as soon as the plane lands, okay? Try to keep busy! Get Aunt Lissie to come over for a visit—you could have some sister time together!” I suggest in a flash of inspiration. “I’ll be back before you know it!”
I give her a last quick hug, grab the handle of my bag, and shoot between the security guards before she can follow me, or break down again; mercifully, there aren’t that many people at Passport Control, and I’m at the desk in a minute or so. Handing my passport and boarding pass to the man behind it, I glance quickly back at Mum. It’s worse than I thought. She’s sobbing again, holding on to the top bar of the security rail that separates departing travelers from the rest of the people in the airport, her blue eyes as mournful and tear-filled as if I were moving to Australia, not just going to another part of Europe for eight weeks.
If I didn’t know her, I would definitely think that she was doing it for effect, enjoying being a drama queen. And I can tell that’s what the two girls I spotted before think: that Mum’s relishing the drama of our parting. They’re in the queue behind me, staring openly at Mum and commenting to each other, flashing perfect, even white teeth.
How mean. I don’t see how two girls carrying ginormous bed pillows have the nerve to laugh at me! I think furiously, grabbing back my documents from the passport official and dashing through the sliding doors without even looking back at Mum, my shoulders slumping in guilt that I’m abandoning her in such a state.
If things keep going this way, my trip to Italy’s going to be a total disaster.
Like Waking Up in THE PRINCESS DIARIES
As soon as I step out of the plane, onto the wheeled staircase down to the tarmac, Italy hits me in the face. Bright sun blinds me: it’s like stepping onstage, a bank of white light forcing you to blink, raise a hand to shield your eyes. I fumble in my bag for my sunglasses, holding up the people behind me. Warm, humid air wraps itself around me insistently, demanding that I unzip my jacket, pull off my cotton sweater, bare my arms and neck to the blazing mid-afternoon sunshine. By the time I’m down the wobbly metal stairs, by the time my feet first touch Italian soil, I’ve wrestled off the outer layers I was wearing in the air-conditioned plane. Everyone else is doing the same dance, wriggling and writhing as they cross the tarmac, shrugging off jackets, stuffing them into carry-on cases, the older English men and women putting on the straw Panama hats and ribboned raffia boaters they’ve brought to protect their white skin from the scorching Mediterranean sun.
Sod that! I can’t get enough of it. By the end of these two months, I want to be suntanned and golden from head to toe. I tilt my face up to the sky—it’s as bright a blue as the water that borders the Tuscan coastline—and revel in how glorious the warmth is. I was definitely meant to live in this climate. My body’s sucking up the heat, flourishing in it; I feel like a sunflower, turning my face to the sun, blooming and blossoming, petals opening wide.
I’m smiling as I enter the long, low white terminal building and navigate through corridors hung with huge framed photographs of olive groves and bright green oil in bottles, of sleek white yachts, of luxury hotels with striped loungers around bright blue swimming pools. The line at Passport Control is very brief for EU citizens, and the airport’s so small that by the time I emerge into the baggage hall, luggage is creaking around on the conveyor belts, unloaded from our plane. I see my suitcase and dive for it, pulling it off the belt. Already, my denim shorts, which I’m wearing over opaque black tights, are feeling heavy in the humid air, saturated with moisture, itchy and uncomfortable; I long to pull the tights off, at the very least, but then my shorts would be too—well, short. I bought them specifically to wear over tights—they’d be a bit too much like hot pants if my legs were bare, and I’d feel really self-conscious. I like my legs, but I’m not tanned or slim or tall enough to carry off hot pants anywhere but on a beach. God. Clothes are hard.
A girl passes me, looking visibly uncomfortable, her pale skin coated with sweat and her light red hair sticking to her forehead. She’s dragging a matching pair of cases, a carry-on and a larger suitcase, in a cheap beigey tartan print that’s a bad rip-off of a recent Burberry design. To be honest, it looks as if she bought them at a cheap market, or a pound shop; I can see the binding on the carry-on’s already fraying, and clearly a wheel on the main suitcase is broken, because it’s squeaking and bumping unevenly, and she’s having to haul it along like a sack of potatoes. The Alsatian dog that’s supposed to be drug-sniffing the passengers but is lying on the cool tiled floor by the exit door instead opens one eye at the noise as she lumbers past, cocks his ear, and slumps back to sleep again. His handler, chatting with a customs official, is completely uninterested in any of us travelers.
“Uffa!” mutters an Italian businessman in front of me as the smoked-glass double doors fly open onto the arrivals section, and his attempt to stride through the crowd of waiting friends and relatives is thwarted by the redheaded girl. Her suitcase seems to have completely broken down; a beige wheel is rolling across the tiles, disappearing under people’s feet, and she’s come to a halt, trying desperately to lift her suitcase by its handle, blocking the stream of people now flooding out behind her. No one helps; they push around her, cursing, until finally she manages to haul both her cases through the crowd, shoulders slumped. I feel really sorry for her, but I’m busy looking for the person I’m supposed to meet; the paperwork said that we would be met at Pisa by Catia Cerboni, the lady who owns Villa Barbiano and runs the course, and that she would be holding up a card with our names on it.
Of course she’ll be here; why wouldn’t she? The flight was on time—there’s no reason she wouldn’t meet it. But it’s impossible, when you’re alone in a strange country where you don’t speak the language not to be even a little bit nervous that you’ll be abandoned. Everyone else seems to know where they’re going: businesspeople are walking off quickly with their briefcases, and Italians are falling into each other’s arms with theatrical exclamations of happiness. I’m pressed forward by the people behind me, and I scan the crowd almost frantically, until with huge relief I see a woman right at the back, by the far doors that keep pulling open onto a bright glorious vista of sunlight, holding up a small white laminated sign reading VILLA BARBIANO.
As I approach her, I bite my lip. She’s really intimidating: thin as a rake, her pale linen dress hanging off her deeply tanned limbs, big sunglasses holding back her dyed blond hair. She’s wearing no makeup except dark red lipstick, which somehow makes the dark circles under her eyes more noticeable, and she’s dripping in gold—heavy bracelets clanking on her narrow wrists, big gold hoops swinging from her ears. Her fingernails are painted the same dark red as her lipstick. And her expression is deeply, profoundly bored in a way I’ve only seen on Frenchwomen before. Which is not a good sign.
“I’m Violet Routledge,” I say hesitantly. “Am I the first?”
She nods.
“Catia Cerboni,” she announces, leaning forward to peck me on either cheek. “Ciao. Welcome to Italia.”
She has no Italian accent whatsoever, I notice, impressed.
“There are three more of you to come,” she says, looking at her gold bracelet-watch. “I hope they will be here soon. Or I will have to pay for an extra hour in the parking lot.”
Blimey, I think. You’re a friendly one.
Crashing and thudding signals the arrival of the second person in our group: it’s the redheaded girl with the broken suitcase. She’s close to tears, one shoulder hunched from lifting her big case while pulling the carry-on with her other hand. I dash forward to help her prop the broken one against the wall; Catia Cerboni looks on with plucked eyebrows raised, not lifting a finger to assist.
“You must be Kelly,” she drawls at the girl.
“That’s right.” The girl looks surprised. “How’d you know?”
Catia smirks.
�
��The other girls are American,” she informs us, flicking her gaze up and down first Kelly, then me. “You two are clearly not American.”
She says this like it’s a bad thing. Kelly and I exchange glances, checking each other out, but also sharing a moment of She’s a charmer, right?
Kelly’s fanning herself, pushing her hair back from her forehead.
“Blimming hot, innit?” she says in a strong Essex accent. “I was freezing on the plane, but it’s all right now, eh?”
She’s wearing a tight T-shirt, an equally tight denim mini, and flip-flops, revealing a lot of lightly freckled white skin. The T-shirt, a fluorescent green, is much too bright for her coloring, and makes her look bigger than she is; she’s built on a solid scale, with a squarish body that the miniskirt doesn’t flatter. I like her eye makeup, though: long strokes of bright green pencil that matches the T-shirt, layered over equally bright blue shadow. It’s really fun. Her nails, I notice, are stubby short and painted glittery turquoise. I glance down at my own, whose burgundy polish is chipping badly. I should tidy them up at some point. Mum would nag and nag me about the chipped nail polish, I think, and I have a quick rush of homesickness before I determinedly push it back into its box and slam down the lid.
“Oh my God!” comes an exclamation, high and nasal enough to cut through even the constant Italian chatter all around us. “This trolley’s, like, drunk!”
Mad giggling follows this, equally loud, as two girls pushing luggage trolleys come cannoning through the crowd of friends and relatives. People jump aside for them, complaining, but I notice Italian men, young and old, turning to stare after the girls appreciatively. I also notice that all the Italian men—young and old—are wearing their jeans much tighter than I’m used to in England. I must say, I definitely like it. I gawk at one boy, about my age, in a really skinny pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt tucked into them; you can see his whole body, tall and lean, with a nice round bum, which happens to be pretty much my ideal boy’s figure. Unfortunately, when he swivels, checking out the giggling girls, I see his face, and that ruins it. Not only is he not very handsome, but he’s shaved his facial hair into a weird line that runs like a chinstrap around his jaw.
Flirting in Italian Page 3