“I tell you she like to dance,” Sebastiano says cheerfully.
“Will she be okay?” I ask, charmed by the sight of the dancing donkey, but obviously feeling that animal-rights activists might have strong feelings about dosing a donkey with wine.
“Oh yes,” he says. “We give her wine because at the party she drinks from the glasses, in the hands, and people were …”
Not knowing the word, he mimes fright, opening his eyes wide, throwing his hands up in fear. I giggle as I say, “Afraid.”
I bet they were afraid, I think. I’d have a heart attack if a donkey came up to me and shoved its nose in my cup of wine.
“Si! They were afraid! So is better to give her in the ciotola.” He points to the bowl. “Then she is happy, she no drink from the glass. And she drinks the water too. She no have bad head.”
He scrunches his face up, miming a headache, or a hangover; I giggle again.
“She is my donkey,” he says, “so I know she is happy. I live here.”
“Oh! It’s lovely,” I say sincerely, looking around me. “You’re really lucky.”
“I know!” He beams. “Come now, we dance, Violetta.”
He takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, just as Kelly’s admirer pulled her outside. I can’t imagine an English boy doing that—they’d be worried about getting slapped. But somehow it’s charming with the Italians, even if it’s not the Italian boy you really want to be taking you somewhere, and I let Sebastiano do it. As he grabs my hand, over my shoulder I see Luca emerge onto the terrace, with Elisa.
I speed up almost to a run. I’m running away from Luca, from the pain that seeing him with Elisa causes me, from the confusion and conflicting feelings he makes me feel, the tremendous attraction and the fear of thinking I’m special to him when really I’m just another of his many spinning plates. Another of the foreign girls he messes around with every summer.
Sebastiano and I arrive, breathless and laughing, on the stone oval of the dance floor. I’m delighted to see that Kelly’s there too, dancing with the dark stocky guy, Gianbattista; she shoots over to my side, yelling:
“Did you see the donkey?”
“No,” I say, deadpan, “what donkey?”
She takes a moment, then howls with laughter. I think she’s a bit tipsy by now.
“You’re soo funny!” she yells. “You’re hilarious! Soo funny!”
She whirls away, dancing like a dervish, and I give Gianbattista a narrow glance, the one that means My friend is a bit drunk, but if you try to take advantage of her, I will remove my heels and hit you over the head with them. He looks taken aback, and I think the message has got over loud and clear. The music’s great—lots of songs we’re all dancing to in London, and no slow ones that mean boys are going to grab you and shuffle back and forth while pressing bits of themselves into you that you really don’t want to be aware of. I dance and dance. I don’t look anywhere beyond the bobbing heads, the waving arms, the smiling faces. I don’t look beyond the flames of the huge citronella candles, the fairy lights suspended in the branches over the dance floor.
I don’t look onto the rest of the terrace. I don’t want to see Luca and Elisa, wrapped in each other’s arms. To see him kissing her as he kissed me, his arms around her, his dark head bent over hers, his silky hair falling in her face. The only time I do look out from the confines of the dance area is when Paige appears, tumbling hilariously on the rough stone terrace, Leonardo’s arm a firm bar under her arm holding her up.
“Dance!” she calls happily. “Dance time! Drop it and pop it!”
She collapses suddenly; it looks as if her knees have given way, but a second later I realize that she’s actually doing a would-be sexy dance move, sticking out her bum, throwing her knees wide, her hands on her thighs, like a dancer in a hip-hop video. The trouble is, once she gets down, she can’t get up again. Leonardo bends down and tries to haul her up, but she’s laughing too hard to help him and almost pulls him over with her; Andrea dashes over, grabs her other arm, and gets her back to her feet again.
I’d be mortified at getting stuck down in a sexy squat. Absolutely mortified. I give Paige huge points for coming up laughing even louder, and exclaiming to Kendra, who’s come over too:
“Ken! Didja see? I dropped it but I couldn’t pop it! Ha! I couldn’t pop it!”
She’s howling with laughter, her head thrown back, her blond curls tumbling everywhere.
“I dropped it!” she yells. “But I couldn’t pop it!”
“Ma cosa dice?” Sebastiano says to me. “What does she say?”
I look at him helplessly. “I can’t explain,” I say finally. So I throw my hands wide in apology for not being able to translate, and start dancing again, only to stop a moment later as Paige yells:
“Oh! Em! Gee! I am sooo out of it!” She’s pointing at Golia, the donkey. “I’m, like, seeing things! I thought you were supposed to see pink elephants—I’m, like, seeing a horse! No, it’s a pony! My Little Pony! Cool! Is anyone else seeing a—”
“I think it’s time we took her home,” Kendra says dryly to Leonardo.
“Oh.” Leonardo’s face falls. “Ma no, she is okay. We sit her down a little bit, she is fine.…”
Paige staggers, and Andrea has to shove his arm more securely under her shoulder to hold her up.
“I really think she needs to go home,” Kendra says firmly. “I’ll go too.”
Leonardo clearly doesn’t want to leave the party, or be responsible for a tipsy Paige; he doesn’t say a word. It’s Andrea, wanting to be in Kendra’s good books, who says swiftly:
“I take you, Kaiindra. Leo, dammi le tue chiavi.”
Leonardo fumbles in his trouser pockets and hands Andrea his car keys.
“Ecco,” Andrea says to Kendra, smiling triumphantly. “I take you and Paige home, okay?”
“Thank you,” she says, with a rare grateful smile that makes him flush with pleasure.
Kelly nudges me. Her cheeks are pink, her face shiny, her hair’s come down with dancing and is sticking to her forehead, and when she speaks she’s doing her best not to slur.
“I think I sh’d go home too,” she says. “We sh’d all go.”
A realization hits me in the rib cage, as if she’d punched me rather than nudged me lightly. She’s right; we’ve been here for hours, we’ve had a good time—some of us, frankly, look like they’ve had too good a time. Andrea’s going back to the villa now with Paige and Kendra, and we should definitely go with him. Leonardo doesn’t seem to consider himself responsible for getting us back, and the last thing I want to do is throw myself on Elisa’s mercy, or trust a stranger who might be drunk, or not have the best of intentions, or isn’t even quite sure where to find Villa Barbiano, to give us a lift home. In London there are always late buses, or minicabs, at a pinch; here in the countryside, things are very different. You’re at the mercy of someone with a car.
But the punch in the rib cage isn’t because I’ve realized that we’re dependent on a sober driver. It’s because I have to admit to myself that I want to stay: I’m still hoping that Luca will turn away from Elisa and come and find me. Take me for a walk somewhere dark and romantic, kiss me again, make me melt.
I’m pathetic. I am not going to be this person.
“You’re totally right,” I say to Kelly firmly.
And I shove Leonardo aside with little ceremony, taking his place supporting Paige. He grumbles at being manhandled, but I couldn’t care less. He’s handsome and charming, but he’s fallen in my estimation; a boy who hangs around while a girl drinks a bit too much, happy to have a good time with her but not to help get her back home, doesn’t rate very high on my points scale.
“Come on,” I say, grunting as Paige goes limp against me, heaving her up, determinedly refusing to glance back along the terrace to see if Luca’s blue eyes are looking in our direction. Regretting that I’m leaving before he made his move.
You’re an idiot, Violet
. Stop it right now.
“Time for all of us to get going,” I say loudly. And I really try to mean it.
A Stupid, Silly, Impossible Fantasy
Hauling Paige up the long sloping drive to the wrought-iron gates, and then along the rutted dirt road to Leonardo’s jeep, is not the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. I’m really glad I didn’t wear high heels; balancing myself, as well as Paige, would have been a much more difficult task. Luckily, I’ve danced off any effect the wine I drank might have had, and Andrea, too, seems sensible and sober. As, I realize, did most people at the party. They were happy and laughing and fun, but that was about it; Italians nurse a couple of glasses of wine all evening. They don’t seem to drink to get plastered, not like English people do.
When we reach the jeep, Andrea props Paige on me like a gigantic doll while he gets in, turns on the engine, and bumps the jeep down to the road so it’s level. No way would we have managed to heave Paige into the jeep when it was parked at such a steep tilt up the slope.
Andrea’s unlocked the back door, and Kendra and I push and shove Paige in. She flops down inside with a long sigh of relief, collapsing on the backseat.
“It wasn’t a pretty pony,” she says, desolate now. “It was all gray. My Little Pony should be pink and shiny.”
“O-kay,” Kendra says. “Can you shift up, Paige? ’Cause we all need to get in.”
“You sit here, Kaiindra,” Andrea says eagerly, leaning over the front passenger seat and patting the upholstery with his hand.
“Subtle,” Kelly mutters to me.
“Italians don’t seem to be subtle,” I mutter back.
“No,” she says wistfully. “When they like you, they let you know.”
And even in the moonlight I can see that she’s looking at Andrea sadly. He doesn’t even notice her or look our way: his attention’s all on Kendra, who, in turn, is totally focused on Paige. Who isn’t budging.
“Need to lie down,” she mumbles. “Not feeling too good. Need to lie down.”
“You have to sit up!” Kendra says crossly, her hands on her hips. “We all need to get in!”
“Need … to lie down,” Paige insists, her speech getting slower and slower.
“If you make her sit up, she might puke,” Kelly says with blistering frankness. “And no one wants that.”
Off in the paddock, one of the horses neighs as if in agreement. It’s such a beautiful dark night, clouds scudding across the yellow moon, a faint breeze barely lifting the leaves on the trees that line the road, stars bright pricks of light in the black sky. Really black, I realize. In London, because of the streetlights, it’s a mauvey pink; here, it’s so dark you can see every single star.
Kelly’s over at the jeep now, gingerly picking up Paige’s feet with her high studded wedges dangling off them. It’s as if Kelly’s playing with a gigantic Barbie.
“I can squash in and sit down if I put her feet on my lap,” she announces. “That’s okay, I don’t mind.”
“But what about Violet?” Kendra points out. “You can’t both sit like that, there isn’t room.”
We look dubiously at the very back of the jeep, which Catia uses for loading all sorts of stuff; not just suitcases, but rubbish. It’s fenced off from the rest of the car and lined with some nasty, filthy old scraps of blanket. I’m not going to volunteer to climb in there and ride back in the dirt, clinging to the wire screen like a prisoner. And, to be fair, no one even suggests that I do.
“You could maybe squash into the front seat with me,” Kendra says doubtfully.
“Is not safe,” Andrea says, shaking his head.
“We could see if we could get the seat belt over both of us—”
“C’è qualche problema?” comes a soft voice from behind us, and we all jump, startled.
He has a way of sneaking up on you like a cat, I think savagely, annoyed at being taken so off guard. Everyone turns but me, because of course I know who it is straightaway. It’s as if I have a special radar setting for him: I would recognize his voice anywhere.
“Luca!” Andrea says, sounding relieved, and rattles off a long stream of Italian.
I don’t want to swivel to look at Luca directly. So I step back a couple of paces, closer to the wall that borders the paddocks, widening my range, and see him leaning against one of the gateposts, looking very amused. His eyes are gleaming, his hands shoved in his pockets, as he speaks equally rapid-fire Italian at Andrea.
I just glance at him swiftly, and then away again. He’s been ignoring me all evening, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of staring adoringly at him now. Something on the wall catches my attention; it’s a cat, maybe the one that crossed our path before, padding along the top on velvety paws, big and confident, pausing in front of me, staring at me with flat glassy eyes that gleam orange in the dark night. I reach out tentatively to stroke it, and when it doesn’t hiss and scratch, I tickle under its chin. A purr starts up immediately, rattling deep in its chest, and it closes its eyes and shoves its head heavily into my hand, showing me exactly where it wants to be scratched next. I pull lightly on its soft silky ears, smooth down its thick fur, and distract myself so thoroughly that it’s only after quite a while that I sense eyes on me and look around to see that everyone has fallen silent and is staring at me.
“Allora?” Luca says, a mocking edge to his voice. “Vieni con me, Violetta?”
That can’t mean what I think it means. My heart catches in my throat. The cat, realizing that I’ve been distracted, jumps down from the wall, landing with an audible thud, and pads off through the gate to chase food for its dinner. Poor field mice, I think ruefully. Between the owl and the cat, they’ll have a miserable night of it.
Then I look at Luca, and have the horrible suspicion that I’m a mouse and he’s the cat, playing with me, letting me run away and then reeling me back in. His eyebrows are raised, his mouth quirked in an amused smile of inquiry.
“Sorry,” I say, not to him but to Kelly and Kendra. “I missed all of that.”
“Luca’s going to take you back to the villa,” Kendra says briskly. “ ’Cause we can’t all get in the jeep.”
I panic. Stone-cold panic, bringing out sweat on my palms. I can’t be alone with him. This isn’t fair.
“Kelly’s coming with us too, right?” I say overloudly. “It’ll be nicer than sitting under Paige’s feet.”
Luca nods his head sideways, and for a moment I don’t get why. Then I do, and I can’t breathe. He’s indicating the line of Vespas parked by the gatepost. He didn’t come in his car. He came on a Vespa. I’m going to ride back home on his scooter.
This is not happening.
“Okay!” Kendra says brightly, climbing into the jeep. “See you two back at the villa!”
“Have fun,” Kelly adds, squishing in under the recumbent Paige’s feet and leaning over to shut the door.
I grimace at her helplessly, but they’re gone. Clearly, from the tone of her voice, Kelly thought that I’d be pleased at being marooned here with Luca. She caught us in the hallway of the castello; she knows that I like him.
But I’m not pleased. I’m furious, actually. Not with them, not with Kelly and Kendra. I can see how they’d think this was an ideal solution to the problem of Paige being passed out in the back of the jeep.
No, I’m furious with Luca. I feel trapped, played with. He’s spent all his time at the party not with me, but with Elisa. And now he thinks he can stroll up here, exploit a problem we’re having, and pick me out of the group to ride off with, without even asking me. As if I should be grateful that he’s spending some time alone with me.
I’m bristling like a hedgehog.
“Andiamo?” Luca says, pulling his hand out of his pocket, dangling a key with a black fob. Without looking to see if I’m coming, he walks over to his Vespa. It’s a faded, scraped pale blue, big and clunky, with old-fashioned dials on the front panel.
Luca is bending over, retrieving two helmets from
under the seat. He puts one on, leaving the buckle loose, holding the other one out to me.
I haven’t moved. I’m still standing by the wall. I stare at the helmet, my heart pounding, words rising to my lips. I want to yell at him, to complain that he’s taking me for granted. But then I bite my lip, choking down the words, because I’d make a fool of myself if I said them. I’ve got no rights over Luca. I’m not his girlfriend, or even close to it. I’m just a girl who’s kissed him a couple of times, and from what Elisa’s said, Luca’s kissed a ton of girls. For all I know, the days I haven’t seen him, he was in Florence, or at other parties, kissing other girls, other foreigners visiting that he can play with, avoiding long-term consequences because he knows they’ll be going back to their own countries at the end of their holidays.
No, the best thing to do is to act as if you just don’t care. As if you’ve been kissing other boys, too, every night he hasn’t seen you. As if you can barely remember his name.
Sometimes I think I’m too proud, too self-protective, but then I see other girls making idiots of themselves over boys and I change my mind. I’d rather be too proud than make a laughingstock of myself. I think of how my mum acted when my dad left her for the awful Sif: no matter how upset Mum was, she never threw scenes, never begged him to stay. Maybe she lavished too much attention on me after he went, kept me a little too close, but I really admired how she behaved through the separation and divorce. Dad admired her too, I know. I’ve never been prouder of her. And I want to be like her. I won’t chase after a man; I won’t seem desperate or needy. I’ll be as cool as my mum.
So I smile as best I can, saunter over to the Vespa, take the helmet, and say casually as I put it on:
“Grazie! I’ve never been on one of these before.”
Luca promptly paralyzes me by leaning down, pulling the helmet strap tight, and fastening the buckle under my chin. His aftershave smells like seawater, cool aquamarine, fresh and light; his breath on my face is warm and touched lightly with wine.
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