So Bell End, Biffy, the nuns, Fizz Whiz, Portia, Jenny, Billy, myself and the rest of the team (whose names I still didn’t know) set off into the late Tuscan evening for a jig. Signora Santospirito had apparently given Sister the skinny on the happening place to go and get down.
‘Are you a betting man, Mr Biffy?’ Sister Bethlehem asked as we wandered through the cobbled lanes.
‘I like the occasional game of bridge, and I take a flutter at Ascot if I have a good tip.’
‘What about ten quid on who cut Samson’s hair?’ she asked Biffy, looking at him with her fluffy little innocent nun face.
Nuns. There’s no stopping them.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Discothèque Pazzo
I presumed the discotheque would be full of chubby old mustachioed Italian men in gold chains. I envisioned them swinging their wives around the dance floor to Tony Bennett songs while a tattered old disco ball lolled from the ceiling.
Instead, Cavern was a dark, lively, thumping, strobe-lit extravaganza of hip-hoppity music. The doormen didn’t look twice at our pazzo crowd of nuns, fencing masters and underage teens. He said something to us in Italian, and I worshipped Portia when she replied.
There was the odd mustachioed man decked out in gold chains on the dance floor, but he was the exception. Mostly the club was packed with fit boys and stunning girls in ooh-la-la outfits, smoking cigarettes and sipping sophisticated drinks.
Billy and the other guys asked the girls what we wanted to drink. Sister Regina asked for two limoncellos for her and the now feverishly excited Sister Bethlehem. I swear she was tapping her little wooden hobnailed shoes to the beat. Most of us went for soft drinks, but Jenny had to show off by asking for an elaborate cocktail. Before we’d left the pensione, I’d clocked her stuffing knickers in her bra. I dreaded where this evening would end if Jenny got drunk and pulled.
I thought Biffy might object to the cocktail but he nodded agreeably and wrote down all our orders on a little pad he produced from his jacket of many pockets. Then he went off to the bar with the boys. He was soooo obviously sucking up.
‘Let’s check out the loos,’ Jenny suggested, a proposal that met with solid approval from her friends. ‘I heard they have those squat jobbies in Italy,’ she announced, as if this prospect thrilled her. If you want my opinion, I think she’d noticed what the rest of us had already discovered: one of her knickers was peeping out of her top.
‘I’ll stay here and try to grab a table,’ I told them.
There would be time enough for squat toilets later. Right now, someone had to be sensible, and it wasn’t going to be Bell End, Biffy or the nuns, that was for sure.
‘Oooh, isn’t this fun, Mr Wellend? I do hope you’ll be putting your name on my dance card,’ Sister Regina told him as I looked about for a table. Sister Bethlehem looked as awake as the next person, but I figured that was unlikely to last. When she popped off she’d need a chair at the ready.
‘If it isn’t Calypso, she who drags men from their duties,’ a voice behind me said.
I turned and there he was. Malcolm McHamish’s Italian doppelganger. He had an unlit cigarette stuck to his lower lip and a glass of something in his hand. I looked him up and I looked him down and then I looked him up and down again. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, an Italian suit over an open-necked Pucci shirt, but apart from his continental taste in clothes, he was a Malcolm clone. Then my little grey cells got to work and I wondered how this stranger knew my name.
I swear if I hadn’t been so shocked I would have fainted. It really was Malcolm!
‘As ever, you look the very epitome of style and beauty, Miss Kelly,’ he said. ‘Did you just get here? It’s the damndest thing, don’t you know. I’ve been ringing and ringing you for days. Well, that is to say all day.’ A waiter passed by and lit the cigarette dangling from Malcolm’s lips. Malcolm thanked him profusely in Italian and gave him a wad of Euros.
‘What are you doing here? How’s Freddie?’ I asked in a rush.
Malcolm took a deep drag on his fag before continuing. ‘Ah, you want the latest goss on His Royal Nibs. Sick as a cat, poor devil. Spent the night in the infirmary, which is enough to kill off the best of them.’
‘Is he going to be okay?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I mean, I’ve tried to call him. I feel awful about what happened.’
Malcolm put his hand on my arm and gave me a comforting rub. ‘Why? You’ve not been tinkering with the cobbles at the edge of the bridge, have you? No, darling Freds is made of tougher stuff than that. They sent him home this morning while the antibiotics work their magic.’ I watched as Malcolm exhaled his smoke and blew a series of rings that wafted up to the ceiling. It was probably my feverish imagination, but he seemed bored by the conversation somehow. Which made me want to tap-dance for his attention.
‘What are you doing here, in Italy, though?’ I asked.
He waved his fag around. ‘Oh, you know, the usual. Immersing myself in the trough of Florence nightlife. Here, try this Disaronno, I swear it tastes like marzipan. Reminds me of Christmas,’ he urged, shoving his glass to my lips.
I took a sip and grimaced. ‘Yes, marzipan,’ I agreed, pushing the glass away. ‘But why aren’t you at Eades?’
‘Oh that. Yes, well, bit of a last-minute thing. The Film Society took a vote and the ayes had it, I’m afraid.’
‘A vote on what?’
‘Filming the British team fencing in Florence. Also we thought we might get a bit of that heady Renaissance air into our lungs, touch up our Italian language skills and buy a few trinkets for the old madres back home.’
I shook my head, still convinced he was a mirage. Then I caught Bell End swinging the nuns around the dance floor and knew that all was as it should be in my mad little world.
‘Sorry, I seem to be banging on about me,’ he said, taking hold of my hand. ‘Come and join us for a drink.’
I allowed myself to be led over to where it seemed half the Eades Film Society were sprawled out in a large roped-off VIP booth. All of them were dressed like they’d just come from a magazine shoot for Prada or Versace. They barely acknowledged me until Malcolm chucked an ice cube at Orlando.
‘You all know Calypso, the Botticelli angel of Saint Augustine’s,’ Malcolm announced.
They all smiled or raised their drinks, and then it took about a five full minutes to air-kiss them all. Even then, most of them continued chatting to one another as they brushed my cheeks with their lips. ‘Ah, and there is the beautiful Portia,’ Malcolm cried out as I was still air-kissing the troupes. He waved to her, and she peeled off from the rest of the fencing group and came over.
Another round of air-kissing commenced. Then Malcolm asked, ‘What would you like to drink, Portia? I recommend the Disaronno.’
‘I’ve ordered, thanks, Malcolm. Billy’s here with us, you know. What are you doing here?’ This last question was directed at Tarquin, but he just held his drink up in a toast and carried on an animated discussion with Orlando.
Malcolm replied. ‘Yaah, likes his sabre does our Pyke. No, he’s one of the heroes that drew us here. Rather hoping to get some triumphant footage of the boy wonder making mincemeat of the legendary Italian swashbucklers.’ Then he turned his attentions back to me. ‘Calypso, you’ll be wanting your usual.’ He shouted out to Orlando, ‘Hunte, get a bottle of Veuve, will you? Get two, in fact, three, four – a dozen! In fact, tell them to empty the bar.’ Then he flung down a huge pile of Euros on the table.
‘Get it yourself, McHamish,’ Orlando replied, lazily chucking the notes back at Malcolm. ‘I went last time.’
‘Honestly, I don’t want any champagne,’ I told Malcolm.
‘Nonsense, you live on the stuff.’
‘No, I don’t,’ I told him truthfully.
‘Really?’ Malcolm looked shocked. ‘Well, why are you always swilling the stuff down, then?’
‘I’m not always swilling the stuff,’ I said with lashings of i
ndignance. ‘I don’t even like the taste of it.’
Malcolm wiped a stray lock of his slicked-down hair from his face. ‘Excuse me, Calypso, but you are a champagne swiller of the highest order. The first night I met you hanging off the wisteria vine outside my room – vision of loveliness though you were – I thought, Malcolm this is not your usual girl. McHamish, old chap, this is a girl who lives life on the edge. Pissing down with rain it was, long after midnight, and yet there you were climbing vines looking for boys. No stopping this one, I said to myself. And then you accepted my invitation to dry off in my room, draped your lingerie on my radiator and made a beeline for the champagne fridge.’
‘I was lost,’ I explained, outraged. ‘I was looking for Freddie, remember? And you offered me the champagne.’
‘Ah, but you knocked it back like it was your mother’s own milk, as I recall.’
Portia pulled herself away from her brother Tarquin to say, ‘She only drank it because she was trying to be polite. Calypso barely ever drinks.’
Malcolm rolled his eyes and then held up his hand to halt further discussion. ‘Campari and soda, it is then,’ he announced, disappearing into the throng before I could explain that I couldn’t drink on the night before the tournament.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Developing My Aptitude in Matters of La Dolce Vita
The Campari and soda was red. Not that I could drink it, but it contrasted nicely with my green dress, so I swirled it around with my straw, hoping it would make me appear fabulous. Even though I wasn’t smoking, I was fairly confident that I looked molto, molto sophisticated swirling my elegant drink about with my swizzle stick while all around me pazzo reigned supreme.
Sister Bethlehem had obviously been storing up reserves of energy during all her years of napping because she didn’t leave the dance floor all night. In fact, Bell End, Sister Regina, Biffy and Fizz Whiz were all tripping the light fantastic.
Malcolm, Billy, Tarquin, Orlando et al. did some fancy dancing too.
‘There’s no way they’d dance like that in England,’ Portia remarked. ‘Look at Tarquin,’ she said, pointing to her brother, who was in his own little mad world on the dance floor.
‘I agree it does seem against nature’s way to see British boys actually moving their feet on a dance floor.’
Then I leaned back in the banquet and inhaled the heady scent of smoke and la dolce vita into my lungs. I had been feeling an odd mix of emotions that night; it was wonderful being entertained by so many fit boys. Then again, I felt odd about Malcolm being there and molto guilty about Freds being ill. Tarquin assured me as Malcolm had that all Freds had was a nasty chill, but still the guilts are hard to shift once they get a grip.
Then Malcolm came up, and without so much as a by-your-leave, kissed me. Right out of the blue, no warning whatsoever, just like that, he wrapped his lips against mine and got on with it.
Talk about frightening a girl. Admittedly, I rather enjoyed it when he kissed me in Windsor, well up until Freds fell in the Thames, anyway. But that was then, in the context of making Freds jealous. This was now, under the watchful gaze of the British national fencing team, my nuns, Bell End, Biffy and Fizz Whiz – not to mention the Eades Film Society. It was the very apex of mal-ness.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I told him, disengaging from his clinch. ‘What in the name of lip-gloss are you up to?’
‘I rather thought I was kissing you.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t know what the rules are amongst you Scottish film types, but in the real world you don’t just go round kissing girls without a by-your-leave.’
Malcolm didn’t look in the least bit chastened. ‘What the hell is a by-your-leave, anyway?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’ve always wondered about that,’ added Orlando, tapping the ash from his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Is it an old highway code or a Shakespearean whatsit?’
That set the whole table off on an in-depth debate on the linguistic origins of ‘by-your-leave.’
‘Is that even the point?’ I asked the table.
Malcolm, who now had his back to me, turned as if he’d only just noticed I was there. ‘What?’ he asked.
Well, what’s a girl to do? I asked myself. So I stood up to leave. I could see Portia waving at me in the distance. Malcolm had turned back to the debate, which was getting highbrow, with Greek translations flying through the air like croissants at Sunday breakfast. I marched off in a stroppish sort of way to see Portia.
‘Seriously, Portia, sometimes I wonder if boys are worth the effort. You won’t believe what Malcolm just did.’
‘Tell me later. We’ve got a problem with Jenny. She’s totally wasted. Alison is holding her head out of the toilet bowl as we speak. I just walked in and found her there with her head down the loo. I swear I thought she was going to drown. And she’s asked specifically for you. Can you take over while I have a quiet word with Bell End. I mean, The Commodore will go spare if he finds out.’
‘We can’t let Biffy or Bell End know that Jenny’s drunk!’ I blurted, and then wondered why. I mean, who was Bell End to judge? I thought as I spotted him at the front of a conga line consisting of a large part of our fencing party, with Biffy taking up the tail end. Talk about letting our side down. Here we were in the capital of style behaving like Basingstoke chavs. It was too pazzo for words. ‘I don’t think he’ll be much use,’ I added.
‘I see what you mean,’ Portia agreed, having witnessed what I had. ‘Well, come in and help anyway.’
Jenny was, as Portia had warned, head down in the loo, which was not one of those squat jobbies, thank God. She was totally chateaued, mortalled, wasted, bladdered, or to put it more plainly, revoltingly drunk. We may have been sworn enemies, but every girl has a duty to every other girl when it comes to this sort of thing.
‘Hi,’ I said to Alison. ‘I’m Calypso.’ They were probably the first words I’d uttered to her, which spoke volumes about my commitment to bonding with my fellow teammates. Still, what better way to bond than sharing the load of sobering up a drunk teammate, I told myself.
‘Yeah, I know. You’re the girl that’s going out with that Prince Freddie. I read about you.’
‘Yaah, well, was going out with Prince Freddie,’ I corrected her, feeling a bit of a lump form in my throat. ‘Anyway, let me take over for a bit. We’ve got to get some water into her.’
‘I’ll go get that,’ Portia said, and left Alison and me to it.
‘Good thing tomorrow ain’t the tournament. She’s going to feel like death.’
I signalled my agreement with a nod as I pulled Jenny’s head out of the bowl. Her eyes were closed and her head was lolling. She looked rough. ‘Jenny?’ I said her name to check if she was conscious. It’s a trick I learned from watching old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210. Whenever someone was drunk or on drugs, their friends would all repeat their name over and over. Sometimes they even slapped them across the face, an idea I nobly pushed aside.
All Jenny did was moan.
‘I don’t think she’s in a good place,’ Alison said as she passed me a wad of wet loo paper.
I wiped Jenny’s face and told her, ‘You’ve got to get some water down you, Jenny,’ even though she wasn’t in any state to understand.
I tried not to show it, but I was actually afraid for her. I mean, people died of alcohol poisoning, didn’t they? At least that’s what they told us in Special Studies. Jenny looked desperately unwell. The only other people I’d seen drunk were Honey, and Star’s dad and his mates, but even they had never been drunk like this. Well, no, that’s not true. Tiger was often unconscious.
Portia came in with the water and we managed to get Jenny to drink some. Jenny slurred my name, which I took as a good sign. Italian girls were coming in and out and the word ‘mal’ was being bandied about with much abandon. I know it sounds shallow, but I was feeling embarrassed about sitting on the floor holding my drunk anti-girlfriend’s hair out of her face while her head lolled in the toi
let bowl. It didn’t paint me in that la dolce vita light I was aiming for. Portia had said we were representing our country, and this wasn’t how I wanted to represent England or America, or Outer Mongolia for that matter.
‘I told Bell End,’ Portia said once Jenny had finished drinking the water. ‘Well, he’s going to find out, isn’t he?’ she added when she saw the look of horror on my face. ‘He’s gone off to the pensione. Apparently he’s got some sachets of electrolytes there.’
‘I don’t think we should be giving her more drugs,’ I whispered sternly.
‘They’re not drugs,’ Alison said helpfully. ‘They’re sort of like mineral salts. They’ll bring her mineral levels back up.’
‘We don’t want her bringing anything else up, animal, vegetable or mineral,’ I said as Jenny put her arms around my neck and told me she loved me. I reluctantly let her nuzzle my face for a bit before allowing her head to droop into my lap. She smelt of toilet water.
A Royal Mess Page 33