by Penny Feeny
‘He hates the nickname, haven’t you found? Insists on being Roberto, or Bobby for choice, because it makes him sound like de Niro or someone.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Oh, he’s arriving later with the others. Didn’t he tell you there was a whole gang coming out for the weekend? One of those get-togethers that really should have been arranged in advance, but hey – it’s more fun, isn’t it, if we’re all spontaneous together? That’s the way we do things in Italy. Barely controlled chaos.’
In what she assumed to be the living room, photographs were arranged on a shelf. If she memorized them maybe she’d be able to recognize Bobo when he turned up. Not that it would help because he would know at once – unless he was high as a kite – that he’d never met her before. She examined the faces in their frames: the assorted groupings made it impossible for her to work out any identities, but everyone was joyful. Tempestuous was how Liddy had described Maresa Baldini, volatile; absolutely charming until you crossed her.
She was going to be found out. As soon as the others arrived Max would discover she’d lied to him. Well, not lied exactly, but there were truths and there were half-truths and there was falling face forward in the shit, which she had very nearly done. She took another two Peronis from the stock in the fridge and snapped off the tops. Keeping her breathing regular and even, a ploy she’d found useful in the moments before a performance, she returned outside. When he reached over for the bottle their fingers touched. She withdrew her hand quickly. ‘I have to tell you something,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’ He responded to her change of tone, looking quizzical.
‘I don’t actually know Bobo.’
‘You don’t? You mean one of the others invited you?’ He stared at her. His eyes, which she had thought were brown, had flecks of bronze in them. He slapped away a fly that had landed on his torso. He might make out that he sat around in dim basements listening to indie rock and garage, but she could tell he worked out too: weight training and so on. She’d been forced to exercise so much in her childhood that she knew the signs.
‘No one invited me.’
‘No one?’ He scratched his head as if taking some time to assimilate this fact. ‘You’re telling me you’re a gatecrasher?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I’m really sorry. I should have explained earlier . . .’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Well, you know what, I was tired and disorientated and when you woke me up . . . I couldn’t think of anything more fabulous than a swim. But I know that was cheeky of me. Swimming first and confessing later, when you couldn’t take it away from me. The swim, I mean.’
‘Or the beers?’
She hadn’t yet touched the bottle on the table. She pushed it away. A black beetle was crossing one of the flagstones, purposeful and unwavering.
Max whistled, a low single note, but he didn’t comment. He was leaving her lots of rope with which to hang herself.
‘I wanted to tell you earlier. Truly. But it was difficult when we got sidetracked and had so much to talk about . . . This isn’t an easy thing I’m doing, coming clean, whatever, but I didn’t want to con you any more. And I didn’t –’
‘– want to be shown up when Bobo and the rest of the gang arrived?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have let that happen. I could have just walked out, left, thanked you for a free lunch and then you’d never have seen me again. But . . .’ She paused. There were many things she could say to break the silence suspended between them – even more acute now the CD had ended and there was no driving guitar rhythm to bolster their connection – but she wasn’t going to grovel. And she didn’t care to dig her hole any deeper.
Max took a long swig of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘So all that stuff about the music you’re into was to string me along, get me on side?’
‘No, no! I didn’t lie about any of that. Come to think of it, I didn’t lie about anything. You simply assumed I was one of Bobo’s mates.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘I know. I misled you. That’s what I’m apologizing for and that’s why I’m trying to square everything off now. Before I go.’
He rubbed his jaw again. ‘You must have met him somewhere or how else would you know his name?’
‘You called him Bobo,’ said Allie. ‘And someone told me this was the Baldini villa.’
‘Someone?’
‘While I was wandering about, lost.’
‘What were you looking for?’
‘It doesn’t matter, it’s not important.’
‘Tell me.’
It annoyed her that he could steam ahead with his interrogation while she couldn’t ask a single question, but then he was entitled to be idling on this sun-dappled terrace; she wasn’t. Further half-truths came to her rescue. ‘I was on a sort of recce. A friend’s family used to have a place out here once and they’d been talking about how much it might have changed and whether they should have sold up. Lots of English people are buying villas abroad these days. It’s like a new hobby. What happens is the budget airline companies stick a pin in the map of Europe and find some undeveloped runway where it’s going to be really cheap to land. They start operating flights there and all the Brits take out mortgages and buy second homes because, you know, we’re a nation of owner occupiers. Even I have my own house, as it happens.’
‘Most of the foreigners who own property here are German, not British.’
‘You sound very certain.’
He swatted away another fly. Until this point she’d assumed he was her age; now she realized he was older, more worldly-wise. ‘Yeah, because I am. I’ve been coming here most of my life. The Germans are keen on spas and all that therapy and wellness stuff. I thought that’s what you might have come for. Hydrotherapy.’
She liked to suppose that if a person hadn’t said anything, if they hadn’t averted their eyes or made any other reference, then they hadn’t noticed. They always noticed. She might be draped in a towel now, but she’d been swimming lengths in the pool, parading around in her swimsuit: he’d have to be blind not to.
‘I’m not one of those people who goes to Lourdes,’ she said indignantly.
‘Hydrotherapy is nothing to do with holy water! I’m not talking miracles.’
She clutched her arm behind her back. ‘In fact, I manage damn well.’
‘Well, obviously, if you really do play drums.’
‘You don’t believe me? You think all drummers are head bangers and I don’t fit the bill?’
‘Jeez! Let it go.’ After an awkward pause in which they avoided looking at each other, he continued: ‘So you’re not here to take the waters? You want to buy some real estate?’
She’d been given another chance, she had to sound convincing. ‘No, that’s a pipe dream. I was just getting a feel for the place. I’d heard about Casa Colonnata and –’
‘The development? I didn’t think it was being promoted in the UK.’
‘No . . . er, my friend mentioned it . . . Anyhow, there’s no story to tell really. I got a bus, wandered about, thought I’d be able to get down to the beach –’
‘It’s a private beach club these days.’
‘Oh right . . . Anyway, by then I’d been going round in circles and I was completely lost. So I sneaked in here for a peek at the pool, because it was so calm and I’d got myself into an awful dither. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What are the Italian laws on trespass? Do you shoot at first sight?’
She hoped he’d go easy on her. They’d hit it off so well at the start, like they’d known each other for ever.
Max was regarding her with great concentration. She felt as if he were seeing right through her. Abruptly he pushed back his chair and stood over her, his palms flat on the table, but she never found out what penalty he had in mind because a barrage of hooting bowled down the cinder drive and two cars, nose to tail, slalomed to
a stop within inches of the veranda.
17
Allie didn’t know what he told them. She couldn’t understand any of the rapid Italian with which they greeted each other. They poured on to the terrace in such a torrent of suntanned limbs and colourful T-shirts and extravagant caresses, it felt like being mobbed in the mosh pit. In fact there were only six of them and Bobo – Bobby – she picked out at once. Chunky and solid as cedar wood, he had a green bandana tied around his temples, a manic glint in his eyes and an oddly high-pitched giggle. He walked with a confident swagger and an air that implied leadership: the rest of the party all deferred to him.
One after another they came up to shake her hand. ‘Sono Allegra – Allie,’ she said six times over, to Bobby and Giulia and Sandro and Tommaso and Bianca and Laura. ‘Piacere,’ they returned the greeting, kissing her on each cheek. Bobby said something provocative to Max, who responded, ‘Vaffanculo.’
Allie was tiptoeing on burning coals, over-sensitive to her situation. ‘Don’t let them tease you because of me. Really I should be leaving . . .’
He frowned. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you. He’s having a go at me because of the car. When I picked it up from the rental place it was all they had left. Bobby’s such an asshole. He’s so into appearances, quel cazzone!’ He slammed his fist into the crook of his elbow, directing the obscene gesture towards Bobby, who laughed. Allie had regarded Max as the all-round American, the sophisticated New York city dweller. Now, among his friends, he’d become seamlessly Italian. His intonation and speed of delivery matched theirs. His mannerisms – his hands rippling through his curls or describing shapes in the air, his toe tapping, his bursts of exclamation: Figurati! Da morire! – were in perfect harmony with the rest.
As she began to distinguish one from another, the impression of children let loose in a sweetshop diminished and the spectacle became a choreographed ballet. The young men helped themselves to soft drinks: cola or Orangina fizzing over ice cubes. They wandered around the pool, dipping a foot in the water, kicking a light spray at each other. One of them – Sandro? Tommaso? – found a shrunken rubber ball and batted it with dexterity from hand to hand and against the wall of the house. The young women went inside to claim their sleeping quarters and unpack. Their dance routine involved weaving adroitly between the men, the sun loungers and the various exits and entrances to the villa. If each had been attached to a skein of coloured silk, they would have created an intricate tapestry. They didn’t keep still. They changed out of their clothes and into their bikinis. They fetched sun lotion and massaged it into each other’s backs. They discarded the lotion and demanded more ice for their drinks. They took turns to question Bobby about their rooms, the beach or the locality. It was hard for Allie to be certain of the words, but the pointing, the shading of brows, and the body language were so expressive it was like being on the set of a silent movie.
The men decided to swim. Tommaso jumped in first, then Bobby, splashing like a noisy whale. And it was Bobby, the practical joker, who circled his hand around his girlfriend’s (Giulia’s?) ankle and pulled her in to join him. The pool, which had been such an oasis a few hours ago, fermented like a Jacuzzi. Max had gone to put on more music (White Stripes) and turn up the volume. Passing Allie, he muttered, ‘Bobby’s a banker, you know. Investors trust him with their savings.’
‘And the others?’
‘Giulia also. And Sandro. Bianca’s a web designer, Tommaso’s a pharmacist; not sure about the fidanzata.’
And where do you fit in? she could have said at this point. But before she had the chance, Bobby started hollering from the pool. In response Max snapped the waistband of his jeans against his torso. Bobby beckoned and unleashed a stream of adjectives which transported the girls into giggles. Max let his jeans fall; beneath them he was wearing swimming trunks. His calves tensed as he leapt, rather elegantly Allie thought, on to Bobby’s head.
Both men vanished in an underwater tussle. Laura and Bianca, their bodies dry, their mascara intact, their lips, toes and fingernails still defined in glossy red, broke off their conversation for the space of a sentence and then smoothly rejoined it. The water whirled and boiled as if a geyser were about to erupt. Bobby thrust himself upwards, tore off his soaking bandana and called over to Allie. ‘He says you are very good swimmer. Very speedy. You drive with your legs and the water makes no movement when you are in it.’
She shrugged as if this were unnecessary flattery and her style nothing special.
‘Show us,’ commanded Bobby.
Their faces were on her, eager for a display: these strangers whom she’d known scarcely an hour, whose house party she had gatecrashed. They had every right to expect her to sing for her supper. They weren’t asking anything unreasonable; they were keen to admire. But she would have to explain why she swam the way she did, her one-armed crawl, and although she reckoned she was a good sport she wasn’t an exhibitionist. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Dài! We will move from your way.’ He flung his arms wide. ‘You have the piscina for yourself.’
She shook her head again. ‘Sorry. Maybe later.’
Max hauled himself on to the side. He sat with his legs in the water, his chest gleaming as if it had been newly varnished. ‘Why the heck not? You’re good.’
She shouldn’t have to justify herself. ‘Because I’m not a performing monkey.’
His eyelashes were matted into wet clumps. He rubbed them with his fists, adding to his impression of disbelief when he challenged her. ‘Not a performer?’
‘No.’
How shameful would it be if they turned on her? If only her backpack were a little nearer she could grab it and run.
‘Quit bullshitting,’ Max said. ‘If you play live music in front of an audience you’re a performer. No argument.’
‘Okay, but your mate wasn’t asking me to smash a cymbal. He wanted to see me swim.’
Even Laura and Bianca had ceased chirruping, their attention caught by the crackle in the air and the stand-off they didn’t comprehend. Everyone was looking at Allie. It was difficult to be dignified in a swimsuit. ‘You’re trying to turn me into a freak show,’ she said.
Max scrambled at once to his feet. ‘Hell no! You don’t think I’d . . .’ He tugged handfuls of his hair in exasperation.
Allie manoeuvred herself away from him and towards her bag. She pulled on her denim skirt and tussled with the zip. It was all so stupid. She would cheerfully have joined in swimming with the rest of them; it was the way she had been singled out that disturbed her.
The others were looking from her to Max as if they were watching a lovers’ tiff, as if the signs to be read from the exchange were quite different from the actuality. But how would they know? How could these well-heeled fun-seekers imagine that she was a flagrant interloper who happened to get lucky with a guy who shared her interests? And why hadn’t he told them he’d literally only known her for ten minutes? She concentrated on fastening the row of small buttons on her cotton top.
Giulia, tucked into a sarong, came over and touched her arm. ‘Per favore, non piangere,’ she said.
Allie blinked. She hadn’t intended to cry. She hadn’t intended to blow herself out of the water like this. What a fucking eejit. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Che stupido.’
‘Stupida,’ corrected Giulia. She offered one of her Marlboro Lights to Allie, who declined. Giulia lit up, took a deep drag and then held the cigarette at a distance so the smoke could trouble other eyes than her own. English came tumbling out as if she had cranked a wheel. ‘To swim or not swim is not important. Massimo is good guy. Roberto also. They like fun, is all. You and Massimo are together long time, no?’
‘No,’ said Allie. ‘Actually, we only just met . . .’
‘You are not fidanzata from America?’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Ohhh . . .’ Giulia considered and then came to a decision. ‘Is not my problem,’ she said. ‘We are here to enjoy. Is enough.’ She pa
dded back towards the pool, trailing ash and the ends of her sarong. Her build, like Bobby’s, was stocky, but her flesh was so tanned and supple she looked like golden syrup in motion. Quietly she passed this new information on to her friends.
The group had plans for the next day, Saturday, for taking the boat out on a fishing trip and bathing in the hot springs; a restaurant was booked for dinner and they were going on to a club. But this evening they were going nowhere, chilling. Bobby was organizing the cooking – not that there was much to cook. He whirled around the kitchen opening cupboard doors, invoking a person he called the sainted Rosaria, and criticising Max for being inefficient. Allie understood that he’d been supposed to obtain a decent range of foodstuffs, not just the beer, olives and panini he’d bought at lunchtime. In any case, more than half the panini had already gone, snatched and gnawed by guests passing through the kitchen – or used as ammunition in a mock fight between Bobby and Sandro; torn pellets of bread littered the terrace.
‘I thought there was stuff in the freezer,’ Max grumbled in English. ‘They always have steaks or ribs or sardines or something.’
There followed a lengthy debate to determine whether they should eat out or stay in. Tommaso volunteered to drive to the nearest pizzeria to fetch takeaway pizzas and Bobby insisted on cooking his signature dish, so no one would go hungry in the meantime. This dish was spaghetti (of which there was no shortage) tossed with olio, aglio and peperoncino (of which there was no shortage either). Allie was accustomed to the powerful curries of the West Midlands, but Bobby’s liberal use of flaming red chillies stripped all feeling from her lips and tongue. Giulia, wisely, refused the pasta. She lit another cigarette and insisted she was happy to wait for the pizza to arrive. After they had eaten, they danced. Bobby took charge of the music; it was in his nature to take charge of everything. His choice veered between classic Tamla Motown and emotional Italian ballads. Allie and Max sat out the ballads, mocking their host’s questionable taste.