The Younger Man

by Foster, Zoe

  ‘I’m sure they do.’ Abby gave a mildly condescending, busy smile and made to start eating again.

  ‘Maybe, if you lika, you come for aperitif at my brother’s restaurant tonighta? My girlfriend and sisters will be there, do not feel scary.’

  Abby laughed.

  ‘It is outside the wall, near the small churcha. I will give de address. We are there 8 p.m. My name is Andrea!’ He smiled broadly and disappeared.

  Abby shook her head and smiled. How quickly a lady’s day could change! To be invited somewhere, to have some prospect of conversation, even if it is clunky and half-Italish, to hang out with some genuine locals – all of these things made her heart bloom. She was definitely going. Even if it was for one glass of wine. She was going. Being miserable about Marcus was a diabolical waste of a trip. He could suck it.

  Wearing her new tan sandals – she’d taken great delight in choosing the style and leather she wanted and having them made – and a short, loose navy silk dress cinched in with a thin belt, Abby felt as chic as she could without dressing up or making too much of an effort. She had no idea what these people would be wearing, couldn’t remember the Marcus-guy’s name and suddenly panicked at the thought of what she was doing – walking down a strange, rambly path at dusk, on her way to a place in a foreign country with people she’d never met before. She’d make a horrible backpacker, she thought, she had about as much gumption as a newborn lamb.

  She turned a corner and saw a small, welcoming restaurant and bar with a large al fresco area 100 metres away. It was opposite a small, pretty church, and set against a backdrop of magnificent Tuscan fields and farmhouses. There were some very fancy cars out the front for a small restaurant in a tiny town, she thought, re-applying her gloss and tousling her hair in preparation for what could only be an awkward entrance.

  But Abby needn’t have worried, as soon as she came into the lights, her waiter friend was leaping up to greet her. She smiled nervously.

  ‘You came! Please, come to meet everyone …’

  He futilely ran her through the eleven or so people seated and standing around a dark wooden bench, sipping on wine or beer, smoking, laughing. They all nodded and smiled warmly, and two of the women pulled another chair over, motioning for her to sit. A couple of kids were screaming around the tables at the other end of the restaurant, and the scent of food being delivered to other small tables of what appeared to be locals, judging by their lack of shiny holiday best, and fluent Italian, was gorgeous.

  A very pretty young girl with astonishingly shiny hair came over and held Andrea’s – that was his name – hand and smiled welcomingly at Abby. She clearly wasn’t threatened by this old bat who’d stumbled in off the last tour bus, which was a relief to Abby. Abby wanted nothing to do with Andrea, as handsome as he was. It would’ve been an act of pure sadism.

  ‘This is my girlfriend, Sylvana, she is de most beautiful.’

  He kissed her lovingly on the top of her head.

  ‘Abby, do you have husband?’

  He was so forward. It was kind of refreshing in a way. Intrusive and awkward, but refreshing.

  Abby laughed, ‘No.’

  ‘So we take you to be a single, yes?’

  Abby loved the jump from no husband to single, as though boyfriends were inconsequential.

  ‘Yes …’ Abby wondered where this was all heading, the men in the group all seemed pretty taken, and even if they weren’t, none were really her type, which was interesting since she didn’t actually have a type, and they were all pretty handsome, in that slick European way. But still.

  ‘So, some wine?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’

  And he vanished inside to the small restaurant, with candles and very old arched doorways. It was quite a cool little bar and restaurant, unintentionally trendy in that traditional, brown-paper-menu and simple rustic candles and chill music playing, kind of way.

  Sylvana, who spoke about as much English as Abby spoke Italian, gestured for Abby to come and sit with her and the women who’d pulled a chair over for her earlier. She recognised one of them as her waitress today, although with her hair out and a simple black, cotton dress with gold sandals, she looked far more beautiful. Who were these people? They didn’t appear to be common town-folk, farmers and such. They looked like big-city types.

  ‘Ciao, I am Elena,’ said the waitress, smiling warmly. ‘Andrea says you are travelling alone, have you been in Florence yet?

  ‘No … but I will. It will be my last stop … for the shopping!’

  Abby had a strange way of punctuating her sentences with exclamation points since arriving in Italy. It felt appropriate somehow, her nod to the Italians’ fantastic intonation.

  ‘We live there; our family, it is a great city, you will enjoy yourself very much.’

  Abby’s confusion must have been visible, even in the late evening light.

  ‘We come here in the summer and work, then for the winter we close the restaurant, this one and the one you visit today, and we are going to Florence.’

  ‘Ohhh! What a terrific set up. All of you do this?’ Abby gestured around the table.

  ‘Yesa. It is what we always have done. I prefer Florence, but in summer it is unbearable, the heat. Our brother, Alessandro, he stays in Florence, because he needs the energy, but we come here.’

  Sylvana said something in Italian to Elena.

  ‘Si. Alessandro, he is arrived yesterday. Our brother, he visits sometimes, to check on the restaurants. They are his; he has in Venice too. He is a very successful man. Maybe you will fall into love with him!’

  Abby laughed, imagining a bald, sleazy, wheeling-and-dealing guy driving a beat up old Alfa, chain-smoking with gold chains entwined in his hairy chest.

  ‘Anyway. He will arrive soon, you can meet, he will tell you how is best to live in Firenze.’

  Andrea placed a tumbler of wine in front of Abby, who thanked him and took a sip. It was delicious, refreshing, the perfect antidote to the warm, languid night air.

  ‘I hope you are hungry!’

  Abby was hungry, and as plates of parma ham and melon and cheeses and olives and breads were placed on the bench, she absorbed the moment. She was in a local restaurant, with the owners, eating fresh, local produce and drinking wine from vineyards she could see. Probably.

  Everyone slowly started picking pieces from the platters and placing them on small blue, thick ceramic plates – so rustic! – and nibbling slowly. Abby was about to do the same when a man in dark jeans and a white shirt that appeared to be missing several buttons around the chest area walked in, jangling keys and smiling broadly. He had short, salt and pepper hair, tanned skin and gentle, warm eyes that were that light, piercing green that made people very beautiful, and quite often very famous. He wasn’t classically handsome, but there was something instantly attractive about him. His relaxed style: brown loafers, no socks, and big, expensive watch slotted him firmly into textbook Italian hunk territory. Abby watched as he entered the group and loudly kissed and greeted people, laughing and joking in Italian, everyone moving from 40 to 100 watts in his presence.

  ‘This is Alessandro. He has not seen some of us for since the winter,’ Andrea said by way of explanation, admiration and love for his older brother beaming from his eyes.

  Abby tried to politely finish her enormous piece of prosciutto before he was introduced, but it didn’t matter, because he never was introduced. Instead he sat down at the opposite end of the table and, as a waiter brought him some wine from a different bottle than those already opened, he began telling a very engaging, boisterous story, which had everyone (capable of understanding Italian) in raptures. His wild gesticulation was the stuff of stereotypes, his voice full of expression, his eyes animated and engaging, and when he delivered what Abby presumed was the punchline, the entire group lost it so much their grip had to be called into question. They slapped knees and threw their heads back and guffawed and clutched at their stomachs, and
all Abby could do was smile and be washed away in their sea of laughter.

  She wished she knew what Alessandro was talking about, but soon enough regular conversation resumed and she had finished two tumblers of wine and was halfway through her third, and had a belly full of delicious treats, and she was so happy just sitting in her chair and the warm, silken night air, having stilted conversations with Elena and her friend, Maria about her job, and her travels and why she must go to Sicily, because that’s where they holiday, and it is the best. Every now and then she caught herself looking at Alessandro, but he never looked at her. He was always deep in conversation with someone, listening intently to them talk, smiling with them. He’d kissed everyone hello when he arrived but in all the noise had failed to notice her. She tried not to be put out about it.

  When she looked up at the table an hour later, it had petered down to five or so people, and Alessandro was sitting back, sipping his wine as he listened attentively to his friend/waiter tell a story.

  ‘You like Alessandro, yes?’ Andrea said with a smile in his voice from behind Abby, scaring the shit out of her. Sylvana stood with him, holding his hand and stroking it with her thumb, quietly loving on her gorgeous young boyfriend. Abby had never held Marcus’s hand like that, she realised. He’d held hers in that way, devoted and adoring, but she had been to busy keeping her detached, power-holding position to be so openly adoring.

  ‘What? No, I was just sitting here, just— no.’ Abby guffawed and took a sip from what might have been her fifth or fifteenth glass of wine.

  ‘Every woman like Alessandro.’

  ‘That’s lovely, and I’m sure he’s very nice, but I haven’t even spoken to him, and actually I’m—’

  ‘Sylvana and I leave now, we will walk you home?’

  Ridiculously, Abby felt irritated at having to leave not having met Alessandro. She had no idea why. Probably because he had not demanded he be introduced to the cute blonde girl from Australia. She needed to get a grip. Three weeks of being alone and missing Marcus was starting to send her sick in the head; who cares if some suave Italian hunk paid her no mind?

  Abby took a final sip of her wine and reached down to the ground for her small bag. ‘That would be great; thank you so much for inviting me, Andrea. I’ve had such a lov—’

  Suddenly, a voice came from behind. ‘Andrea, how can she leave when I have not even met her?’

  Abby swivelled around clumsily to see Alessandro had (finally) appeared to introduce himself. She swooned a little bit inside while her ego ducked out for a pompous cigar; of course he’d come over eventually. Abby could instantly feel his presence … he was such a … man. A manly man. A grown up man, with style and confidence and the kind of accent bored housewives bestowed upon men in their sexual fantasies. He had pulled out a chair next to her as she spoke to Andrea, and she hadn’t even noticed. He smelled incredible. Like leather and gunsmoke and cloves.

  Abby smiled coyly and tucked some hair behind her left ear.

  ‘Hi, I’m Abby.’

  ‘Excuse me to be so rude tonight; I have not seen this people for some time. I am Alessandro.’ He smiled good-naturedly, his eyes never leaving Abby’s as he spoke.

  ‘Hi, Alessandro,’ Abby giggled, because apparently she was a twit. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Andrea,’ he said, without lifting his eyes of Abby. ‘Abby and I will stay for one more drink. Ciao, ciao Sylvana!’

  Before Abby could protest, the two young lovers issued their buona seras, and set off into the darkness. Terrific, guys. You’ve left me with a man I’ve known for less than twenty-five seconds, when I’m drunk and will have to stumble home alone in the dark. Elena left ages ago and the woman – Maria? – Abby had been speaking to earlier was bidding her farewells.

  ‘What makes you so sure I wish to stay?’ Abby said, fuelled by indignation and the buzz of fermented grape juice.

  ‘You look at me many times. You did not see me look at you, because I am better at the game.’

  He smiled, his eyes flashing with mischief. Abby was at loss to explain how his unabashed confidence, his outrageous forwardness and his obvious intention somehow didn’t revolt her.

  ‘We will go back to my home for digestiv. Where do you stay?’

  ‘Locanda La Mandragola … But hang on, why would I just go back to your house?’

  ‘You know my family and I am interest to meet you, and prefer to relax in comfort instead of on this plastic chair. Anyway, we are close now.’ He stood up as a full stop.

  Despite her ‘outrage’, Abby was rather enjoying being curled up in the palm of his hand. She liked that he was so in control, taking charge. She knew she was in no danger. This was a lovely family, and they all clearly viewed Alessandro as some kind of deity.

  He said something in Italian to the stragglers, punctuated it with several ciaos, and picked up his car keys.

  ‘Whoa. You can’t drive,’ said Abby, immediately placing her safety-captain hat on. ‘We’ve been drinking all night.’

  ‘You have drunk all night. I had two wines. He smiled kindly. ‘I am not a stupid man.’ He looked at her, lingering for just a couple of seconds longer than a man should, so that there was no error in translation about what he thought of her. He wasn’t so much undressing her with his eyes – that was for amateurs – he was placing candles around the room, sprinkling rose petals over her naked body and putting Sade on repeat. Incredibly, it wasn’t creepy, or slimy or even a turn off. This was the specific and unique trick of European men, to let your ‘intention’ be absolutely transparent, but without uttering a single word. For Abby, it was a potent and intoxicating aphrodisiac.

  Yes, she confirmed internally, to the surprise of all departments, especially ‘logic’ and ‘self-control’, I could definitely have sex with this man.

  32

  Alessandro drove a black Ferrari with tan leather seats and talked about his family with great affection and pride. Andrea, it transpired, was a very, very good footballer, and was on his way to playing in the Serie A for Fiorentina, which Abby sensed was a big deal.

  They drove down a steep, wily driveway and pulled up at the front of a well-lit, modern villa that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Wallpaper magazine. Abby couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a plunge pool reflected on the roof of the upstairs balcony. It was all becoming slightly preposterous.

  With the confidence and grace only a wealthy, attractive Italian man could possess, Alessandro took Abby’s hand, led her straight through the living area to a room with plush day beds and vibrant rugs and beautiful coffee-table books and a long wooden bar with several stools. As he busied himself preparing drinks, Abby opened up the French doors, which overlooked the very same view she saw each evening on her run. Soft Cuban jazz played in the background and she could smell sweet white flowers. She shook her head: This wasn’t Real Life. Certainly not Abby’s Real Life. Chelsea’s perhaps. She wondered if she could take a picture on her phone of this place, or even the car, and send it to Chels. Not that she’d bloody respond, she had been the shittest friend since Abs had been away, literally only responding to one text when Abby had announced she’d landed safely.

  Alessandro walked over to Abby with two long, heavy shot-glass looking things with some ice and clear liquid in them.

  ‘Montenegro. You will like.’

  He motioned for her to sit on the sofa with him, and giggling stupidly, Abby sat down gingerly next to him, watching her small dress ride up; she was basically just a pair of legs with an Australian accent. She felt sexy, and frisky, and wanted Alessandro to look at her legs appreciatively, but he seemed not to notice, he was too busy looking at her face and being abrupt.

  ‘Why do you cut your hair so short?’ he asked.

  ‘I like it this way.’

  ‘But it is not feminine.’

  ‘That may be, in your opinion anyway, but I don’t really care. I’ve always worn it this way.’ She usually didn’t mind this question, but
she was a little annoyed at Alessandro’s attitude. Or maybe she was annoyed at the idea he didn’t like her hair.

  ‘If you like it, that is all that matters.’ He smiled and took a sip.

  Still didn’t say he liked it. Abby sipped her drink to calm her irrational irritation. It was kind of delicious, in that extremely strong Italian digestive way. Thankfully it lacked the rocket-fuel-ness of grappa and the lemony sucrose of limoncello, both of which she’d become familiar with via Marcus. NO. NO. NO. We do not think of Marcus at this time, Abby reprimanded her brain.

  ‘Do you enjoy?’ Alessandro gestured to the drink.

  ‘I do. And that is all that matters.’

  He laughed heartily. ‘So. What do you do for your work?’

  ‘I run … a modelling agency. Kind of.’

  ‘But you are not a model.’ He sipped from his glass and placed his phone on the coffee table. It was a statement, a given, not a question. Was he deliberately negging on her? Abby’s rational mind couldn’t even make excuses for him anymore.

  ‘No, of course not.’ She tried to disguise the contempt in her voice.

  ‘Young girls are too highly prized. Women are better; they have their head high and the confidence. It is sexy. You are sexy.’

  He switched gears so fast; Abby was struggling to keep up. He looked at her, smiling, studying her face.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Was all she could offer. ‘So, Alessandro, you live in Florence, mostly, yes?’ She was doing that thing where she subconsciously mimicked whoever she was chatting with in accent and intonation.

  ‘Si. I come back here often in summer and even winter, because the tourists go and I like peace. Sometimes I need noise and the chaos, but sometimes a soul yearns for quiet.’

  ‘I am going to be in Florence next week, before I head home!’ Abby smiled excitedly. She was looking forward to a Big City.

  ‘Then you must stay at my home.’ Alessandro said this so matter-of-fact Abby couldn’t help laughing. He was a caricature, a raging stereotype. ‘I won’t be there, but you are welcome to stay, it is a nice home.’