The Younger Man

by Foster, Zoe

  Alessandro had told her to dress up tonight; he was taking her to his favourite restaurant for sunset cocktails and dinner. In her Home Head, this meant a 6 p.m. pick up, but her Italy Head knew that Alessandro meant 9 p.m.

  As Abby fastened her bra and pulled up her floral romper, she battled a mixture of emotions. She was excited to be going home, but gloomy to be leaving Italy, and Alessandro. She still got a thrill when he came in the door, or called her, or insisted she get in the shower with him because he liked making love to her when her hair was wet. He was her Italian fairytale, and Abby didn’t generally find herself the protagonist in fairytales.

  As Abby popped on her sunglasses and grabbed the house keys her phone chimed with a new text, no doubt from Alessandro. But in fact it was from Chelsea.

  I’m 7 wks pregnant. And totally fucked. DONT tell Mads.

  34

  Alessandro was taking Abby to Hotel Villa San Michele, which pleased Abby very much. She’d wanted to go there after reading about it in Travel + Leisure magazine, well before Mr Fancy Shoes had come along. It was going to be her blow out meal; she was going to go there all by herself, an independent, successful, sassy solo traveller showing the world she didn’t need a man to enjoy an expensive meal and a bottle of wine (and possibly even an overnight stay) in a chic, luxurious haven.

  Abby was trying to act normal, but she was profoundly rattled by Chelsea’s news. They’d fired a few texts back and forth, and Abby discovered that Jeremy – who Chelsea was definitely back on with, and even considering moving in with – had seen the pregnancy test and was adamant she keep it, and that they give it a go. But Chelsea did not want children. Plus, she wasn’t sure she was ready for that big a commitment to Jeremy; for all she knew he collected babies from different women as sport. That she’d accidentally fallen pregnant while poor Mads couldn’t no matter what lengths she went to felt horribly unfair, and to Abby’s astonishment and pride, this was the thing Chels was most upset about. Abby calmed her friend down as much as she could from the other side of the world and via SMS, and promised Mads would understand, and that they would all discuss it once Abby was home.

  Abby took a long sip of her champagne in an attempt to get back to the moment, and filed away her friend’s conundrum until the morning. She noted that Alessandro looked especially handsome this evening – perhaps it was that he’d done up all of his shirt buttons? – and seemed to be in a particularly convivial mood.

  ‘I like this dress on your skin,’ he said admiringly, or in some cultures, inappropriately.

  ‘Thanks, Alessandro,’ Abby smiled at him genuinely, partly because she was thrilled to finally be the recipient of a pure compliment, and partly because receiving Alessandro’s full attention was still dizzying to her.

  Abby was wearing a new soft, short, silk peach dress that kindly offered Alessandro – and each of the waiters – an exciting reminder of the delights of cleavage, yet, with its flowing, floaty shape wasn’t at all tacky. She’d teamed it with tan-coloured heels and a delicate gold bracelet she’d bought at Zara that looked far more expensive than it was. Abby finally felt herself relaxing, the sultry night air and alcohol working in tandem to soothe her anxious mind. Really, Italy had gone more than perfectly: Allure was being babysat by an efficiency demon, and she’d bought Chels and Mads sexy knickers and camis from Loretta Caponi, the most magical shop she’d ever been in, complete with artisans sewing angelically on the actual shop floor, breathtaking frescoed ceilings and beautiful handcrafted linens. And, most importantly, she had made it the entire time without one email, call or text to Marcus. In addition, she’d also somehow landed the kind of summer romance gold-diggers and teenage girls could only dream of. She looked across at the man responsible for her high-class dip into Italian loving and smiled. She was feeling unusually sentimental tonight, possibly as a result of the rapid-fire succession of champagne refills.

  ‘So, how much, on a scale of one to ten, will you miss me, do you think?’ She knew it was an inane question, but felt like being playful.

  He looked at her, smiled and took a sip of his champagne, before reaching across the table to take her hand.

  ‘I am with you now, and that is where my mind is. But, since you must know, I will miss you, yes.’

  Abby felt a flash of affection run through her. He’d come a long way since the first night. Watching him watching her smile and blush, Abby saw Alessandro’s Aloof Hero façade drift over the balcony to the masterfully manicured grounds below. Despite warming up over the week, Alessandro’s compliment-output switch was still essentially set to ‘economical’. Marcus, on the other hand, was magnificent with compliments; he sprinkled them over Abby as though they were icing sugar on strawberries, giving them as little gifts all throughout the day, making Abby beam.

  As it did 780 times a day, Alessandro’s BlackBerry rang. To her amazement, Abby watched him press ‘ignore’. Well. That was a first.

  ‘It is our last night together, the work can wait.’

  A waiter appeared to take their order, his eyes squinting in the piercing sunset, and Alessandro ordered in Italian without asking or consulting Abby as to what she would like or want. She almost spoke up, but bit her tongue in an effort to be a good dinner guest, and not distract from his benevolence in bringing her to this glorious restaurant. As she let that strange and subservient thought wander through her mind, she realised how foreign her silence was.

  ‘Actually, Alessandro, I would really love to try the gnocchi.’

  She really did. It was the restaurant’s signature dish, and she’d been looking forward to it. Alessandro stopped speaking and looked at Abby across the table, bemused.

  ‘Trust me, Abby. You will like this food I order.’ He smiled as a full stop and handed back the menu to the waiter. The waiter gingerly reached for Abby’s menu, which still lay open in front of her. She thought about demanding her gnocchi, but decided against it. It wasn’t worth the drama. They were, after all, holiday romancers, not one of those awful long-term couples who sat in beautiful restaurants in the most picturesque locations in the world, bitching and hissing at each other and then sitting in silence, thinking murderous thoughts and ordering that enormous and specific amount of wine that is the signature of those having a wonderful time, or a hideous time. She snapped the menu shut and smiled at the waiter.

  ‘Grazie.’ Abby thought about what Mads said about older men, how they called all the shots.

  ‘What time is your flight tomorrow?’

  ‘9 a.m. I’ll book a taxi for 6 a.m.’ She was packed already; she wouldn’t be late, no matter how little sleep they got tonight.

  ‘I will drive you,’ he said.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine, you’ve done enough, really.’ She meant it.

  ‘It is my pleasure to drive you.’

  She smiled and accepted he was not going to take no for an answer. Abby took a deep breath, and focused on the view over Florence. It was breathtaking, even despite the hazy layer of heat and pollution resting above the city.

  ‘I’m going to miss Italy,’ Abby said, smiling woozily as she took in the warmth of the evening air, the sound of the people at the table next to her laughing, the joy of not having her phone on the table, the scent of Alessandro’s fragrance.

  ‘So stay!’

  Abby smiled and shook her head.

  ‘Then come back next year. I will take you to Sardinia, we have the boat there.’

  ‘That does sound nice …’ Abby said, because it really, really did.

  ‘Maybe I come to Australia. I have a cousin there, Federico. He always tells me come to see him. You can show me your city.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing like this, I assure you! You will find it quite dull.’ Abby smiled and shook her head.

  ‘But you will be there. That is not dull.’

  He looked at her with interest; Abby felt he sensed her deflection. She was discouraging him, if she was honest. How awkward if he came to Australia and she was back w
ith Marcus; what would she tell him? Both hims? Why did she assume she would be back with Marcus?

  ‘Let me get a photo of you,’ Abby said brightly, desperate to change the topic.

  She took out her camera and aimed it at Alessandro; he confidently eyeballed the lens, his lips unsmiling.

  ‘Okaaay, now do something fun! Make a face or something.’

  ‘What does this mean, make the face?’

  ‘Something funny!’ She pulled a dapper face, using a grissini as pretend cigar.

  He stopped for a second, thinking, then raised his eyebrows and shoulders, as if to say, ‘who, me?’ It was terrible.

  Abby took the photo anyway, and laughed to herself. A befuddled expression crossed his face, and he pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one up with the matches on the table.

  ‘You are funny girl, Abby.’

  And you are not a funny girl, thought Abby, but he was a grown up, she reprimanded herself, and this is what they were like. Perhaps Abby should be taking leaves out of his book, instead of making them into paper planes.

  The food (and an outstanding Barolo) arrived, and right on cue, Abby became ecstatically hungry. Despite her annoyance that she hadn’t been allowed to have the gnocchi, Abby relished the meal – scampi and thyme risotto, baked sea bass with ginger and basil polenta, beef carpaccio, artichoke and asparagus nestled in feather-light puff pastry … Bloody Alessandro; managing to produce the perfect Italian meal without a whisper of pasta. Show off.

  ‘It is delicious, yes?’

  He phrased it as a question, but it was simply a statement wearing a fake moustache.

  ‘It’s delicious.’ It really, really was. ‘It’s the perfect last meal with you.’

  ‘The last meal for now.’ He smiled at her, lingeringly, and touched her thigh under the table softly.

  ‘That’s right. For now.’

  Lie. Well, maybe.

  ‘You have been so, so kind and generous to me, Alessandro. I’ve loved this week. Thank you.’

  Abby smiled and leaned over the table to kiss her lover.

  35

  It was a short and comfortable trip home, consisting of two trains, one bus, three flights – one delayed by three hours – two four-hour stopovers, and a sick, grizzly infant interrupting any decent sleep that might have had the audacity to sneak in on the final twelve-hour leg. Abby used the opportunity to reflect on handsome, enigmatic Alessandro, who had presented her with a beautiful bracelet when he’d dropped her to the airport, and had smelled and looked as good as any man could at 6 a.m.

  Mads insisted on an afternoon tea party to welcome her friend home.

  ‘Look at you, you sexy little strand of spaghetti!’ Mads said admiringly as she placed a plate of pastel-coloured macaroons on her coffee table. ‘Look how tanned you are! And have you lost weight? That’s not right; you were in the United States of Wheat! It’s scandalous.’

  ‘What’d you get us?’ Chels asked as she repositioned herself on a light wood armchair. ‘Okay, I actually cannot sit on this fucking chair one second longer – I don’t care if it’s Eames or fucking God himself made it, Mads, it’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever sat on.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? It’s heavensent! I ADORE it. We found it at a garage sale – do you even know how much a genuine Danish solid wood rocker costs these days? And this is proper art deco, ladies, not a replica from the fifti—’

  Chelsea gave up and flopped onto the sofa perfectly, her newly dark hair swept up into a top-knot, showing off her perfect skin and impressive cleavage, which was falling out of an olive green singlet. Abby tried not to look at Chelsea’s stomach as she plucked a lilac macaroon from the platter and bit into its chewy, soft deliciousness. She assumed from the cordial mood that Chels had definitely not yet made mention of the small human growing in her stomach.

  ‘So what’s the story with your Italian Stallion?’ Chelsea said, ignoring the macaroons that would obliterate her calorie count for the whole week, choosing instead to sip on her green tea.

  ‘Will you stay in touch? Will he come out here and swoop you up into his Ferragamo-clad arms and whisk you away from us?’

  ‘Nahhh. Well, actually, he did threaten to. But we were in summer fling mode, people say a lot of shit they don’t mean when there is no fear of actually making good on it.’

  ‘Would he, though?’ Mads asked.

  ‘Maybe. But probably not. We had a really good week, we really did, and the goodbye sucked, it felt a bit … real, I guess. But so did my fling with diamond necklace guy.’

  All three girls dissolved into giggles.

  ‘You had sex with him in a storeroom at a nightclub, Abby Vaughn. I can’t even believe you did that …’ Chelsea shook her head, bemused.

  ‘I was young and wild,’ Abby said, smiling at the memory of her Contiki-tour mischief.

  ‘Speaking of young … any goss on Marcus?’ Chelsea asked.

  ‘Nothing. Nada.’

  Now she was home, she couldn’t even try to suppress thoughts of Marcus. Memories of him were everywhere. Had she really done irreversible damage by breaking up with him? Was he seeing someone new? The very idea made her heart descend in an instant and yet he was entirely within his rights to do what and whomever he pleased. After all, Abby had TOLD him he wanted to sleep around, and TOLD him he was young and should be exploring the vast sexual landscape available to a gorgeous, funny, clever young man with beautiful shoulders, and TOLD him he was too young to be settling down with an old crone like her. What a dickhead she was. Why the fuck had she said those things? Was she trying to convince him or her that he should be doing these things?

  ‘But, I dunno, I was thinking I might try and catch up with him sometime.’

  ‘What a surprise!’ Chelsea cried.

  ‘This is magnificent news,’ Mads said, beaming. ‘Be bold, my travel-weary comrade. Nothing to lose. Look at Chels and Jeremy – patched things up beautifully.’

  Chelsea squirmed almost imperceptibly, but Abs caught it. Abby looked up at Chelsea from her position on the rug, who caught her gaze and dropped it just as fast. Abby, already dealing with monstrous fatigue and now the sugar shakes, felt ill to her stomach. Chels had to say something. This was the moment. It was now. Mads would be supportive, of course she would. Abby tried to telepathically signal this to Chels, staring at her as she did so.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mads’s eyes darted between her two friends.

  ‘Nothing,’ they said simultaneously, which meant ‘everything’.

  ‘Guys! What?’

  Abby exhaled deeply and busied herself with a thread on the rug.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Abs, dog me out much? You’re hopeless!’ Chelsea sounded justifiably angry.

  ‘Wha—’ Abby pathetically made to protest.

  ‘It’s okay, whatever. I’ll just come out with it. Mads? I’m in a situation. And I’ve been too scared to tell you … because I’m terrified you’ll get upset. I had planned to write you an email this week, but I guess I should just come out with it now.’

  She shot a micro-glare at Abby.

  Mads’s eyes were now the size of limes. ‘Well you’ve terrified me with that introduction – what the hell is going on? Are you sick? Do you need a vital organ? I’ll give you whatever you need—’

  Chelsea rearranged herself on the sofa so that her legs were straight in front and her hands clasped in her lap. It was unsettling seeing ferocious, bold Chelsea become small and anxious, like watching a WWE wrestler picking daisies.

  ‘It’s, well, I’ve fucked up basically,’ she said, solemnly.

  A deep breath and then: ‘I’m pregnant, Mads. I’m two months’ pregnant.’ Chelsea ran her fingers over her hair, smoothing it nervously, repetitiously. ‘It was an accident … Jeremy wants to keep it, but I don’t know if I do.’

  Mads’s face went white; her eyes cool and lifeless, both hands covered her mouth in shock. Abby’s instinct was to get up and comfort her, but she wasn
’t sure if that was the right thing to do, considering Chels was also having a horrible time. She watched the scene unfold like the ghastly tragedy it was.

  Mads’s voice was small and muffled under her hands. ‘You’re, you’re pregnant?’

  Chelsea nodded slowly, despondently.

  Abby sat up, fingernails jammed in her mouth, eyes zipping between the two women. She had no idea where this was heading, but it was safe to say it was several postcodes from where she thought it would.

  ‘And, it was an accident,’ Mads stated, her hands now cupped on her cheeks, her voice becoming stronger.

  ‘Yes, bu—’

  ‘And, let me get this straight, you’re,’ Mads raised her fingers up to make sarcastic quote marks, ‘not sure if you want to keep it.’ There was poison in Mads’s tone; her eyes had narrowed to become angry slits. Two green antennae bursting out of her scalp would’ve been less unusual than this seething, simmering rage.

  Chelsea knew better than to utter a word. She’d known Mads would be upset, but she had no idea she’d reach this level, and at such warp speed. So she just sat there, blinking, waiting for the verbal violence.

  Mads suddenly stood up and walked to the table, then back to the rug, then back to the dining table, where she rested her hands on the back of a chair and tried to gather her thoughts. Finally, she looked up, and at Chelsea.

  ‘Do you even KNOW how much a throwaway sentence like that hurts me?’

  Her eyes were glazed with tears, but her voice remained strong.

  ‘I mean, would it have KILLED you to at least fucking pretend to want the baby, knowing the horrific time I’ve been through trying to conceive? I could be happy for you, I could be genuinely happy for your pregnancy, if you didn’t have to pretend like it was a FUCKING HASSLE, Chels. “You’re not sure if you want to keep it?!” I mean, give me a godamn fucking break …’ Mads shook her head, breathing heavily, gathering strength for her next tirade.