Flirting in Italian (22 page)

Something else that’s different about Italian boys
, I realize.
If they see a girl they fancy, they go up to her and start talking. If an English boy likes you, he’ll mostly avoid you not to seem too keen. Which is barking mad, of course
.

Generally, things on the dating side do seem to run much better here.
Except if you look like their sister
.

Luca’s voice is in my head again. Naturally, I’ve been scanning the terrace, but I haven’t seen him.

Right, that’s it
. I’m not going to stand here any longer, looking like a lemon, mooning over Luca and not talking to anyone; what would he think if he came onto the terrace and I am all by myself? He’d laugh, tell me he’d been right, that he’s the only one who’s interested in me. I try not to lie to myself, and although I’m head over heels about Luca, I
have to admit that he is not the nicest boy I’ve ever met in my life. The sexiest, definitely, but not the nicest. He can be sarcastic, abrasive, cynical, even mean and bitter.

And I’m not giving him the opportunity to tease me
.

If there’s one thing I can always do at parties, it’s dance. I march across the terrace, dropping my cup in a bin as I pass, and merge into the small group of people on the dance floor. The music isn’t my usual kind of thing: it’s really retro, songs that were cult hits years and years ago, like sixties remixes done in a clever, knowing kind of way. But although I’m more used to modern stuff, I know exactly how to dance to this kind of music. Milly, Lily-Rose, and I love it, though it’s usually just one song, dropped into the end of the evening. We look cool, because we’ve practiced in front of full-length mirrors for hours. Singing into hairbrushes, giggling madly.

Obviously, I don’t mime singing into a hairbrush now. I’m not a complete idiot. But, like at Central Park, I may not be the girl that all the boys fancy, but I can show these Italian trendies how to dance properly.

And after a few songs, we’re jumping all over the uneven stone floor, laughing, pushing our hair back, wiggling our bums, doing comic hand movements, really getting into it as the candlelight flickers over our faces. One song stops and we catch our breath, smile at each other, and wait for the next beat to start. It’s so dark I can’t see the faces of the other dancers in detail, just smiles, shining eyes, and tanned skin gleaming as we synchronize together.

I’m going with the music, following where it takes me. I’m getting a bit sweaty, and I don’t care. Paige would say I’m working it out, and that’s what it feels like: working
everything out, letting everything go, all the tension and all the stress. A wacky song comes on with a chorus that goes “You can’t touch this”; it has lots of stops and starts, and we find ourselves choreographing an improvised routine to it, involving freezing wherever we are when it stops, like a game of musical statues, which probably looks like the stupidest thing ever from a distance, but is hilarious when you’re in the middle of it.

By the time the song finishes, I’m knackered, laughing, my feet are a bit sore, I think I need the loo, and I’m totally relaxed and happy.

“Oh, American! Nice to dance with you!” says a boy in a bad American accent, and holds up a hand to high-five me.

“English,” I say, and duly high-five him.

“Ah, English!” he says, and starts to add something, when I feel myself butted in the back, a shove that sends me off balance. I tip forward a couple of steps to avoid falling over, and the boy reaches out to steady me.

One of the girls
, I think.
A bit tipsy and overfriendly
. I look around rather crossly, because it was a big shove, and then I scream my head off.

Because standing right behind me, baring a terrifying set of big yellowish teeth, its face almost level with mine, is a very large gray donkey.

I’ve never been this close to a donkey before, and I don’t like it one bit. Its teeth are really very large indeed, and it’s staring right at me as if I’m a head of lettuce it’s about to bite into. I shriek and back away, which is probably the wrong thing to do.

Now I’ve shown fear. The donkey will sense that, and attack me with its enormous teeth. You should never show fear. It’s like with sharks—you’re supposed to swim away from them slowly, not flap around frantically, because then you look weak. Like prey.

But what are you supposed to do when you’re faced with a grimacing donkey that just butted you in the back?

And then the boy who steadied me laughs and reaches past me, stroking the donkey’s nose.

“Ecco Golia!”
he says, rubbing her head.
“Sei venuta per tuo vino?”

He turns to me.

“She like wine,” he says.

“You what?” I stare at him blankly, thinking I must have misheard. But he’s already turned away, and I jump again, squeaking in shock, as the donkey pushes past me to follow the boy, its big gray hairy shoulder shoving me out of the way. Thank God, it—or she—has lost interest in me; I watch her lumber through the crowd. Her back has a dark cross on it: a thick black line across the shoulders, a longer one following the bony line of her spine.

The boy goes inside the french doors, and the donkey’s still following, its front hooves stepping over the threshold. I watch, amazed, as someone else gently pushes her back with a hand between her eyes. Then the boy reemerges with a bowl, which he’s carrying carefully because it’s half full of red wine. He sets it on the flagstones by the wall of the house, and then jumps out of the way—the donkey’s big head is already ducking to the bowl, her hooves shuffling dangerously close to the boy’s feet.

“You see?” he says, coming back to where I’m standing on the edge of the dance area, goggling at the sight of the donkey lapping up red wine. “She like wine! Only for the party. Then she will dance with us.”

He looks at my wide eyes and open mouth, and bursts out laughing.

“You not see this in England,” he says, grinning at me. “
Un asina
who like Chianti.”

“No!” I finally manage. “No, I’ve never seen that in England.”

“You like Chianti?” He tilts his head to one side. “Come, we drink some too. Like Golia.”

“That’s her name?” I ask, following him back to the house. We pass the donkey, who’s completely absorbed in licking up the wine.

“
Si, Golia
.” He pats her as he goes past: greatly daring, I do too. Her thick coat feels just like a hassock, rough and coarse.

“I am Sebastiano, and your name?” he asks.

“Violet,” I say as we step over the threshold.

“Violetta!” he says, throwing his arms wide. “English girl, Italian name!”

And across the room, I see a dark head turn in our direction. That much taller than the rest of the boys, he stands out, his straight black silky hair falling over his face, his blue eyes as bright and cold as the water of the fjord next to my grandmother’s summer rental cottage. I was looking for him before and couldn’t see him anywhere; now that I’ve been distracted by dancing and a Chianti-drinking donkey, he’s spotted me. His gaze flicks like a knife between me and the boy, who’s at the gigantic wine bottle now, filling cups and handing me one.

“Salute!”
Sebastiano says, touching his cup to mine, and I glance up at Luca, seeing that he’s taking this in, too.

A rush of confusion fills me as I toast. I’m glad that
Luca’s seen me with someone else, that I haven’t been a wallflower at this party, that I’ve proved him wrong, even a little bit, because there’s a boy here who seems to like me, who’s talking to me, anyway, getting me a drink. In films, in books, flirting with a boy is a surefire way to get the one you actually like interested in you, draw him over to your side. They’re supposed to like competition, the challenge of going after a girl who’s popular.

But maybe real life doesn’t quite work that way. Because Luca arches one black eyebrow, his mouth quirks up on one side in a sneer, and he turns pointedly away, sliding a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it with a flip of his Zippo.

Disgusting habit
, I think as firmly as I can.
I’m glad he’s not coming over, smoking a nasty stinking cancer stick
.

It’s awful when you lie to yourself. I
do
think smoking is foul, but I’m also more than aware that if Luca strolled over to talk to me, with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, I wouldn’t walk away, complaining about the smoke; I’d stand there staring up at him, trying not to grin as widely as a five-year-old meeting Cinderella at Disneyland.

Well, Luca doesn’t seem remotely interested in coming over
. He’s clearly one of those boys who like to mess girls around. I’ve seen them before. Their favorite thing is to have as many girls running after them as possible, like those circus performers who can keep loads of plates spinning on different sticks at once. This kind of boy rarely has a steady girlfriend. He doesn’t like to commit, because if he’s linked to one girl, it’s harder to keep all the other plates spinning.

I glance over at Luca. He’s turned away, resolutely not looking at me. I realize where the expression “give someone
the cold shoulder” comes from. And then I see a hand reaching up to push his hair back playfully, a girl’s hand with a heavy gold bracelet on it, big chunky coins dangling from the chain.

I recognize that bracelet at once:
Elisa
. My whole body stiffens.
He’s over there letting Elisa touch his hair, rather than coming over to me
.

I put my cup down on the table and smile so brightly at Sebastiano, he’s visibly surprised at my sudden enthusiasm.

“Let’s go back and dance!” I say loudly.

“Benissimo!”

He follows me outside into the soft night air, and I can’t help gasping at the sight of the donkey, Golia, who’s now in the middle of the dance floor, swaying happily from side to side. People are dancing around her, stroking her head as they pass, avoiding the ropelike, flapping tail.

“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.