Flirting in Italian (4 page)

Not even a two-hour flight
, I think.

“—but I’ll be there straightaway!” She grabs my hand
and stares intently into my eyes, her own blurry and red. “And I’ll email you every day, darling! Every day! Honestly! Just in case you’re homesick! Oh, God—why did I ever let you talk me into this? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know!”

Oh, Mum
.

“I love you, Mum. I’ll text as soon as the plane lands, okay? Try to keep busy! Get Aunt Lissie to come over for a visit—you could have some sister time together!” I suggest in a flash of inspiration. “I’ll be back before you know it!”

I give her a last quick hug, grab the handle of my bag, and shoot between the security guards before she can follow me, or break down again; mercifully, there aren’t that many people at Passport Control, and I’m at the desk in a minute or so. Handing my passport and boarding pass to the man behind it, I glance quickly back at Mum. It’s worse than I thought. She’s sobbing again, holding on to the top bar of the security rail that separates departing travelers from the rest of the people in the airport, her blue eyes as mournful and tear-filled as if I were moving to Australia, not just going to another part of Europe for eight weeks.

If I didn’t know her, I would definitely think that she was doing it for effect, enjoying being a drama queen. And I can tell that’s what the two girls I spotted before think: that Mum’s relishing the drama of our parting. They’re in the queue behind me, staring openly at Mum and commenting to each other, flashing perfect, even white teeth.

How mean. I don’t see how two girls carrying ginormous bed pillows have the nerve to laugh at me!
I think furiously, grabbing back my documents from the passport official and dashing
through the sliding doors without even looking back at Mum, my shoulders slumping in guilt that I’m abandoning her in such a state.

If things keep going this way, my trip to Italy’s going to be a total disaster.

As soon as I step out of the plane, onto the wheeled staircase down to the tarmac, Italy hits me in the face. Bright sun blinds me: it’s like stepping onstage, a bank of white light forcing you to blink, raise a hand to shield your eyes. I fumble in my bag for my sunglasses, holding up the people behind me. Warm, humid air wraps itself around me insistently, demanding that I unzip my jacket, pull off my cotton sweater, bare my arms and neck to the blazing mid-afternoon sunshine. By the time I’m down the wobbly metal stairs, by the time my feet first touch Italian soil, I’ve wrestled off the outer layers I was wearing in the air-conditioned plane. Everyone else is doing the same dance, wriggling and writhing as they cross the tarmac, shrugging off jackets,
stuffing them into carry-on cases, the older English men and women putting on the straw Panama hats and ribboned raffia boaters they’ve brought to protect their white skin from the scorching Mediterranean sun.

Sod that!
I can’t get enough of it. By the end of these two months, I want to be suntanned and golden from head to toe. I tilt my face up to the sky—it’s as bright a blue as the water that borders the Tuscan coastline—and revel in how glorious the warmth is. I was definitely meant to live in this climate. My body’s sucking up the heat, flourishing in it; I feel like a sunflower, turning my face to the sun, blooming and blossoming, petals opening wide.

I’m smiling as I enter the long, low white terminal building and navigate through corridors hung with huge framed photographs of olive groves and bright green oil in bottles, of sleek white yachts, of luxury hotels with striped loungers around bright blue swimming pools. The line at Passport Control is very brief for EU citizens, and the airport’s so small that by the time I emerge into the baggage hall, luggage is creaking around on the conveyor belts, unloaded from our plane. I see my suitcase and dive for it, pulling it off the belt. Already, my denim shorts, which I’m wearing over opaque black tights, are feeling heavy in the humid air, saturated with moisture, itchy and uncomfortable; I long to pull the tights off, at the very least, but then my shorts would be too—well, short. I bought them specifically to wear over tights—they’d be a bit too much like hot pants if my legs were bare, and I’d feel really self-conscious. I like my legs, but I’m not tanned or slim or tall enough to
carry off hot pants anywhere but on a beach. God. Clothes are
hard
.

A girl passes me, looking visibly uncomfortable, her pale skin coated with sweat and her light red hair sticking to her forehead. She’s dragging a matching pair of cases, a carry-on and a larger suitcase, in a cheap beigey tartan print that’s a bad rip-off of a recent Burberry design. To be honest, it looks as if she bought them at a cheap market, or a pound shop; I can see the binding on the carry-on’s already fraying, and clearly a wheel on the main suitcase is broken, because it’s squeaking and bumping unevenly, and she’s having to haul it along like a sack of potatoes. The Alsatian dog that’s supposed to be drug-sniffing the passengers but is lying on the cool tiled floor by the exit door instead opens one eye at the noise as she lumbers past, cocks his ear, and slumps back to sleep again. His handler, chatting with a customs official, is completely uninterested in any of us travelers.

“Uffa!”
mutters an Italian businessman in front of me as the smoked-glass double doors fly open onto the arrivals section, and his attempt to stride through the crowd of waiting friends and relatives is thwarted by the redheaded girl. Her suitcase seems to have completely broken down; a beige wheel is rolling across the tiles, disappearing under people’s feet, and she’s come to a halt, trying desperately to lift her suitcase by its handle, blocking the stream of people now flooding out behind her. No one helps; they push around her, cursing, until finally she manages to haul both her cases through the crowd, shoulders slumped. I feel really sorry for her, but I’m busy looking for the person I’m supposed to
meet; the paperwork said that we would be met at Pisa by Catia Cerboni, the lady who owns Villa Barbiano and runs the course, and that she would be holding up a card with our names on it.

Of course she’ll be here; why wouldn’t she? The flight was on time—there’s no reason she wouldn’t meet it. But it’s impossible, when you’re alone in a strange country where you don’t speak the language not to be even a little bit nervous that you’ll be abandoned. Everyone else seems to know where they’re going: businesspeople are walking off quickly with their briefcases, and Italians are falling into each other’s arms with theatrical exclamations of happiness. I’m pressed forward by the people behind me, and I scan the crowd almost frantically, until with huge relief I see a woman right at the back, by the far doors that keep pulling open onto a bright glorious vista of sunlight, holding up a small white laminated sign reading
VILLA BARBIANO
.

As I approach her, I bite my lip. She’s really intimidating: thin as a rake, her pale linen dress hanging off her deeply tanned limbs, big sunglasses holding back her dyed blond hair. She’s wearing no makeup except dark red lipstick, which somehow makes the dark circles under her eyes more noticeable, and she’s dripping in gold—heavy bracelets clanking on her narrow wrists, big gold hoops swinging from her ears. Her fingernails are painted the same dark red as her lipstick. And her expression is deeply, profoundly bored in a way I’ve only seen on Frenchwomen before. Which is
not
a good sign.

“I’m Violet Routledge,” I say hesitantly. “Am I the first?”

She nods.

“Catia Cerboni,” she announces, leaning forward to peck me on either cheek. “
Ciao
. Welcome to Italia.”

She has no Italian accent whatsoever, I notice, impressed.

“There are three more of you to come,” she says, looking at her gold bracelet-watch. “I hope they will be here soon. Or I will have to pay for an extra hour in the parking lot.”

Blimey
, I think.
You’re a friendly one
.

Crashing and thudding signals the arrival of the second person in our group: it’s the redheaded girl with the broken suitcase. She’s close to tears, one shoulder hunched from lifting her big case while pulling the carry-on with her other hand. I dash forward to help her prop the broken one against the wall; Catia Cerboni looks on with plucked eyebrows raised, not lifting a finger to assist.

“You must be Kelly,” she drawls at the girl.

“That’s right.” The girl looks surprised. “How’d you know?”

Catia smirks.

“The other girls are American,” she informs us, flicking her gaze up and down first Kelly, then me. “You two are clearly not American.”

She says this like it’s a bad thing. Kelly and I exchange glances, checking each other out, but also sharing a moment of
She’s a charmer, right?

Kelly’s fanning herself, pushing her hair back from her forehead.

“Blimming hot, innit?” she says in a strong Essex accent. “I was freezing on the plane, but it’s all right now, eh?”

She’s wearing a tight T-shirt, an equally tight denim
mini, and flip-flops, revealing a lot of lightly freckled white skin. The T-shirt, a fluorescent green, is much too bright for her coloring, and makes her look bigger than she is; she’s built on a solid scale, with a squarish body that the miniskirt doesn’t flatter. I like her eye makeup, though: long strokes of bright green pencil that matches the T-shirt, layered over equally bright blue shadow. It’s really fun. Her nails, I notice, are stubby short and painted glittery turquoise. I glance down at my own, whose burgundy polish is chipping badly. I should tidy them up at some point.
Mum would nag and nag me about the chipped nail polish
, I think, and I have a quick rush of homesickness before I determinedly push it back into its box and slam down the lid.

“Oh my God!” comes an exclamation, high and nasal enough to cut through even the constant Italian chatter all around us. “This trolley’s, like,
drunk
!”

Mad giggling follows this, equally loud, as two girls pushing luggage trolleys come cannoning through the crowd of friends and relatives. People jump aside for them, complaining, but I notice Italian men, young and old, turning to stare after the girls appreciatively. I also notice that all the Italian men—young and old—are wearing their jeans
much
tighter than I’m used to in England. I must say, I definitely like it. I gawk at one boy, about my age, in a really skinny pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt tucked into them; you can see his whole body, tall and lean, with a nice round bum, which happens to be pretty much my ideal boy’s figure. Unfortunately, when he swivels, checking out the giggling girls, I see his face, and that ruins it. Not only is he not very handsome,
but he’s shaved his facial hair into a weird line that runs like a chinstrap around his jaw.

I quickly avert my gaze and realize that not only are the two girls heading straight for us, they’re the same two I saw at the airport. The ones with the pillows. Super-smart, super-confident. Who were laughing at me and Mum at Heathrow.

They’re
the two other girls on the course. Oh,
brilliant
.

“It’s, like,
wobbling
like
Jell-O
!” trills the blonde, laughing as if this is the funniest joke in the world.

“Use your core strength,” the black girl says dryly. “Like Natalie says in Pilates.”

“Oh, jeez, I
so
hope they don’t have Pilates in Italy!” the blonde says. “I always think I’m going to fall off the ball. It’s so
unstable
.”

“That’s kinda the
point
, Paige,” the other girl says even more dryly.

“Oh! Yay! Villa Barbiano!” Paige exclaims, pointing at the sign that Catia is holding up. “That’s us!”

They come to a halt in front of our little group. I see that their trolleys are heaped high with luggage; they must have brought two suitcases each, plus their carry-ons. Their pillows are stuffed into the wire baskets at the front, bulging out like big white airbags.

“Did you think they didn’t have pillows in Italy?” Kelly asks bluntly, which makes me snort.

Paige tosses back her blond locks.

“American pillows are the best,” she says. “My mom says so.”

Catia Cerboni claps her hands.

“
Allora
,” she says, “you are all here! Good! Welcome to Italy and your course. I am Catia Cerboni.” She sweeps her hand in a big circle in the air, as if she’s blessing us. “You will all introduce yourselves as we go to the car,” she says, turning on her heel and shooting out the automatic glass doors, clearly in a hurry to make it out of the car park before she has to pay for that extra hour.

“I’m Violet,” I say as we follow Catia out into the blinding sunshine, flicking my sunglasses down from the crown of my head. “And that’s Kelly.”

I nod at poor Kelly, who’s busy struggling with her cases once more.

“I’m Kendra,” says the black girl. “And that’s Paige.” She nods at her taller, whiter, bouncier companion.

“Oh, we saw you at Heathrow!” Paige exclaims to me. “Was that your mom? She was, like, freaking out! You must have been like,
Mom, stop embarrassing me!
I’d be, like,
mortified
if my mom made a scene like that! It was like a movie or something—I thought she was going to yell
‘Don’t take my baby!’
 ” She wrinkles her forehead. “I don’t remember where I saw that.”

“Probably a Lifetime movie,” Kendra says in what sounds like a sarcastic tone.

“Probably! I
love
Lifetime movies,” Paige says happily.

I fall back to keep pace with Kelly, so cross with Paige that I’m literally biting my tongue to avoid snapping at her; I don’t want a feud to start before we’re even in the car. Kelly’s got a good hold on her case now, and is bumping
it along, though it’s making an awful scraping sound and I doubt she’ll be able to use it again.

“Right old natural blonde, that one,” Kelly says, nodding at Paige. “Not much between the ears.”

I know she means that to console me, and I warm to her. We’re walking along a path between banks of green grass on which rounded, odd-looking bronze statues are set at intervals. Wide banners flap in the breeze, proclaiming the dates for the Puccini Festival at Torre del Lago, bright colors against the blue sky. There’s even an outdoor café with smiling people sprawled at tables, smoking, drinking beer, eating pizza; Pisa airport is nicer than most town centers I’ve seen in the UK.

“Come along!” Catia’s shouting, and Kelly and I hurry up our steps obediently, crossing through bollards to the parking lot, and a large, rather bashed-about jeep with its baggage door open. The American girls’ enormous luggage is taking up almost all the space; Kelly and I, by dint of much pushing and shoving, manage to wedge our suitcases in. I reach up and slam down the hatchback just in time, before one of the cases comes sliding out again.

“Okay!” Catia says, pulling away almost before Kelly and I have managed to jump into the jeep. Kendra is in the front, which I suppose is fair, as she’s the tallest, but it would have been nice to have been asked. I’m in the middle, and I glance sideways at Paige, who’s already plugged in earbuds and is listening to her iPod, humming tunelessly.

I’m embarrassed to admit how intimidating I find the American girls. They’re so confident, as if they own the
world. They’re as beautifully groomed as if they were models; I assume they’ve traveled over from the United States, while Kelly and I just had a short flight from the UK, but the American girls, despite having had a much longer journey, look fresh as daisies. Paige’s skin is smooth and glowing, her cheekbones accentuated with blush, her lips glossed with clear shine, her lashes thick with mascara. Though she’s probably wearing a lot more makeup than me and Kelly, she looks more natural; the English style is to wear theatrical, showy makeup. Kelly and I have lots of eyeliner and bright nail polish on, and it’s really obvious, while these two girls are much more subtle.