A Royal Mess (51 page)

‘This is too awful, Malcolm,’ I said.

Malcolm looked at me for a moment. Really looked, but instead of agreeing with me, he had another conversation, in real Italian, with Giuseppe. Next minute we were leaving the shop with our new duckling.

As we strode onto the street, Rex peeping excitedly, I was thinking about what an un-Freddie thing to do. A nasty part of me even thought Freds would be more likely to shoot little Rex than rescue him. But I knew that wasn’t true. Still, I wondered, would Freds ever do anything as random as stroll out of a Florence pet shop with a duckling, sans valid duck passport and microchip?

‘What will we do?’ I asked Malcolm as we headed back up the lane. ‘I mean, we can’t take Rex back to England. That was the maddest decision we could have made.’

‘I know, but aren’t those the best decisions
to
make?’ he replied. As we dashed up the lane, it occurred to me that following his flights of fancy was probably something Malcolm did every day. Turning up in Florence like that was a prime example of his eccentric persona. And actually, I liked that about him. As a filmmaker he was bound to be slightly unrealistic, a mad dreamer.

Which was fine for
him.

In his eccentric Scottish world of endless trust funds, champagne and independence, I guess he could afford to be a dreamer with no grip on reality. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t Scottish or minted, and I hated champagne. Plus I
could hear Bob’s voice in my ears – saying in his sternest
pazzo
voice, “Sometimes, Calypso, you go
too
far.”

What if my mad padre was right, though? I mean, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

As we wove our way through the streets of Florence, vespas honking at us furiously as we dashed in their path, tourists gawping, café sophisticates smoking and chatting, Rex kept up his chorus of peeps. There would be no way to hide him once we returned to the pensione, and we were flying out tomorrow, anyway. What was Malcolm thinking? I hope he wasn’t planning on plopping our little orphan in the Arno to fend for himself.

Maybe this whole duckling rescue was just a plot device for Malcolm’s film?

Maybe all he really cared about was a happy ending for
The Last Duckling?

Maybe I was just incidental. A pleasant distraction in his creative world of plot device and flights of fancy.

Maybe I’d be better off with a nice sensible boy like Freds after all.

These were the questions going through my mind as I scampered through the streets of Florence with a duckling when really I should have been visiting the Uffizi or shopping on the Ponte Vecchio or something sensible like that. I should be writing witty postcards to the ’rentals about my tournament. As it was I visualised a postcard flopping on the mat of chez Clapham as I ran.

Dear Sarah and Bob,

Florence is bellisimo! My fencing has taken on a spiritual quality – even though we did lose the tournament. Oh, by the way I’ve acquired a duckling since I left England and shall quite possibly be arrested on my attempt to re-enter England. His name is Rex.

Love, Calypso xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

(I went mental with the x’s to remind them that I was their loving daughter, so they wouldn’t get cross.)

PS: What do ducklings eat?

PPS: What do ducklings drink?

I was really starting to panic about Malcolm’s motivations now. Why had Freds dumped me? He was nice and ordinary and at this particular point I was thinking ordinary is good. I would never have been imprisoned for duck smuggling if I’d been with Freds. The cobbled lane was too hard to faint on but lordy, lordy, as my gran would say, I’ve never needed a good old faint more than I needed one that afternoon.

THIRTY-THREE
Aren’t the Maddest Ideas Always the Best?

Malcolm and I had our first row a short time later. I shall treasure the memory forever. It took place in a café on the Piazza Santissima Annunziata over double espressos. As settings for arguments go, I can highly recommend this picturesque and noble square on account of its
molto bellisimo
porticoes and church. Also, there is a rather magnifique statue of some bloke on a horse and two fountains on which monkeys dribble water on a couple of sea slugs. Mad.

In addition to being my first argument with Malcolm, it was also my first real row with a boy. Arguing with Freds had always consisted of long periods of him not taking or responding to my numerous calls, txts and e-mails. Fighting with Malcolm involved proper raised voices and the heated exchange of viewpoints.

The fight was over Rex, poor love. First he was stuck in
a Chinese takeaway carton while his peers were snapped up like this season’s latest accessory. Then finally, just when he thought he’d found two people to love and care for him, they start brawling about his future smuggling arrangements. And then there was the issue of where he’d live because the thing was, as sophisticated and worldly as this trip had made me, we were still both schoolkids ill-equipped for duckling management.

‘Can’t he live with you?’ Malcolm asked as he lit his fag.

‘Are you
mad?’
I shrieked. ‘No, don’t answer that, because you clearly are quite the nutty one charging off with ducklings like that.’

‘It’s only the one duckling, Calypso. I don’t exactly make a habit of duckling rescue,’ he replied. His tone was poisonous with sarcasm, and I felt a bit upset that he managed to look even fitter and more mature as he made his sarcastic remark.

‘No, well, I should think not. It’s still very irresponsible,’ I told him, realising I was sounding like Bob.

‘You were the one throwing the Ophelia in the pet shop, darling,’ he added. Only he made the word
darling
sound like a nasty insult.

‘Well,’ I sulked. ‘I can’t help being a sensitive, feeling person can I?’

‘Rex, you are a tug-of-love duckling,’ Malcolm told him as he peeped himself stupid in his swaddling napkin.

Ironically we were facing the Spedale degli Innocenti, which was the first-ever orphanage in Europe. Malcolm
tried to feed Rex a few crumbs of his biscotti, which I thought proved how ill-equipped he was for parenthood.

‘I don’t think you should be feeding him biscuits,’ I told him, even though Rex seemed delighted. ‘They’ll rot his teeth.’

‘Fine,’ Malcolm replied, chucking the biscotti onto the table. Rex looked at me in a pissed-off sort of way.

‘Fine,’ I replied back, folding my arms and glaring.

So we sat in silence, sipping our espressos, as the sun went down, other couples canoodled and vespas sped past.

Malcolm frowned but he didn’t say anything. Then he took back the biscotti and started dropping little crumbs in Rex’s beak. It was actually sweet watching Rex eat. His little beak went berserk.

I watched Malcolm holding our little orphan and feeding him crumbs. I already knew he was eccentric, unpredictable and lacking in judgment. So maybe it was a bit unreasonable of me to expect reason, judgment and sanity from Malcolm? Now if Freds were here, he’d know exactly what to do. Then again if Freds were here I wouldn’t be sitting here with an orphaned duckling.

Still, Malcolm was being very sweet to Rex, and looking at him I suddenly wanted to pull him. ‘I don’t want to argue. I’m just worried about how we’ll get him through customs,’ I explained more gently.

Malcolm looked up at me and smiled. ‘Oh, I quite enjoyed our little
contretemps.
Your lips are quite kissable when you’re pouting,’ he teased, offering me a piece of
biscotti to feed Rex. ‘Listen, don’t be worried. I’m leaving tonight. It’s far better that I take him back to England in my hand luggage,’ he insisted as he waved to the waiter for another espresso.

‘But you can’t. The authorities will spot Rex in their X-ray machine thingamees and the poor thing will end up at the mercy of Italian customs officials! I shall do it.’

‘Fair enough,’ he agreed without a fight. ‘You do it.’ Then before I could faint with the horror of what I’d just volunteered to do, he kissed me, and people at surrounding tables clapped.

‘See, my lovely sabre-wielding wild child, you have me eating out of the palm of your hand.’

On the way back, I decided that Malcolm was not the boy for me even if he did think I was a wild child. He was far too eccentric, even if it was in a creative way. As amusing as he was to be with, life was not a movie set. I needed a nice, normal boyfriend who didn’t complicate my life with ducklings and other imponderables. Because now that I’d won the argument over who was taking Rex back, it began to dawn on me what a pyrrhic victory it actually was. I mean, how was I going to smuggle Rex through customs? What if they discovered me and chucked me in Old Chokey and I had to live on gruel and wander an exercise yard with girls who were wise to the ways of crime and flick knives?

I suppose I’d be used to the food at least.

My soul was heavy with all this pondering when
Malcolm eventually said, ‘Shall we see if Rex can swim?’ And before I could say something cautionary and sensible, he’d dropped him in the fountain.

Rex took to the fountain like a duck to water, but still. ‘How could you be so irresponsible!’ I screamed. ‘What if he’d drowned?’

Malcolm laughed as he picked me up and chucked me in after Rex.

If I had any doubts about whether Malcolm was actually the boy for me, they were drowned in that pool of deadly bacteria.

‘Rex,’ I told him later after we had gone to Malcolm’s grand palazzo to dry off. ‘I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but your parents are splitting up.’

Malcolm was drying my hair with one of the big white towels as I broke this shocking news to our duckling child. Rex seemed to take it well. So did Malcolm, which was probably the most
molto
annoying thing about the whole breakup. I know we hadn’t officially been going out, but we had adopted a duckling together, and so technically that made him the first boy I’d officially dumped. Only I don’t think Malcolm realised this technicality, which was
molto
annoying. When you dump someone, you want to see a certain amount of disappointment.

‘I hope you realise that I meant that,’ I told him. ‘About the being dumped thing.’

‘Really?’ he asked as he finished drying my hair off. ‘Perhaps you should do it by txt? That will show me.’

‘Hah!’ I said, grabbing the towel and flicking him with it. ‘How dare you mock my tragedy!’

And I chased him round the palazzo until we reached the kitchen, where he grabbed me in a manly hug. ‘Fancy something to eat, my gorgeous Botticelli angel?’ he asked, trying to kiss me.

‘Fine!’ I replied, pulling away.

So he set to work and whipped up some eggs Fiorentina, which I hate to admit were divinely delicious. I had two servings and then despite myself I had several more servings of Malcolm’s delicious lips. ‘Don’t think that just because I like kissing you we’re un-dumped or anything,’ I told him sternly.

‘Whatever you say, my cherub,’ he teased.

It was after eleven when he finally walked me back to the pensione. I let him put his arm around me, but that was only because I was freezing cold. When he tried to kiss me at the door, I pushed him away and delivered my pre-prepared speech. ‘I do like you, Malcolm, but we’re not suited. I need a nice, normal boy, not a Scottish nipple-piercing filmmaker. This madness is too much for me. It’s been a lovely holiday romance, but the time has come to face –’

‘Calypso,’ he interrupted.

‘What?’

Then he pulled me into his chest and gave me the best snog-age I’ve ever had.

‘You do say the most idiotic things. See you in Windsor
on Saturday,’ he told me, dashing off into the night. I was still swooning with the dreamy madness of it all as a vespa sped past and almost knocked me off my feet.

I rang the bell of the pensione and waited in the chill night with my swaddled duckling contemplating the Malcolm-versus-Freddie issue. Eventually I was admitted by the night-watch chap.