Flirting in Italian (6 page)

An absolute silence has fallen as we all watch them go past, swinging their bags and tossing their earrings as if they were on a catwalk. They’re chatting to each other, laughing, perfectly aware of our presence by the pool but not deigning to even nod at us in acknowledgment. One of them glances over at us briefly and says loudly to the other,
“Hai visto? Madonna, che maiali!”
as they trip through the back door of the villa.

We all look at each other. I’m biting my lip; Kelly’s pulled her towel over herself to hide her body; even the confident Paige and Kendra are visibly taken aback. The four of us have bonded as a group. And though I’m glad that we have, I’d really rather that it hadn’t been caused by some frighteningly intimidating Italian girls spitting out a comment about us that, by its tone, was definitely dismissive.

“Oh,
jeez
,” sighs Paige, who’s rapidly becoming the Girl Who Says What Everyone Else Is Thinking. “How did
this
happen? I wanted some Italian
boys
, not skinny girls who’re
gonna make the rest of us feel like crap!” She narrows her eyes and waves one fist at the sky. “This proves it,” she adds gloomily. “God is
definitely
a guy.”

The appearance of the Italian girls, brief though it was, has killed our mood. The sun is sinking in the sky, and I think we all want time to unpack, bathe, and primp ourselves to the nines before dinner, now that we’re aware of the level of competition there will be around the dining table. We’ve discussed the girls and decided that they must be Catia’s daughters: the website for Villa Barbiano’s summer course mentioned the whole Cerboni family, and Paige, bless her, blurted out that she’d been hoping that this meant a ton of hot sons.

“
Not
skinny daughters,” she’d said gloomily as we parted in the antechamber to go into our separate rooms. “Which totally
sucks
.”

Kelly showers first, and I unpack; when it’s my turn for the bathroom, I luxuriate in the shower for the longest time. I’ve never had a bathroom like this before, one where the marble-lined shower stall is so huge it doesn’t even need a door or a curtain; the water pours down in a wide arc, hitting the stone below, running down into the brass drain, saturating the stone. It’s such a novelty that I stand there for ages, stretching my arms, feeling the cool grain of the marble under my fingers, turned at an angle so I can look at the view out of the window, the rising hill behind the house
planted with lines of fluffy-topped olive trees, their leaves steely green.

I’m practically in a trance. So when Kelly bursts into the bathroom, jumping across my eyeline, gesticulating frantically, I scream my head off with shock.

“Come and see! You’ve got to come
now
!” she yells, turning pink at the sight of my naked body and averting her eyes immediately. Despite sharing a room with her sisters, Kelly is turning out to be very modest.

“But what—”

“Just
come
!” She gallops out of the room, flip-flops flapping as she goes. I grab a towel, throw it around me, and dash in her wake into our bedroom, over to the windowsill, where Kelly’s kneeling, her body so far into the window frame that it looks as if she’s about to jump.

“Look!” she hisses without turning her head.
“Boys!”

“Wow,”
I breathe as I hang out the window next to Kelly, seeing exactly why she’s summoned me so urgently. I hear a suppressed giggle and turn my head a little to see Paige and Kendra doing exactly what we’re doing—huddling in their own window seat, staring at the same riveting sight below. I dart a quick glance up and am reassured to see that the low, slanting roof projects above us far enough that it would be really hard for someone in the grounds below to look up and spot four excited girls clustering at the top-floor windows, half hidden under the eaves, gawking shamelessly at the exciting view.

Whatever prayers Paige has been chanting in the last hour or so have paid off massively. Because in the gravel
parking area behind the stand of pine trees, swinging their jeans-clad legs off Vespa scooters, taking off their helmets and tossing back their hair, are two answers to any girl’s prayer. Two gorgeous, sexy, strutting Italian boys. Just like my mother said.

A tiny sigh escapes my lips.

“I
know
, right?” Kelly says eagerly beside me, a little too loudly, because Kendra hisses a “Shh!” to shut us up.

The boys are stowing their helmets under the Vespa seats, unzipping leather jackets, adjusting their sunglasses, raking their fingers through their thick hair, taking the steps up to the lawn in a couple of long-limbed jumps.

“They’re like an aftershave ad!” Kelly whispers, ecstatic, into my ear. “Oh my God, the one on the left … he’s
soooo
handsome.…”

I honestly can’t see much variation between them; they’re both slim, designer-stubbled, in fitted white shirts tucked into their jeans, which no cool English boy would do but which actually looks really sharp. Kelly’s fave has lighter hair—golden maple to the other one’s chestnut—and is slightly shorter, but that’s the only difference I can see.

The boys are almost below us now, striding toward the house. Kelly leans out so far to get a last glimpse of them I put my hand on her arm, worried that she actually will fall: when she eventually hauls herself back into the room, she’s lit up, beaming from ear to ear.

“Oh,”
she breathes in enchantment. “They’re so
beautiful
!”

And then her face falls, so completely that it would be comic if it weren’t poignant.

“Ugh,”
she moans in misery. “What am I going to
wear?
”

By the time we gather in the antechamber to go down for dinner together, just before eight-thirty, it’s clear that Kelly wasn’t the only one of us who was spurred on by the snotty Italian girls and the handsome Italian boys to make a huge effort with her outfit. We have a lot less to work with than the American girls and their two suitcases each, which, judging by the deafening noise that came from across the anteroom an hour ago, were stuffed full of every electrical beauty product in existence. Their hair looks as if they brought a hairstylist along in one of their gigantic suitcases; Paige’s is caught back with a silk scarf and tonged into curls that fall past her shoulders, and Kendra’s is slicked to her scalp and wound into a chignon. They’re in bright little linen-print dresses that show off their smooth limbs, accessorized with pearl earrings for Paige and diamonds for Kendra.

“Hey,” I mutter to Kelly, “we’re the trendy ones. Remember that.”

We may not have the invisibly natural makeup skills of the Americans, but I think we look a lot cooler, with the sooty black eyeliner and artfully messy hair that’s the fashion in London. I’m in a little dress with a square neck and puff sleeves, sort of deliberately old-fashioned, with a huge multistrand fake-pearl necklace a million miles from Paige’s ladylike studs. I’ve painted a beauty spot on my cheekbone, cherry-glossed my lips, and added some fake lashes; I love to dress up, and I’m determined not to be overshadowed. Lily-Rose and Milly and I experimented for years till we found
looks that suited us, and we’re proud of our individuality, our personal style.

But Kelly, I’m realizing, is not that confident about her looks. She hates her legs, and insisted on wearing jeans. At least her black top slims her torso, and she’s done that blue and green eyeliner again, which I think really suits her. Plus, we’ve both redone our nails—and our toenails. All considered, I’m proud of the English contingent.

Until we enter the dining room, where the Italians are already gathered, and Kelly goes bright red at the sight of the boys lounging against the polished drinks table, and can’t say a word for a good twenty minutes.

“It’s nice that you dressed up for dinner,” Catia Cerboni says approvingly, coming forward to greet us, razor-thin in a slubbed silk sheath dress and matching short-sleeved jacket. She looks at the two boys, and sighs. “I wish they would put on jackets, but they say it is too hot.
Moh
.”

“Dai. Mamma, non rompere,”
the taller boy says, straightening up at the sight of us. “
Ciao!
Hello!” He smiles charmingly. “I am Leonardo, and this”—he nods at the lighter-haired boy—“is my friend Andrea. It is lovely to meet you.”

Beside me, Kelly makes a choking sound. I don’t dare look at her. Not only do the boys push off the table and come toward us, they take our hands, one by one, and duck their heads, kissing us on each cheek, saying
“Piacere,”
which, from my
Easy Italian for Beginners
book, I know means “It’s a pleasure.” They smell much cleaner than the average English boy, of soap and shampoo and conditioner and aftershave, a waft of pine and citrus and green ferns, delicious and fresh. Leonardo is sexier, in my opinion, darker, with
more stubble and deep brown eyes; Andrea is fairer, with pale blue eyes and longer, silky light brown hair.

But if this were my choice of boys for the whole holiday
, I think as they hand us flutes of what looks like champagne, pale straw–colored, dense with tiny bubbles,
I could scarcely complain. They’re both really hot
.

Oh God. I hope I’m not blushing like Kelly! At least I managed to say
“piacere”
back at them, which is more than anyone else did …

“A toast to welcome our summer guests!” Catia says. “Elisa, Ilaria!” she snaps at the two girls who walked by the pool earlier; they’re smoking by the big french doors, their backs turned to the room. Tossing their heads and shrugging, they stub out their cigarettes in the big planter next to them, not seeming to care about the lemon tree it contains. Catia sighs audibly and mutters a reproach that Elisa completely ignores as she and Ilaria wriggle back into the dining room. That’s the best way I can describe how they move; though they’re rake-thin, it’s as if they’re somehow managing to rub their inner thighs together as they walk, writhing sinuously.
Gah
, I think gloomily.
Whereas I spend my time trying to get my inner thighs not to rub together. It’s very unfair
.

“This is
Prosecco di Veneto
,” Catia informs us, in the tone of one imparting a lesson. “It is sparkling wine made from the Prosecco grape. We drink it in Italy before meals, as an
aperitivo
. It is light and pleasant, not strong like champagne. And we say
Salute
when we toast. Okay! So!”

She raises her glass.

“Salute!”
she says, and we all echo obediently. Leonardo
and Andrea smile charmingly at us as we take our first sip; the Italian girls do not.

“Introduce yourselves,” Catia says crossly to them as the bubbles burst on my tongue. I love the taste; I love any drink with bubbles in it, but this is really delicious.

“I am Elisa,” says the leader of the two, her Italian accent much stronger than Leonardo’s, her dark curly hair cropped short in a terrifyingly fashionable style that only someone very confident could carry off. She waves a hand at her friend, the gold bracelets on her thin tanned arm jingling as she does so. “Elisa Cerboni. That”—she points at Leonardo—“ees my leetle brother, Leonardo. That”—she points at Catia, with more jingling—“ees my mamma. And thees ees my friend Ilaria. Okay?” She says “okay” with such a strong Italian inflection it takes me a moment to recognize the word. I mouth the pronunciation to myself, trying to copy it. “So now we can sit down for the dinner, yes? I am very angry.”

Without waiting for an answer, Elisa stalks over to the long table laid with a white lace–inset tablecloth, and set with gleaming silver cutlery, gold-edged china plates, and arrangements of white roses in small silver bowls artfully placed along the center. She pulls out a chair and slumps into it as I stare at her incredulously, unable to believe she’s actually announced that she’s in a foul mood; what are we supposed to say to that?

Catia heaves another sigh.

“Hungry!” she says, taking her seat at the head of the table. “Hungry!” She emphasizes the
h
for effect. “ ‘Angry’
vuol dire incazzato
. ‘Hungry’
è affammato
.” She rubs her stomach, clearly illustrating what “hungry” means.

“Ma sono anche incazzata,”
Elisa says sourly.
“Perche—”

“Zitta!”
Catia snaps.

Leonardo grins at me and Kelly.

“My mother is telling my sister to shut up,” he says cheerfully. “That is what
‘zitta’
means.”

God
, I think nervously,
is this normal? Do they always squabble like this?

Apparently so. I look around; Ilaria is sitting down next to Elisa, gesturing for Andrea to take the seat beside her, and neither of them look at all fazed by the spat. And Leonardo is still smiling, not remotely bothered either.

“Your English is really good,” I say, a bit at random, as Paige, who clearly isn’t backward at coming forward, plunks herself down next to Andrea, twirling a fat blond ringlet around her fingers and saying brightly:

“Well, hello! My name’s Paige, and it’s very nice to meet you!”

“
Grazie!
Thank you!” Leonardo says to me as I take a seat as far away from Elisa as I can manage. “I like my English to be very good. I practice a lot. I like it to be better.” He sits down next to me. “My English is much better than my sister Elisa’s,” he adds affably.

“Your English ees better,” Elisa snaps, “because you love to talk to foreign girls.
All
foreign girls,” she adds, sweeping her cold, dark, mascaraed gaze around at us to emphasize her message: that her brother is a big slut and we shouldn’t be flattered by his attentions.

Ilaria giggles dutifully at this.

“Cool,” Kendra drawls, slipping her long, sculpted thighs onto the chair next to Leonardo. “You like foreign girls, and I like Italian boys. Sounds perfect to me. I’m Kendra.”

Leonardo takes Kendra’s hand and raises it to his lips.

“Sei bellissima,”
he breathes.

“Ooh!” Paige heaves a gusty sigh. “That’s so romantic!”

“Our first course,” Catia announces loudly as a small, dark-skinned woman enters the room buckling under a large silver tureen, “will be
fusilli con zucchine
. Fusilli pasta with zucchini and lemon.”

We serve ourselves with big, silver-handled spoons as the tiny woman staggers around the table, presenting the tureen to each of us one by one. Then a plate is passed around with a grater and a big hunk of Parmesan cheese, so we can grate our own.

“It is always best to serve the cheese fresh,” Catia tells us. “Not already grated.” It’s clear that she runs this course at least in part because she relishes telling people how to do things correctly, and why; you can barely put your fork in your mouth without Catia telling you how to hold it.

The pasta is delicious; short and curly, with lemon zest flecking the bright green of the grated zucchini. I definitely like it. Elisa and Ilaria, I notice, have taken very little, and are only sipping at their glasses of Prosecco; the rest of us have already finished ours by the time Catia tells Leonardo to open and pass around a couple of bottles of red wine. Kelly, beside me, hasn’t said a word since we came into the dining room. Her flush has abated, but when I glance at her, it looks as if she’s on the verge of tears: her eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed.

“It’s really nice, isn’t it?” I say, finishing my fusilli and laying my fork down on the plate.

The table’s been laid with a big underplate at each place, decorated with swirls of gold; the pasta dish, on top, is a shallow bowl, and I put my fork on that, as my mother’s taught me. Kelly nods quickly, a swift duck of her head, picks up her own fork from where she’s put it down on the tablecloth, and places it on her plate as I just did. It looks as if the fork tines left a mark on the white cloth, and she tuts nervously when she sees the green stain, trying to scrape it off with her nail.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, but she keeps on scratching in a vain effort to remove the stain, a bright red color coming back to her cheeks.

“This is a light Chianti that we make ourselves, here at Villa Barbiano,” Catia says as Leonardo fills my glass. “It is a table wine,
vino da tavola
in Italian. Only twelve percent, pleasant but not too strong.” She directs a hard glance down the expanse of white cloth at the foreign girls. “In Italy,” she says pointedly, “we drink only with meals.
Not
like other countries. When we do not eat, we do not drink.”