Mad About You

by Anna Premoli

  Filippo, who has never bothered getting off his backside to come and see me play, says we’re too commercial. Suddenly the fact that my boyfriend is the only one who isn’t here tonight weighs on me like a boulder. To be honest, it weighed on me all the other times also too - the only difference is that now I’m tired of pretending.

  After a pretty decent version of When You Were Young from the Killers, we take a break for a few minutes. I go over to the front row group to kiss Lavinia, Ale and Seb on the cheek, and Seb – obviously – tries very comically to squirm out of it before surrendering to the idea. I’m about to do the same with Ari, but lately I’ve been spending so much time with him that it feels ridiculous. I freeze, unsure about how to proceed. He raises a questioning eyebrow and in the end with a snort I give in, because all things considered it seems simpler for me to try to treat him like all the others than to have to give complicated explanations. I walk over and plant a loud kiss on his cheek so hard that I leave a fiery red lipstick print on his skin. I hope with all my heart that my makeup is thick enough this evening to hide the blush I fear is appearing on my cheeks. My makeup or the darkness of the room.

  “You lot are killing it tonight!” shouts Lavinia. She’s obviously hard of hearing and knows nothing about music, but I appreciate her enthusiasm.

  Everyone sits around the table while I stand there because there isn’t a free seat in the house. Ariberto, being Ariberto, takes half a second to stand up and give me his seat. Why is he like that? Couldn’t be have been born a bit more of an arsehole?

  “No thanks, I’m fine,” I mutter, but he insists obstinately, “Sit down!”

  “No, really, sit down yourself!”

  “No, you si...”

  “Why don’t you both sit down?” suggests Lavinia.

  “With his physique, I’m sure that Ariberto can support your weight...”

  I give her an outraged glare: if I wasn’t sure it was impossible, I’d almost think she was trying as hard as she can to put me in a difficult position – and it’s already difficult enough without other people sticking their oars in.

  “What do you mean ‘with his physique’?” asks Seb.

  “Well, he is rather... statuesque,” replies Vinny without a hint of embarrassment.

  Any other guy might be annoyed, but not Sebastiano, who shrugs his shoulders as if to agree with her. Lavinia bursts out laughing and then gives him a kiss. Ah, love...

  I’m so absorbed in looking at the two lovebirds that I don’t even notice that Ari has in the meantime sat down again. His hands suddenly grab my hips and pull me down onto his lap.

  “Bertha...”

  “Don’t worry, I know about your studs,” he laughs. “I’ll be careful.”

  He bends over towards the table and practically ends up hugging me. If I didn’t think it was impossible, I’d say he’d put on some more aftershave before leaving the office. Bucketloads of aftershave. Sooner or later we’re going to have to talk about this obsession of his with keeping the luxury men’s grooming industry going.

  He grabs his glass of beer and offers it to me before raising it to his lips. “Thirsty?”

  Of course I am, but I can’t drink from his glass. It would be... I don’t know... intimate? Weird? Totally wrong?

  But since I apparently have a screw loose at the minute, I grab his glass and neck half of it like the Disney princess that I’m not.

  Ari smiles but says nothing and just looks at me. He has this rather intense way of watching me, as if he could see through my makeup, black hair, clothes and studs. With my teeth I anxiously fiddle with my tongue piercing.

  “Ahem...” says Vinny as she clears her throat.

  “Bertha, who told you about this evening?” I ask him, remembering finally that I’m supposed to be indignant.

  “I have my informants...”

  “Yes - two of them,” I say, pointing to my friends.

  “What kind of informants would they be if they confessed it at the earliest opportunity?” he laughs. “Anyway, your band’s amazing!”

  “No we’re not, we’re barely decent. But Silvia does have a beautiful voice.”

  “You’ve got a beautiful voice too.”

  “Oh stop it, I only did the chorus on one song...”

  “That was all I needed to hear.”

  Against all my best intentions, I smile at him. It’s so hard to be angry with him.

  “Will you dedicate a song to me?” he asks.

  “What song?” I inquire in alarm.

  “Any. You choose...”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you left the office early tonight and I had to finish the job on my own.”

  He’s right. “Errrrrrr....”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s an ‘errrrrr’, which means no! Who do you take me for, the kind of person who goes around dedicating songs to people?” I shout, looking almost offended.

  “In that case I will consider the next song dedicated to me, whether you want to or not,” he says undaunted.

  “Please yourself. You always do anyway...”

  Our amusing little squabble is interrupted by Silvia reminding me that I need to get back to the stage because we still have a concert to finish. I’d almost forgotten about the gig.

  “Okay,” announces Silvia as soon as we step back onto the stage, “our next song tonight is Ever After by Mariana’s Trench!”

  Shit! I had completely forgotten we were starting the second part of the set with that song! I mean, it’s beautiful, sure, but the lyrics are a bit... loaded.

  I try with all my might to fix an unidentified point in front of me while I play and sing along with Silvia to stop myself from looking down at him. I mustn’t look at him, I mustn’t look at him... so why am I staring at him?

  *

  Don’t you move

  Can’t you stay where you are just for now?

  I could be your perfect disaster

  You could be my ever after...

  Once this is over, I’m definitely having a drink. A strong one. Or three...

  Chapter 7

  What with meetings, working late and numerous meals eaten at our desks, the following week flies by at incredible speed. Lunchtime is the moment of the day I like best: pretty much everyone in the office nips out for a bit of fresh air, leaving me and Ariberto free to shoot the breeze. It had been ages since I laughed this much with someone, and it had been ages since I felt this kind of complicity with someone too. There are days when I look up and catch Ari’s eye and I would bet anything that I know what he is thinking at the moment. I imagine it depends on the fact that we’ve been spending a considerable amount of time together over the last few months. In fact, to tell the truth, he’s the person I’ve spent most time with. We’ve breathed the same air, shared our problems and overcome challenges. In short, something that I would never thought possible has happened: we’ve entered into perfect harmony. Me, the girl who’s perpetually dissatisfied with everything, even myself, and Mr-Perfect-Shirts. On paper it should have been a disastrous clash of personalities, but in reality it’s turned out to be something else altogether.

  “Iris has just given me the homework for the weekend,” Ari tells me as he returns to his seat. “She also told me to disclose the good news,” he adds, giving me an amused look.

  “Ah well, I didn’t have any plans anyway,” I confess. “Mainly I’m just sorry for you and your girls...”

  “What girls?” he asks, pretending not to understand, but I’m not stupid. Men communicate the bare minimum, which is why there’s specific reason his phone flashes more often than a Christmas tree: I’d be willing to bet he is the object of attention of a considerable number of girls.

  If you like nice-guy types, he has all the necessary qualities, as well as plenty of other slightly less necessary ones, like the ability to look amazing in a business suit, seeming at the same time sexy and carefree. And the combination of his broad shoulders and t
he tailor-made shirts are just perfect for helping anyone who needs something tangible to base their fantasies on. Not that I’m part of the category, of course.

  “What do you mean, what girls?” I ask him and burst out laughing. “I would love to know what they write to you...”

  Ari blushes.

  Since my curiosity is piqued, I go back to asking myself which of these girls are just acquaintances and which are something more. It’s none of my business, I know, but that isn’t working very well as a deterrent. In this office between Via Turati and Piazza della Repubblica, me and Ariberto spend a heck of a lot of time together.

  “Believe me, you won’t be missing much if you don’t know,” he replies, looking uncomfortable.

  “Ooooh, so it’s all pretty spicy stuff, then, is it?” I laugh. “Cool!”

  “Instead of thinking about that, why don’t you take a look at the study Iris has asked us to do for Monday? Sometimes I think she enjoys coming up with random problems to assign to us over the weekend.” And so saying he throws a heavy volume onto my desk.

  “That’s the price we have to pay for winning the tennis cup. We made her lose for one year and she’s the kind of person who bears a grudge,” I remind him, opening the book and examining it. “Oh, how wonderful! I’ve always dreamed of spending the first weekend of spring analysing privileged taxation systems in Ireland!” I exclaim sarcastically.

  “I’m sure you have ... For once the forecast is for warm weather and sunshine. Talking of which, I have an idea: what do you say to working in Sempione park tomorrow?” he proposes, with the proud expression of someone who has come up with something brilliant. Though to be honest, after hours sitting in this artificial light, the idea does sound attractive.

  “Bravo, Bertha. See how well you can do when you apply yourself?”

  “And we could have lunch there too.”

  “Like Le déjeuner sur l’herbe,” I comment, like the know-all I am.

  “Ms. Spikes, the woman in that painting was naked,” he points out with a funny expression. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  Shit, he’s right!

  “You idiot,” I mutter, blushing.

  “It was only to know if I needed to be psychologically prepared,” he continues.

  “Can you stop laughing?”

  “Errr, no, I don’t think I can. It’s one of the side effects of knowing you. I’ve spent a lot of time laughing since we started working together,” he confesses.

  The feeling is mutual, but I pretend to be indignant anyway. “Watch yourself, funny man - tomorrow I might just poison your sandwich.”

  “Ooh, you cruel woman...”

  “Never forget that.”

  Ariberto gives me a wink and then goes back to working on his computer. I pretend to do the same, but inside I’m reminding myself that I’m getting excited over nothing. Tomorrow is just going to be work - a little different from the usual but work all the same.

  When I arrive at Parco Sempione, at ten o’clock, Ari has already chosen a strategic spot on the grass that overlooks the castle on one side and the arch on the other.

  “Where’s the blanket?” I ask as I go over to greet him. There is a moment of embarrassment during which neither of us knows what to do, but in the end we kiss each other on both cheeks. The contact is very brief but I can’t help noticing that he’s wearing a fair amount of aftershave. He is perfectly clean-shaven and has replaced the suit and tie with jeans and a polo shirt for once. Ariberto Castelli not wearing a shirt! Probably means that they’re expecting snow in the Tropics.

  “Bertha, you actually own a polo shirt?” Obviously it’s a very expensive-looking polo shirt and he’s even popped the collar, but it’s still a first for him, if we don’t count tennis.

  “Did you think that I was born wearing a shirt?” he replies with a laugh.

  “Yes, something like that... Anyway, I know it’s quite warm but don’t you think it’s a bit early to be going straight to short sleeves?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “You women and your perennial cold.”

  “Please yourself, but don’t come moaning to me if you get sick.”

  “Me? The last time I had a temperature was back in the nineties.”

  Yes, of course, a typical male answer...

  “Ok, never mind. As I was saying, what about the blanket?”

  “I was counting on you to bring that,” he confesses.

  I shake my head and laugh, and then bend down open my backpack, from which I extract a large blanket, which we arrange with considerable precision and then both sit down on. Although it is only morning, the sun is already strong and warms us up nicely. My bones really felt the cold of the winter that has just ended. I’ve never been a fan of the cold - if I could, I’d go into hibernation with the bears.

  “Listen, before we start working, what do you say to a few minutes’ sunbathing? I’ve been dreaming of a hot day like this for months.” And so saying I grab my backpack and try to use it as a pillow for my head. Which is hard, but not as hard as the backpack: it’s so full of books that I just can’t find a comfortable position. All I can do is give up the idea and lie down on the blanket.

  Sitting beside me, Ari laughs. “What, someone as anal as you came here without a pillow?” he teases. “I’m shocked.”

  “I did think about bringing one, actually. And if I had an inflatable one, I swear I would have. But as you see, I already had enough stuff to carry. These books weigh a ton,” I complain.

  Ariberto spreads his long legs and beckons me to lean. “Since there’s no pillow...”

  I give him a tempted look, but then shake my head. I couldn’t do that... could I?

  “Oh come on, it’s hardly being intimate, is it?” says Ari, correctly interpreting my hesitancy and trying to calm me down.

  It’s true, it’s only for a few minutes... that’s not going to kill anybody, is it?

  “Ok, but only because you’re going on about it! I’m only doing it as a favour to you, mind you.” I get up and walk over, placing my head on his thigh. Which feels really nice, even though I’d rather eat a live frog rather than admit it.

  “Comfortable?” he asks, leaning over me.

  “It’s not comfortable at all, Bertha - your thighs feel like steel.”

  “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim with conviction. “You’re a really crappy pillow!”

  Ari laughs. “I can only offer my humble apologies. I’ll try and do better next time...”

  When I raise my eyes, I meet his amused face: he looks relaxed and happy and perfectly at ease. Not that Ariberto ever really seems unhappy - he wouldn’t recognize feelings of depression if they ran him over - but today his happiness seems to have reached new heights. He raises his hand, grabs a lock of my hair and scrutinises it carefully.” I think I preferred you as a redhead...”

  I close my eyes and relish the feeling of the sun’s rays on my face.

  “It’s a good job I’ve had it dyed black, then,” I reply with a chuckle.

  “I would have bet money you’d have said that,” he grins back at me.

  “Hmm, I can’t tell if you’re saying that I’ve gotten predictable or if you’re claiming to understand me...”

  Ari runs his fingers through my hair while he reflects in silence. God, thank you for convincing me to wash it this morning! It feels pretty damn nice, like a long caress that you can feel in every part of your body. Even in the most remote corners.

  “I can see your roots,” he says after a few minutes. “They’re blonde.” He sounds genuinely amazed.

  “Hmmm, yes,” I reply, trying to speak normally. This massage he’s been giving me has left me a little dazed.

  “Are you telling me that under all these horrible colours you’re actually blonde, Ms.Spikes?”

  At this point I feel obliged to reopen my eyes and look up into his. His irises contain an infinity of shades running from green to gold, and th
en again from light chestnut to dark hazelnut. Not for the first time I have to admit that brown eyes are sometimes the most beautiful nature has ever created, and never mind those rubbish old blue ones.

  “I’m not blonde,” I reassure him. “My hair’s actually a hideously mousey grey-brown.”

  “It looks like a rather unique colour to me,” he says, as smugly as usual.

  “That’s because you’ve only seen a few millimetres of it. Believe me, a whole head of hair that colour would not be pretty.”

  “Well I’d really like to see it. Your complexion’s too pale for this black, it overwhelms your features,” he concludes.

  “Bertha, stop talking bollocks and concentrate on that wonderful head massage you were giving me a moment ago.” He has these big hands, with absolutely divine fingertips. I imagine he’d could give you a pretty memorable massage of some other parts of the body too, but I’ll never find that out.

  “Ah, so you liked it, then...” he laughs with satisfaction, his hands sliding over my head again. Oh my god, this could give me one of those spontaneous orgasms you’re always hearing about...

  “Don’t get big-headed – with those hands of yours, you’ve got a natural advantage for it,” I say, trying to shut him down but only managing to make my voice sound dangerously hoarse. It seems obvious at this point that I’m bursting with repressed sexual tension. It’s less to do with Ariberto or my reaction to his touching me, it’s simply that I am a young woman who is stuck in a relationship that hasn’t given her any satisfaction for a long time. I miss human contact, having someone breathing next to me, watching him while he runs his hands over me. Frankly, a vibrator’s completely useless when it comes to feeling close to another person and anyone who says otherwise is talking rubbish.

  Ari sinks both his big hands into my hair and an involuntary moan escapes me, as if to emphasize that the merit for it actually is his and nobody else’s. God, what a bastard he is to make me feel this way...

  “Was that a moan?” he asks, trying to sound like he doesn’t really care.