Mad About You

by Anna Premoli

I open my eyes again and glare at him. “No, it was just my stomach,” I reply belligerently. This sudden weakness towards him makes me feel guilty, and I don’t like it at all.

  He laughs so hard his eyes almost disappear. “You do talk bollocks sometimes...”

  Actually, I talk bollocks a lot of the time, but other people are rarely interested enough to notice. Taking it almost as a challenge, Ariberto turns it up a notch and runs those fingers of his across my scalp with even more conviction. My second moan is even more audible than the first.

  “That was not your belly!” he exclaims, sounding very amused.

  “It’s a normal reaction!” I reply, sitting up. “I’ll prove it to you. Come on, lie down!” I shout, pointing to my legs. Looking amused, Ari shakes his head, but then finally seems to convince himself to carry out my order and rests that mass of dark ringlets on my lap. I breathe in deeply before immersing my hands into his hair, which is much softer than I had imagined. I am overcome by a powerful feeling of envy: he has the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen on a man.

  Meanwhile, Ari lays back and closes his eyes as he enjoys the sun and my massage. I run my hands down both sides of his head, bringing them together at the top of his neck. Once, twice, three times ... until he too gives a sort of half sigh.

  I go down to his neck and then start moving up again until I touch his hair. His breathing accelerates and his mouth, annoyingly in plain sight, opens and he gives what is unarguably an actual, honest-to-god moan.

  “Victory!” I exclaim, throwing up my hands in triumph.

  Ariberto opens his eyes and stares into mine. There is a vaguely dreamy and incredibly sensual expression on his face. His gaze then falls onto my mouth and the tension is so powerful that I bite my lower lip. I have the terrible feeling he is thinking of doing something really stupid.

  “Leave that mouth alone,” he orders.

  “Or else?” I ask mischievously, even though not saying anything at all would be the wisest thing to do.

  Still propped up against my legs, Ari reaches out and caresses my cheek, running his thumb over my skin several times. As he strokes me, I start practically melting. God, this is stupid.

  “Don’t say stuff like that, please,” he pleads, staring right into my eyes. “I might actually start believing you... And we both know very well that all this is just a game for you.”

  Suddenly I feel guilty, because so far I have chosen to deliberately forget what happened between us, as if we were just two people with no history at all. All this time I’ve been convinced our kiss was the result of a provocation and not of any actual attraction, but now, with his hand on my cheek, the doubt is causing a whole series of certainties to crumble. Is it possible that he actually is attracted to me? The idea seems ridiculous to me. People don’t usually like me much after they’ve gotten to know me: they tell me that I am a know-all, sarcastic and that I have a lousy temper. And unfortunately, it’s all true!

  Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I opt for the former, but inside me it feels like there is a stormy ocean.

  “What is it?” he asks, misinterpreting my laughter and sounding offended. “Do you think I’m pathetic?”

  “You can’t be serious...” I murmur, opening my eyes wide.

  He sits up and looks at me with determination in his eyes. “At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I feel like I’ve always made my interest in you pretty clear. I mean... I kissed you, for God’s sake! The first time I met you, I grabbed hold of you and kissed you!” He sounds slightly angry while he says this. It’s the very first time I’ve seen his facade crack; in general, he’s always so reasonable and calm that for a moment I am taken aback. Apart from the fact that it is not entirely clear to me why he’s even talking about it, anger actually makes him quite attractive. Or maybe it’s just that I’m off my head. At this point it certainly feels like that’s a possibility which I can’t automatically exclude. “I know you’re not interested. You have been very honest about that. You like the person you’re with. Ok, I accept that and I respect that. We’ve found ourselves working together by pure chance and we’ve discovered that we sort of get on, so a friendship has formed between us - and I care about you and about our relationship. But this doesn’t mean that my attraction to you has disappeared. I’m trying to keep it under control and I’m really doing my best not to let it come between us and become a problem, but you have to help me by not just randomly provoking me! Because when you do that, I swear, I feel like saying to hell with my self-restraint and dragging you into the tall grass and kissing you until you pass out,” he says grimly.

  I think what he’s trying to say is that I should start behaving myself and stop doing things that might be misinterpreted as flirting, but a part of me sighs, because all of a sudden the idea of being finally properly kissed is exciting. It shouldn’t be, I know, but it is, and to hell with all the rest. I shouldn’t even like a guy as perfect as Ariberto Castelli - if my mother could choose a person at random for me, she’d pick someone like him, and that is definitely not a factor that plays in his favour in my eyes. But I’m not strong enough to deny there is an interesting electricity between us. There always has been, to be honest, ever since that very first moment.

  “So do we understand each other?” he asks at the end of his uncharacteristically long speech.

  I evaluate what he’s said. “I guess so...” I don’t really know how to respond, to be honest. “Maybe it’s better if we start working now?” I suggest to ease the tension.

  “Good idea,” he agrees gruffly.

  He opens his backpack and takes out the book Iris had given him, along with a series of articles he has printed off on the same subject. We lie down next to each other, careful not to make even accidental contact, and begin to examine the various tax schemes.

  “I reckon we can start from the standard Irish norms and then analyse the various specific company agreements. That leaves trying to understand how to deal with multinationals that have tax agreements with some countries but which don’t let profits appear to be related to the territory but only attributable to the Irish office by using what is basically a stakehold game,” he comments, pointing to an example on a sheet.

  “As in, if you don’t understand where they actually produced their profits, where they should pay taxes is a hazy question too...” I murmur.

  “Exactly. Nowadays, all companies of a certain size have offices abroad. How do you work out where the limit of licit financial engineering ends and where tax avoidance actually begins?” he wonders aloud.

  “That’s the big question, Bertha. It’s so complex that nobody does anything but talk about it.”

  Ari turns to look at me. “I’m afraid I’m too much of an extremist to put up with certain people: if you really want my opinion, people who can easily afford to pay their taxes but prefer to invent absurd schemes to muddy the waters deserve the harshest possible treatment by the authorities.”

  “Especially because they’re the ones who can afford the best consultants. Which is what we happen to be,” I remind him.

  “Exactly. And that’s why I intend to learn the trade from the best around and then create my own consulting company for small and medium businesses. The ones that don’t usually get that kind of advice, but who deserve the best because they are the ones who drive a country’s economy.”

  It’s the first time I’ve heard him talk about his plans and what he wants to do after graduation.

  “Oh, so no job with daddy’s firm, then?” I tease him.

  “Luckily for me, I have an older brother who has decided to follow in the family footsteps. I was given carte blanche, so I’m free to do whatever I want,” he reveals. “Not that my parents really approve, because they would prefer me to work for them, but at least they don’t make that big a deal out of it.”

  “Just think, I’m an only child and I’m going to do what I like anyway, because I’ve had a bellyful of nepotism and the idea that companies should a
lways pass from father to child. In some cases the best choice is external management. In this country we still haven’t realised you can be a shareholder without necessarily having to be the managing directors,” I affirm with conviction.

  He gives me an impressed look. “That’s very true and very profound, Ms. Spikes.”

  “Thank you. I do have my moments...”

  “You have more than moments,” Ari corrects me. “You’re remarkably consistent”.

  It’s such a nice thing to say that I can’t help but give him a big smile. I really need to stop all this: the more time passes, the better he looks to me since I got to know him and realised that there is a wonderful brain in that perfectly-proportioned skull of his.

  The pause in the conversation serves only to bring back that peculiar atmosphere. His eyes flicker over my mouth and I see him sigh as he closes them.

  “Okay, this is getting really ridiculous,” he mutters in a low voice. “It was so much easier before...”

  He’s right: spending all this time together has created a kind of magnetic force between us.

  “You’re still with your boyfriend, right?” he asks me with a forced smile. His face comes dangerously close to mine and my breath accelerates as his eyes stare into mine. “Giada?”

  “Yes, we’re still together...” I confirm.

  “Ok, I just had to ask you,” he explains, and then gets to his feet. “Look, I think a break might do us good. I’m going for a run, I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  Before I even have a chance to answer he disappears from view, faster than lightning.

  I pluck a tuft of grass and throw it in the air. Things are getting very, very complicated indeed.

  *

  As if the day hadn’t already been strange enough, that evening we find ourselves forced into having dinner with all the others: Giovanni, Alessandra, Lavinia, Seb and some of their friends. Ariberto decides to put some distance between us and he sits more or less at the opposite end of the table. I know it’s the best thing to do, but I just can’t seem to hide the feeling of sorrow I feel.

  After finishing our pizzas, we head to a noisy place on the Navigli so that those of us who are in the mood can have a dance. I wasn’t feeling particularly upbeat before, but my mood suddenly worsens: for the first time since I met him, I’m forced to watch Ariberto flirting with the girls he meets there.

  I try and ignore it but it’s clear he has decided to turn the page and dedicate himself to meeting someone suitable. Someone who is single and who has a heart and a head that are willing to give him a real chance. And he’s spoiled for choice, because he’s a wonderful person - inside and out - and the girls notice it straightaway.

  What I didn’t expect though is the stabbing feeling that pierces my heart every time I see him dance, and then again when he goes off with a girl he has just met.

  I turn on my phone to distract myself and to check if Fil has called or at least messaged me. But nothing, my screen is blank. As always.

  Will this horrible feeling ever pass?

  Chapter 8

  The following Monday I arrive at the office full of good intentions: I’ve examined my conscience and I’ve realized that Ariberto had every reason for behaving the way he did. He’s just a friend, nothing more. A friend for whom I actually do feel physical attraction, but with whom I’ve decided not to cross the line for any reason. I never believed all that rubbish about opposites attracting anyway, so even if I were single, we’d still be wrong for each other.

  Ok, less wrong than I thought at first, but still wrong. Ariberto deserves someone less problematic - someone more upbeat and cheerful, someone who always makes him smile.

  So here I am at work, ready to put last weekend behind me. Including the way Ari’s eyes caressed my face in the park, and the way his hands made me feel when they were in my hair, or the funny expression he got when he was having to stop himself from jumping on me.

  I can do it. I know I can.

  At half past eight I start feeling worried because there is still no sign of Ari. I’m fine with him setting off on a new life but he didn’t seem like the type to change his habits overnight like that.

  I’m still wondering what’s happened to him when Iris comes over. “Ariberto is ill,” she says. “In fact, from the way he sounded on the phone, I’d say he’s almost moribund. I know that the entire male sex acts like it’s dying every time it catches a cold, but maybe you could call him tonight just to check that he’s still with us, okay? It would be a nuisance to have to look for another intern.” Then she turns on her heels and disappears, leaving me uncertain about whether she’s joking or being serious.

  In any case, that’s given the lie to all his ‘I never get sick’ rubbish...

  *

  At the end of a solitary, boring and extremely unproductive day of work, I decide to follow my instincts and not call him. I’ll go and check on him for myself. I’ve had enough of this habit of mine of keeping at a safe distance from the rest of the world. If a friend is sick, the least I can do is be there for him.

  Once I’ve made my mind up, I set the highly efficient Lavinia to work discovering Ariberto’s address. There are times when it is useful to have friends as sociable as her.

  I discover that Ari lives over in Corso Buenos Aires, a rather busy area full of shops and not exactly next-door to the Bocconi. Which is odd, because almost all the Bocconi students I know always choose to live as close to the university as they possibly can. We are a pretty unimaginative bunch, generally.

  Following the directions on my phone, I walk down a quieter side street an in no time at all find myself in front of the street indicated in Vinny’s message.

  What’s that you ask? Did I warn him I was coming? Of course not! Knowing Ariberto, he would have convinced me not to go. Which begs the question of why I’m insisting on going to check up on him in person in the first place? I don’t know, but I’ve been feeling pretty strange and doing a lot of things for reasons I don’t fully understanding lately.

  For a moment it looks like I’ll have to call him anyway to ask which button on the intercom is his, but then I notice his surname, ‘Castelli’. I press the button and wait. A long time passes and I’m almost ready to press it again when I hear him answer. “Yeah, who is it?” asks what sounds like Ariberto’s voice. See? Of course coming in person was the right idea!

  “Ari, it’s Giada. Can I come up?”

  I hear him inhale and I almost imagine his annoyed expression. “I’m really sick. Believe me, you don’t want to see me in this state...”

  That makes me smile in spite of myself. “Iris sent me – she wants me to check that her best intern isn’t at death’s door,” I explain.

  “I’m not going to die, it’s just a cold. Tell her you checked and that everything is ok,” he replies, obviously trying to get rid of me.

  “But I don’t want to lie! I came all the way here... Come on Ari, let me come up! There’s a creepy guy hanging about,” I lie. Lately I’ve beaten all my previous records for lying, I’m pleased to admit.

  I hear him buzz me in.

  “What floor?” I inquire before going inside. “Third to the right. If you really must...” I roll my eyes but don’t say anything: never argue with sick people, especially with sick men. I get into the elevator compartment and try to calm myself by breathing deeply, because I am rather tense. And I’ve been feeling tense since Saturday night.

  When I get out of the lift on his floor, I find myself facing an almost unrecognisable Ariberto. Not only is he sick, but he is also badly-dressed: his face looks hollowed-out and his complexion looks terrible, with dark rings under his eyes. What the hell has happened to him over the last two days?

  “Good God, Bertha, you’re a sight to behold,” I joke. He backs away far enough to let me in. He seems to be struggling to stand up.

  “Right?” he mumbles sarcastically in a pained voice. “I was thinking about entering a beauty contest, I’d walk it
...”

  “You’re gorgeous anyway.”

  He glares at me and falls onto the couch. Judging by a quick glance, it looks like a two-room apartment: there is a splendid kitchen corner near the entrance and through the door you can see the bedroom.

  “See how easy it is to catch cold when you wear polo shirts?” I can’t resist joking.

  “Never mind colds, Ms. Spikes, this is a bloody stomach flu,” he finally confesses. “I spent all day yesterday throwing up and all today sleeping. I wanted to spare you the gory details, but since you insist...”

  “Have you eaten anything, Ari?” I asked worriedly. “Even just a bit of toast?”

  “Food really isn’t one of my priorities at the moment,” he says with a disgusted expression.

  “Ok, no food. Have you got a temperature?” I want to know, going over to put a hand on his forehead. He tries to move away but he’s too weak, and you could fry an egg on his forehead. “Wow! Have you measured your temperature?”

  He just shrugs. “What’s the point? I’d almost rather not know.”

  Men. And then they’re surprised when we make fun of them...

  “Ari, you’re nuts! Where do you keep your thermometer?”

  “God, it must be serious if you’re calling me Ari.”

  “Well you’re not dying, if that’s what you mean. Where’s the thermometer?” I insist.

  “In the bathroom. There is a cabinet on the right.”

  I follow his directions and find it quickly. “Come on, let’s measure your temperature. I want to see it for myself!” I say as I pass him the thermometer.

  “And after you’ve seen it, will you go?” he asks hopefully.

  “I’ll decide what to do when I’ve seen it,” it’s my only concession. Ari shakes his head but puts the thermometer under his armpit. “Shit,” he declares when he removes it a few minutes later. “102°. Well, now that we know, I reckon you can be going, then...”

  “What? You’ve got a temperature of 102°?!” I exclaim, snatching the thermometer from his hand.