by Anna Premoli
While I listen to him leaving I reflect on the fact that, all things considered, even if I died now, I’d go with a smile on my face.
*
I’m not sure what time he came back – I’ve been in and out of a restless sleep - but I distinctly remember the moment when I finally started feeling better. It coincides more or less with the moment when he lays down beside me and puts his arms around me.
“Do you want a drink, Giada?” he asks me in a quiet voice.
“Yes,” I reply, opening my eyes. “My throat feels like the Sahara desert.”
Ari walks away for a moment and then returns with a full glass of water and some mineral salts. I assume he must have bought them, because I don’t remember having any at home. I notice that he is still wearing his work clothes, but has taken off his tie and jacket.
“Your shirt...” I mumble, slightly deliriously. I’m done vomiting but the fever is still pretty high.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” he asks, taking off his shoes and lying down beside me.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. Your shirt is... perfect.”
“Are you on something?” he laughs.
“I feel like I might be...”
He wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me close to him as I try not to think too much about how horrible I must look. Last time I stared into the mirror, I would have been a shoo-in for a role as an extra in a zombie movie.
His hand repeatedly caresses my hair and I almost purr. There’s no doubt about it, at this point: my hair is my biggest weakness.
“I suspect that your hair is an erogenous zone.”
“You might be right... It never used to be, but you seem to have a magic touch. Don’t stop...” I implore him.
“I have no intention of stopping,” he reassures me as he continues with those wonderful caresses of his. Until he adds something that catches me totally off guard. “You know Giada, when all this is over, I’ll have to put a bit of distance back between us, okay?” he warns me in a strange voice.
I open my eyes and look at him as if he had gone mad. “Why?” I ask in a hurt voice.
“Because it seems obvious to me that I’m going all out into a brick wall. If I don’t brake soon, the only possible consequence is that I’m going to crash,” he jokes, half-seriously. On his face I can see a hint of resignation that I’d never noticed before. And it really doesn’t suit him, now that I come to think about it.
I appreciate the metaphor but I think it’s a bit over the top.
“You don’t need to worry, nobody has ever crashed for me.”
His hand falls onto my arm and from there sets off on a long and careful path back and forth. It’s as though all my erogenous zones coincide with this man’s fingers: everything he touches comes to life like magic.
“There are some things you’re trying hard not to see,” he mutters softly.
“No I’m not, I can see everything perfectly well. I wear contact lenses, remember?”
“And where are your contacts now?”
“In the bathroom. I use disposable ones.”
“Meaning that you can’t see properly at the moment.”
“I can see everything I need to: I can get to the bathroom and back without banging into the wall,” I reply sarcastically. “I can see you too. And that’s more than enough for me.”
I don’t say anything else because I’m afraid of revealing truths I’m not yet ready to face. Still, I don’t want to lie to him either. I’ve never been one of those silly girls and I certainly don’t want to start being one now. I haven’t had a moment to reflect on my new situation yet: after seven long years I suddenly found myself single, and immediately after that I got sick, so my reasoning abilities are not exactly at the top of their game.
“Let’s not talk about it right now. You’re sick and you need someone to take care of you, not someone to dump their problems on you,” he reflects thoughtfully.
“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,” I reply. I’ve been doing it for years now and I can boast some experience in the field.
“Maybe, but I don’t see why you should if it’s not strictly necessary. I’m here, aren’t I? And in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve experienced firsthand how sick you are, so I understand you better than anyone. I appreciate you wanting to do everything by yourself, but I want to help you, okay? It makes me feel better.” This little speech is quite touching and it goes without saying that it succeeds in its aim of convincing me.
I get away from him for a moment and try to sit up. My head is still spinning - and quite rapidly - but I think I can manage to give myself a wash. Maybe I’ll feel less crappy if I smell of soap instead of vomit. And even though I know Ari would never tell me, I think he would appreciate it too.
“Look, since you’re here I’m going to try and take a shower. I wouldn’t dare if there wasn’t someone else in the house, but since you insist on helping me ...”
“Good idea - you’ll see, a quick shower will make you feel tons better.”
I manage to get a clean pair of pyjamas and some underwear from the closet and then head to the bathroom.
“I’ll cook something while you’re in the shower,” he offers.
“I’m not sure I can eat much...”
“Just a bit of plain pasta to get your strength back.”
“Ok, just a bit. But make some for yourself too. Up there on the shelf above the pasta there are loads of jars of ready-made sauces,” I say, pointing to the cupboard, before hastily justifying myself, “Don’t say anything, I know - classic studentsville.”
He gives me a smile and gets to work while I drag myself off to the bathroom, hoping to stay upright long enough not to have to call him to my rescue, because the last few hours have been bad enough. I’d rather not end up like a pudding on the floor.
Five minutes later, I’ve managed to wash and get dressed. Doing it drained every remaining bit of energy I possessed, but at least now I smell of fruity shampoo and not of vomit, which is definitely a step in the right direction. All that’s left is to work out how I’m going to dry my hair, given that I can hardly lift my arm. But it doesn’t matter.
I drag myself towards the bed and dive into it dressed in my pyjamas and a grandma-style bathrobe that was a present from the mother, who has always maintained that every self-respecting woman must have at least two: one for the summer and one for when it’s cold. It’s our family’s personal belief that even when you are at death’s door, you must have the right bathrobe.
Ari has just finished setting the table and is about to put the pasta in to cook. I lift my wet head from the bed and take a few seconds to observe him: is it serious that at the sight of him wearing those elegant trousers and that perfect shirt I feel like never letting him leave my house again?
“You need to dry your hair,” he says suddenly, snapping me out of my daydream.
“No, I don’t,” I replay exhausted. “I think I need some rest before I try anything. Having a shower has completely destroyed me.”
“Where do you keep your hair dryer?” he asks me, putting the packet of pasta back on the worktop. It seems that my wet hair is suddenly a priority.
“Cabinet in the bathroom.”
A few seconds later, he returns with my black hair dryer in hand.
“Can you sit up?” he asks, approaching the bed and looking for a plug socket. When he finds one, he sits down next to me and then pulls my back towards his chest.
“You’ll get your shirt wet,” I moan.
“Don’t be silly,” he chuckles, and then turns on the hairdryer and starts drying my hair. He moves them first to one side and then to the other, while I close my eyes and let him do it. I don’t know why he’s working so hard for me, and I’m not so sure I want to. Ariberto is a nice person and it’s his nature to be kind to others, but all this attention is a little bit strange coming from someone who says he needs to be away from me.
After about a quarter
of an hour he turns off the hair dryer and runs his hands through my mane. To judge from his tone, he sounds satisfied.
“Bone dry. Although, of course, my attempts at styling it might leave something to be desired...” he bursts out laughing, “... but at least you won’t get a cold. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you should never walk around with wet hair, especially if you have a temperature?”
“She probably avoided saying it because she was scared I would end up doing the exact opposite. I’ve always been that kind of daughter,” I confess, in spite of myself.
He shakes his head as he returns to work in the kitchen.
“Come on then, you degenerate daughter. Time to eat something,” he shouts to me a few minutes later, before blushingly apologising once we have sat down at the table. “My culinary skills are not exactly anything to write home about...”
“Don’t worry, Bertha, neither are mine. And anyway, eating is the last thing I feel like doing right now. It wouldn’t make any difference if you were Gordon Ramsey.”
“That I’m certainly not,” he reminds me with a smile.
“As far as I’m concerned, for today you might as well be. In fact, I think you’re even better.”
After, with great difficulty, I’ve swallowed a handful of plain spaghetti in the time it’s taken him to wolf down a plateful of pasta in tomato sauce, he dissolves a sachet of paracetamol in a glass of water and hands it to me. “And now you can go back to sleep in peace.”
I knock it back with worrying obedience - it is obvious that being ill brings out a strange docility in me – and I get up from my chair. Suddenly my head spins. It only lasts a moment, but the dizziness is so strong I have to cling to the table.
“Oooopsy daisy.”
Ari jumps to his feet and literally sweeps me up in his arms with a gesture that would be enough to melt any female heart. This obsessive thing he has with carrying me about all the time as if I were as light as a feather - when I’m obviously not – isn’t playing fair. He lays me down on the bed and smiles at me with satisfaction. “You already look about a thousand times better than you did a few hours ago.”
Yes, and most of the credit for that is probably his. I was feeling pathetic and depressed before he appeared on the scene, whereas now I’m just feeling pathetic. My heart is beating wildly, though, and the only possible reason for that is tthat he’s nearby.
I try to stay awake while he washes the dishes and pans, but sleep is too great a temptation not to give in to.
“I’m going now,” he whispers to me shortly afterwards, his lips close to my ear. “You try and get some rest so you recover. I don’t like seeing you so docile. I’m not used to it.”
I grab him by the hand before he can move away and I open my eyes. I’m not sure what I’m trying to do and he gives me a questioning look which says that he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do either. “Can you stay a few more minutes?” I ask him in a quiet voice.
“Ok,” he agrees after a moment’s thought. He lies down beside me and lays my head against his chest. “Next time you’re dying, though, it would be nice if your boyfriend could drop everything to come and take care of you,” he notes with a hint of anger in his tone.
“I don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” I groan sleepily.
His body stiffens and his breathing stops.
“What did you say?” he asks me, suddenly sounding very serious. I thought he would be pleased...
Struggling to keep my eyes open, I stare at him for a long time before repeating. “I said I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Since when?” There is considerable agitation in his eyes.
“Since...” I do the mental arithmetic. “...thirty-two hours ago. More or less.”
“You’re kidding,” is his first comment.
“No, I’m not, actually. I’m totally serious.” I’m glad that my sarcasm hasn’t completely deserted me: at times like this it’s a godsend.
“Giada...” he says, pronouncing my name a bit too emphatically.
“I mean, not that it changes anything,” I hastily clarify.
“Like hell it doesn’t!” he cries. “Don’t start coming out with weird stuff now.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in any condition to be coming out with anything right now.”
His pulls a strange face and I see him sigh and then run a hand through those curls of his.
“You shouldn’t have told me that.”
“You’re right, I really shouldn’t.” This new status of mine has completely changed the dynamic between us. Illness aside, I haven’t had the chance to actually get my head around my current situation yet. Even though I am well aware that it wasn’t right to stay with one person when I felt a lot more affinity with another. I am a hundred percent convinced that the break between Fil and me was the right thing to do, but there’s a big difference between that and wanting to throw myself headlong into another relationship after only being single for a few hours... What kind of idiot climbs out of a hole in the ground and then chucks themself off a cliff?
“I don’t know what to say. In fact, it’s probably for the best if I don’t say anything!” he thunders. “And you’re lucky you’re sick, because if I’d found out by accident at another time, I would have thrown you up against the wall!”
I don’t know why, but I suspect he would have thrown me up against the wall the wall with very different intentions than he’s making out. Even though I feel terrible, the idea makes me smile.
“Look, maybe it’s better if I leave...” he says, getting up once and for all from the bed and depriving me in one fell swoop of the massage, his warmth and of a human pillow, the wicked man. “You get better, please.” And so saying he bends down one last time to give me a kiss that is originally aimed at my forehead. But when he is about an inch from his target, he stops, swallows hard, and then plants a quick kiss on my lips.
He just kissed someone who spent the last 24 hours throwing up!
“I’ll call you,” he says in a very formal voice, and then disappears.
I touch my lips with my fingers and stare at the ceiling.
So he’s calling me now?
Chapter 9
I’m eventually well enough to go back to the office on Friday, and I spend a busy day trying to make up for lost time. The vibe between Ari and me is strange, almost electric, but neither of us wants to be the one to bring the subject up. In short, we are acting like two very responsible employees.
“So, er, what are you doing tonight?” he asks me while we are leaving the office as though everything were perfectly normal.
“Having dinner with the girls. What about you?”
“Soccer and then pizza with the boys.”
“Cool,” I comment uncomfortably.
“Yeah, cool,” he repeats uncomfortably.
“Listen...” we both burst out in the same moment.
“Ladies first,” he says.
“No, you go first.”
At this rate, we’ll still be here babbling away about nothing at midnight. I mean, sure, babbling away about nothing with the right person is still way better than doing it with the wrong person, but Ari and I are usually both pretty good at expressing ourselves.
“Ok, well, I was thinking... if you’re not busy tomorrow... we could... like... work!” he finally exclaims, looking as happy as Larry to have come up with a suitable verb.
“Work?” I ask with a half smile on my lips. His embarrassment is delicious.
“Yeah, I mean maybe go back to the park. There’s another beautiful day forecast, you know?” His cheeks are slightly flushed and I don’t think he’s actually thinking about work, but if he wants to pretend that this is the official version, who am I to contradict him?
“Ok,” I agree after a moment of hesitation. “Usual place, usual time?”
His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas Eve and he takes a step in my direction. What the hell is he planning on
doing?
I’m getting psychologically ready to defend myself when Ariberto extends an arm and puts it around my waist, pulling me closer to him, then he bends his head in my direction. And at this point my self-control suffers a crippling blow and I have no choice but to admit that I want a kiss. I shouldn’t, I know, but I’ve always been a girl full of conflicting desires. To use my mother’s words, I was born with the wrong genes.
I am totally surprised when Ari’s head ends up on my neck where it remains motionless, breathing in my perfume. “Argh, this is difficult ...” he confesses with a laugh.
“What is exactly?”
“These last two days I have thought long and hard about how I would feel if I’d just come out of a seven-year relationship. And I realized that I would certainly have wanted a bit of time to recover and to clear my head, maybe live a little. I need to give you space,” he concludes with a tormented tone of voice.
“So you mean, not crushing me like a cobra the way you’re doing now?” I ask him.
“Ah, yeah... Sorry about that.” He straightens up and returns to a safe distance. His eyes - bright, alive, full of humour – speak volumes, though.
“See you tomorrow, then,” I say, because at this point I’m actually late for my dinner with the girls. And also because if I look at him any longer I might really end up doing something foolish. That certainly wouldn’t be a first, but this time around I want to try and do things right.
*
I arrive for my aperitif with Ale and Vinny rather flushed from hurrying, and I imagine that my agitated mood is clearly visible in my expression.
“Ah, here comes our moribund friend!” Ale greets me. “You’re not contagious anymore, are you?”
“I don’t think so. You should be safe.”
“Thanks for not telling us that you were sick, by the way...” says Lavinia. “We could have come and helped, you idiot!”
“Believe me, no one deserved to see that. Not even really, really horrible people like you two.”
“But you didn’t mind Ari seeing it...” says Ale. This friendship of hers with Giovanni is such a double-edged sword, I swear.
