by Sandy Barker
The food was mediocre, but the company turned out to be great. I quickly discovered that the Kiwi boys were hilarious, and that Jason was a very good sport about bearing the brunt of nearly all their stories—maybe “escapades” is a better term. One of the guys, Chris, was about to launch into what promised to be another excruciating retell for Jason, when my phone beeped.
Jean-Luc:
Can I call you?
My stomach plummeted. Was he going to cancel?
Yes. Give me two minutes. I need to step outside.
I pushed my chair back and wound my way through the loud and crowded restaurant. I stepped out into the evening, which was cooling down—refreshing after the stuffy atmosphere inside. Even though I was expecting the call, my ringtone made me jump.
“Hi,” I answered, a little breathless.
“Bonsoir, Catherine. How are you?”
“Good. We’re just out for dinner. In Florence.”
“Oh, Firenze is magnificent. Did you see the Duomo?”
“Of course. You can’t miss it—giant orange dome in the middle of the city.” He laughed. I waited, sure he was going to cancel dinner. “So, you wanted to ask me something?”
“Uh, no. Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.” Squee. “I know I will see you tomorrow, but I’m already in Roma and I called to say hello.”
“Hello.”
“Hello.” He let out a heavy sigh and without being able to see him, I couldn’t tell if it was a good sigh or a bad one. My stomach did a somersault. “Oh, Catherine. I am so glad we saw each other in Paris. Every time I think about how close I was to missing you, it makes me a little sick. You know?”
I did know. As excited (and nervous) as I was about seeing him the next day, I had also entertained the thought of Jaelee approaching someone else in the street. It was like when you bite the inside of your mouth and can’t stop touching it with your tongue. It hurts, but you can’t help it. But on the flipside of our kismet meeting was a void where no magic existed and where Jean-Luc remained a long-lost friend. So, yes, I completely understood feeling sick about it.
“I do. I feel that way too. It’s why I got your phone number even though Dani already had it. I didn’t want to chance you disappearing into the world again.”
“Exactement. So, I shall have to keep myself very busy tomorrow—working, writing, so the day goes quickly and I will see you sooner, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, bonne idée.” Good idea. More of my stale French was coming back to me. “And your interview, it went well?”
“Ah, oui, yes, I am pleased.”
“That’s good.”
He sighed. “It is. So … à bientôt, ma chérie. I will see you tomorrow. I cannot wait, but I will. I have to!”
“Yes! Me too. See you then. Ciao, bello!” The call ended over his chuckle on the other end of the phone.
I held the phone to my chest. Even hearing his voice gave me squidgy feelings. I was definitely head-over-heels in lust.
Fifteen Years Ago
“So, who’s this?”
“Sorry?”
“This photo. On your mirror. It wasn’t there before.” Scott is peering intently at the photo tucked into the corner of my mirror.
“Oh, that’s Jean-Luc.”
He turns to me. “But who is he?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I want to know why you’ve got a photo of another guy on your mirror, Catey.” I catch the edge in his voice, but I refuse to bite.
“He’s my friend. I told you about him,” I reply breezily.
“No, you didn’t.” The edge sharpens, and his handsome features twist into something ugly.
“Yes, I did.” The breeziness dissipates. “He’s the French guy. He was here on exchange in Year Ten.”
“He doesn’t look like he’s in Year Ten.”
“Well, no. That’s him now.”
“So, you’re still in contact.”
“Yeah, so? We were really good friends. He even knew my family. He was over all the time.”
“So, does he have a photo of you on his mirror?”
This is getting ridiculous. “How should I know? And, what’s the big deal, anyway?”
“Well, I don’t know, Catey. Don’t you think it’s weird that you’re my girlfriend and there’s some other bloke’s photo taped to your mirror?”
“No, actually, Scott. I don’t. We’re just friends. I’ve known him a long time. A lot longer than I’ve know you.”
“Oh, that’s nice, that is.”
“Well? You’re being silly.”
“Well, you’re being defensive. If there was nothing to be defensive about—”
“There’s nothing going on!”
“But you’re still in contact? What, do you write letters?”
“Yes.”
“So, how often? Like, once in a while?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“Like, once a week, or so.”
“Once a week?
“Or, once a fortnight, maybe.”
“What do you even write about?”
“I don’t know, nothing really. Just life, stuff I’m thinking about.”
“Me? Do you write about me?”
“Sometimes.”
“So, he knows about me?”
“Of course. You’re a part of my life.”
“Then why don’t you share those things with me instead?”
“I do. For fuck’s sake, you’re not making any sense. There’s no competition between you and Jean-Luc. You’re my boyfriend and he’s my friend. That’s it. Get it?”
“How would you feel if I had a female friend I hung out with once a week?”
“Do you? Do you have a mysterious female friend you hang out with once a week?”
“No! I’m saying, imagine if I did.”
“But that’s not the same thing—if you’re seeing someone in person, then that’s—”
“It’s the same thing—if we were just friends—you know, like you and whatshisname.”
“It’s Jean-Luc.”
“Yeah, well, whatever. So, when were you going to tell me about your very best friend, Jean-Luc?”
“He’s not—never mind. And I did tell you about him.”
“No, no, you didn’t. You might have said something about an exchange student once, but this is all news to me.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I don’t want you writing him anymore.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Scott, this isn’t the 1950s. You can’t just tell me to stop writing letters to my friend.”
“I’m not telling you, Catey. I’m saying that if you love me, you’ll stop.”
“I … you’re not serious.”
“I am totally serious. If we’re going to be in a relationship, then I should be your priority.”
“You are—being friends with Jean-Luc … it’s—”
“I mean it, Catey. Look, I don’t feel like going to the movies anymore. I’m gonna go. I—just decide, will you?”
“Decide? Decide what—between you? That’s—wait, Scott!”
***
Sarah pokes her head around my bedroom door. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Everything’s fucked, Sez.” I can tell she didn’t expect me to say that.
“What do you mean? What happened?” She sits next to me on the bed, a concerned look on her face.
“Scott saw Jean-Luc’s photo and he just started going off on me about how if I love him, I won’t write to Jean-Luc anymore—like I’m a bad girlfriend or something.”
“You’re not a—Cat, that’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I said, but what if he breaks up with me?”
“Then good riddance.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Uh, sure. But, Cat, he can’t tell you who to be friends with. That’s not okay.”
“I
know.”
“And don’t bite your nails.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s … look, maybe he’ll calm down and realise he’s being a massive dick about it.”
“Maybe.”
“Jean-Luc—he’s a great guy. It was almost like having a little brother around, you know. That kind of friendship, you gotta hold onto those. Okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It’ll all work out. Here—wipe your nose.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got to go. I’ve got a uni thing, but hang in there, okay? No doubt Scott will realise he’s being unreasonable, and he’ll be back to say he’s sorry, okay?”
“Yep.”
“Love you.”
“Yep. Love you too.”
Chapter 9
Darting off after dinner to see a brass warthog turned out to be a terrible idea.
While most of the tour group headed to a seedy bar with Georgina for karaoke and overpriced drinks—Sarah’s advice was to avoid it at all costs—our little band of merry men and women went in search of a warthog.
The searching part wasn’t difficult, because, well, Google. Her phone in hand, Dani led the way through a maze of deserted cobbled streets. I wondered where the throngs had disappeared to, but I realised it was 10:30pm on a Wednesday. The tourists were likely asleep in their hotel rooms and the locals were probably still eating dinner. They ate late in Italy; the restaurant where we’d eaten was only just starting to fill up with locals when we left.
“There it is,” she said, pointing up ahead to a row of shuttered markets. The statue guarded the marketplace from its stone plinth, its weird little spikey penis the second ugliest thing about it.
“That is seriously ugly,” said Lou, saying what I was thinking. Its face was the ugliest part of the warthog—tiny beady close-together eyes, a long snout, and giant fangs protruding from its almost comical smile. I’d never seen a live one, and I was certain I could live the rest of my life quite happily without rectifying that.
Lou rubbed its snout and I did the same. As unappealing as the warthog was, I wanted to return to Florence. And yes, I knew it was a stupid superstition, but what if I never went back—and it was because I didn’t rub the warthog’s nose?
Jaelee rolled her eyes, then took out her phone and handed it to Lachie—damn those boys, I was learning their names. She asked him to take a photo of her and rubbed the statue, her smile disappearing as soon as he took it. He handed back the phone and kept hold of it a little longer than he needed to, teasing her with it. Her smile came back, only this time it was a flirty one.
It was my turn to roll my eyes and Lou caught me. She shrugged. The Love Bus indeed.
The other guys, Jason, Paul and Rob—see? actual names—did not care about ugly statues or superstitions, so we managed to wrap up the whole excursion in about six minutes.
“Okay, so now what?” asked Jaelee, peering at us expectantly. She looked weighed down carrying all those shopping bags. I would have offered to help carry them, but I didn’t want to.
Craig spoke up in a rare moment of leadership and I was a little proud of him, our baby bro. “So, we’ve got almost two hours ’til we need to meet the coach. Cat, you said that the bar is a no-go?”
“The one where everyone else went?” He nodded. “Yes, definitely. My sister, Sarah, used to run these tours. She said if it was the same bar—and it is—to stay away. Quite nasty, apparently.”
Jae breathed out heavily from her nose, her impatience obvious. Lachie, whom I was starting to like more as the night went on, reached for her shopping bags. She feigned fobbing him off, but he insisted and she finally “let” him take them. She perked right up after that.
Dani had her phone out again. “Well, if we cross Ponte Vecchio and walk a few blocks, there’s a wine bar that looks good.” A chorus of agreement, ranging from, “Sounds great,” to, “Yeah, why not?” rang in the cool night air. Dani, once again, led the way.
As we walked, I glanced around at our motley crew. The man-child from Oregon, the Kiwi four-pack, who were sporting buddies, and the four of us. How will we go in a wine bar, I wondered?
It turns out, rather brilliantly. Stupid Cat, where are two of the best wine regions in the world? Oregon and New Zealand.
Being only eighteen, Craig didn’t have vast experience drinking wine, but it turned out that his grandfather was a specialty wine merchant so Craig grew up having sips of this and that at the dinner table. And from the way Craig talked about him, I thought I would love his grandfather—wine or no wine.
And yes, the Kiwi boys had spent the night in a pub drinking beer and watching rugby, but they also knew quite a bit about wine. Paul, especially, had an impressive understanding of the differences between Old World and New World wines. I mentally slapped myself for being such a snob. Me! The woman who was happy with a five-pound bottle of whatever was on sale at Sainsbury’s.
The bartender had enough English to be helpful with the Italian menu and after some conferring, the menfolk selected a Chianti and a Barbera. The bartender nodded at the order, giving us a quick smile. We moved from the bar to two small tables and the guys took no time to push them together and find two extra chairs. We squished around the tables, Jaelee’s shopping tucked away in the nearest corner of the room.
The bar’s décor was rather modern, with stainless steel and blonde wood dominating, but it was also cosy. The bartender arrived with the glasses, two bottles and a bottle opener. The anticipation was palpable as he neatly cut the foil on the first bottle, expertly removed the cork, poured a splash into a glass, and waited for Paul to give him the nod.
Paul explained the difference between the wines, while the bartender repeated his ritual with the second bottle. “So, the Chianti’s going to be brighter, fruitier. You’ll see when the Barbera’s open that it has a darker, richer colour. It will have more tannins and will be more of a sipper than the Chianti.” When there was wine in the second glass, he held them both up to the light above us. “See? So, you should try both, but it’s likely you’ll prefer one over the other.” His patter came off as helpful rather than condescending.
We all tried both wines, and although I’m usually partial to a Chianti, I asked for a top-up of the Barbera. Paul happily obliged, and when we all had a glass of our chosen wine, he raised his. “A toast. Here’s to travelling halfway around the world with your best mates and making new friends.” That cemented it. I liked Paul. In fact, I liked all the Kiwi boys.
As I sipped my wine and listened to the several conversations going on around me, I chided myself again—this time for not being more open to meeting new people. Instead, I’d done exactly what I usually did. I’d found my tribe at the beginning of the tour and had stuck with them. Granted, they were a good tribe. I was confident I’d stay in touch with Lou—and maybe Dani and Jae, perhaps Craig. We were all connected on Facebook, so at least there was that.
But I’d forgotten how much fun it was to hang out with a large group of men and women. I thought about the last time I’d done that, and remembered it was when I’d been with Scott. That was so long ago.
My relationship with Scott hadn’t been all bad. We’d had lots of couple friends back then and I’d felt very grown up having dinner parties for ten, even when it meant borrowing folding chairs from Mum and Dad’s and all of us chipping in for a couple of casks of wine. It had been fun.
This was fun.
Well, bollocks. Had I forgotten how to have fun?
I dismissed the thought almost immediately. I was Cat Parsons, teacher extraordinaire and fuckbuddy supreme. I took mini-breaks with my girlfriends—well, with Mich. I went to the theatre—once a year with discounted tickets counts, right? And I was on a bloody bus tour of frigging Europe, out late on a Wednesday, drinking wine in a Florentine wine bar with my new best friends.
I was fun, damn it!
I was biting on the edge of my wine glass and realising, I stopped. Craig cau
ght my eye from across the table and mouthed, “Are you okay?”
I assured him with a nod and a carefree wave of my free hand. Good grief, get out of your head, Parsons. Pay attention. Be fun.
Twenty-minutes before we were due to meet Tom and Georgina near Ponte Vecchio, we each dug out some euros. Paul counted them up, ensuring we had enough to cover the bill and a little extra for a tip. We gathered our things and Lachie picked up Jae’s shopping bags—really, it was a ridiculous amount of stuff. I could only wonder how she was going to fit it all into her case.
“Okay, so there’s actually a shortcut if we go this way—” Dani lifted her head in the direction she meant. “It’s around the corner, down the street, then across a little piazza.”
Again, there was a round of verbal agreement and we struck off with Dani in the lead, a straggling single-file line. We turned right and were halfway along the street, the piazza in sight ahead, when two police cars flew past us, sirens blaring.
In the narrow streets of Florence, after midnight when everything else was silent, it was quite alarming. Dani stopped, so we all stopped. Looking behind us, I saw something more disturbing. A third police car was setting up a barricade to close off the street.
The two cars ahead of us pulled into the square with screeching tires, and the piazza lit up with spotlights. There was a lot of shouting, which sounded like commands, and the two police officers from the car blocking the street ran up to us. They spoke in rapid Italian, but the gist was clear. Bunch together, and don’t move or speak. They left us, completely unprotected, to join their colleagues in the piazza.
We were trapped. In a police raid. In Florence. After midnight.
Georgina was going to kill us.
***
Georg-bloody-ina did not kill us. But she did leave us.
Apparently, she did not receive Dani’s text, which explained our dilemma and that we would be late to the coach, until after they’d left us in the middle of Florence.
We only found this out the next morning, however. Once the raid was over—the culprits cuffed and stuffed into the waiting police cars—and we were free to go, it was sixteen minutes past the 12:30am pick-up time. But we’d sent a very clear text asking them to wait for us and why, so we had every reason to expect the coach to be there waiting when we ran—yes, we all ran—to the meeting place.
