Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Un po' di più,” says Belinda, shaking a pink finger toward the back of the taps. “Qui, qui, and over qui. ” She makes a vigorous scrubbing gesture with her fist. “Molto, molto.”

  While Giulia scrubs away, Belinda grows gradually and painfully bored. She glances over her shoulder. The wantonly halfopen door of the Chesters' bedroom is just too tempting.

  Belinda sees riffling through her guests' possessions as one of the few perks of her job. Entertaining and useful, it goes a long way to help her when it comes to making snap judgments about people. How else is she going to know who to be pleasant to, who to keep at arm's length, and who to invite back next year?

  For instance, what had really swung it for Major and Mrs. Chester last year—quite apart from the watercolor art and Be-linda's frisson for the major—was the fact that Pat Chester had some rather nice face cream that Belinda had liked the look of, or, indeed, the smell of—and actually, after three days, she noticed it had reduced her crow's-feet. So far this year, she has not managed to get inside their room. What with her watercoloring trip with the major and all the trauma caused by the arrival of the americana, the delights of drawer riffling and Pat Chester's face cream had quite slipped her mind.

  “Molto, molto,” she repeats, in the vague direction of Giulia and the bathroom, as she pushes open the door.

  Her heart is beating hard and fast as she walks into the room. She has to be quick. She saw Pat walk down to the pool earlier that morning, but as to the exact whereabouts of the major, she cannot be sure. The french windows are open. The white curtains are billowing in the breeze, and the room smells of some sort of man spray mixed with the sweet smell of geranium wafting in off the terrace. The bed is made and the room looks neat. On one bedside table there is a pile of army-inspired paperback novels, covered in insignia and gold writing, their butch titles shout Last Man Standing, Ultimate Force, Collateral Damage. Over on the other side there is a large, plump Barbara Taylor Bradford lying facedown on the glass.

  Belinda casts an expert eye around the room and heads straight for the chest of drawers. She opens the top right. It has nail clippers, a hairbrush, some Kouros aftershave, and a collection of ironed white handkerchiefs. There's nothing of particular interest so she moves on to the top left: a large roll of cotton wool, a pink plastic hairbrush and a pale-pink-and-white-spotted makeup bag. She takes it out of the drawer.

  “Aha,” says Belinda. The bag is ringing bells. She takes out lipstick and recoils at the bright pink color. She pulls out a very used compact with most of the Lancôme lettering scratched off. There is a collection of cotton buds, mascaras, blushers, tweezers, and powder. Finally, right at the bottom, she finds the cream.

  “Bingo,” she says, taking it out and holding it up to the light. “Mm,” she says, unscrewing the white-and-gold lid. She lowers her nose and sniffs. “Oh, that's nice.” She nods. “Very nice indeed.” Then, for fear that this may be her one and only cream-stealing opportunity, she proceeds to cover her face in an excessively generous layer. Down the nose, across the chin, she pats it around the eyes and smooths it across her forehead. Her face is white with unction. She looks like a Pierrot.

  “Belinda!” comes a male voice from the terrace.

  “Major!” replies Belinda, hiding the pot behind her back and turning around.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asks, taking a proprietorial step toward her.

  “Major, Major, Major,” says Belinda, screwing the lid onto the pot behind her back. “Major, Major,” she repeats. “I'm so glad to have caught you. Where have you been?”

  “What?” says the major, his face contracted with confusion, eyes shifting. “Where have I been? Um, reading by the pool. What are you doing in here?”

  “What am I doing in here?” Belinda smiles. “Why, looking for you, Major! I was wondering if you wanted to go watercoloring or, indeed, if I could suggest a few little trips that you might want to do while you're here.”

  “Oh,” says the major. “Right.”

  “Obviously San Jimmy is a must,” says Belinda, ushering him ahead of her out of his room, placing the pot of cream on the side as she goes. “I can't remember, did you go there last year?”

  While Belinda escorts the bemused-looking major up the stairs and into the sitting room on the pretext of lending him a book, the telephone rings.

  “Mum! Phone!” shouts Mary from the kitchen.

  “Coming!” says Belinda, only too thrilled to be able to leave the major's side.

  “Pronto,” she says, arriving at a trot. “Casa Mia!”

  “Oh, hello,” comes an American voice.

  “Sì, pronto,” continues Belinda, looking at her reflection in the french windows as she tries to rub the cream into her face.

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  “Sì,” says Belinda.

  “Hello, Mrs. Smith, this is Kyle.”

  “Kyle?”

  “Yes, Kyle—you know, from across the valley?”

  “Oh,” says Belinda. “That Kyle.”

  “How are you doing, ma'am?” asks Kyle.

  “I'm doing fine,” says Belinda, her mouth narrowing.

  “It was very nice to meet you again at the party last night,” says Kyle.

  “Y-e-s,” says Belinda. “What exactly do you want, Kyle?”

  “Oh,” says Kyle. “Um, actually, I wanted to speak to Mary.”

  “Mary?”

  “Yes, Mary—you know, your daughter,” explains Kyle.

  “I'm well aware of who Mary is,” says Belinda. “I'm just surprised that you want to speak to her.”

  “Oh,” says Kyle. “Um, well, I do, if that's okay with you? Is she there?”

  “Yes, well,” says Belinda, trying to make up her mind. Perhaps it's the shock of being discovered slathered in a guest's face cream that puts her off guard, or maybe she's just too tired to lie. “Mary!” she shouts. “It's for you!”

  “Me?” says Mary, coming out of the kitchen, rubbing her wet hands on her denim-clad backside.

  “Yes, you,” says Belinda. “It's Kyle.”

  “Kyle?” Mary stops in her tracks, and her cheeks flush pink. “What? American Kyle?”

  “Well, I only know one man with such an unfortunate name,” says Belinda, dangling the telephone receiver in the air. “Come on, hurry up. I need to get online and do some e-mails.”

  ary hurries toward the telephone, tucking her hair behind her ears and smoothing her skirt. “Hello? Kyle?” she says tentatively into the telephone, not sure that her mother is telling the truth.

  “Mary,” says his warm American voice. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” says Mary, curling the telephone cord around her finger. “How about you?”

  “Great,” says Kyle. “Just great … Great. I really enjoyed last night. I really enjoyed our dancing.”

  “Oh, God, me, too,” says Mary, probably a little too enthusiastically. “It was, um, nice,” she says, trying belatedly to sound nonchalant.

  “Oh, good,” says Kyle. “Good. That's great. Um, I was just wondering …”

  “Yes?”

  “If you wanted to go out to dinner tonight?” he asks.

  “Dinner?” says Mary, her voice rising an octave. “Tonight?”

  “Oh—my—God!” screams Belinda, from her armchair. “I don't believe it. I don't believe it. I don't bloody believe it!” She stands up and throws her Spectator magazine against the wall. “Above us. Above us! How did she get above us?”

  “I'm sorry, Kyle,” says Mary. “Something's just happened here, can you hold on a second?”

  “Sure.”

  “What?” says Mary, her hand over the phone. “He's only asked me out for dinner tonight. That's all.”

  “I'm not talking about that,”hisses Belinda. “The world does not revolve around you and your sad little friends. I am talking about this!” Belinda says, picking up the Spectator and jabbing it repeatedly with her finger. “Look! The silly cow has advertised in the
same magazine as us and—and—they've put her higher than us! She started her advert with an A —‘A Tuscan retreat’— so she's at the top of the list! Typical! The American shit !” She collapses back into her chair.

  “Mary?” Kyle's voice is in the earpiece. “Are you still there?”

  “Hang on a second, Kyle,” says Mary, taking her hand off the mouthpiece, then replacing it. “Mum?”

  “What?” Belinda turns round, her greasy face looks stunned and slack, her eyes are glazed.

  “Kyle's asked me out for dinner tonight. Can I go?”

  “What? Dinner? Oh, right, um, I suppose …” Belinda seems dreadfully confused. “Well, I don't think …” Then, slowly but surely, her expression changes. “Actually, yes! Of course you must go,”she says, getting out of her chair. “Go!” she says, shooing her daughter along. “And I want you to find out everything that's going on. What bookings they have, what sort of inquiries they're getting, the lot. Hurry up,” she adds. “I've got things to do.”

  Mary accepts her dinner invitation. They decide to keep it simple and informal and meet at Giovanna's.

  Belinda sends her daughter off into the garden to sunbathe or do something useful. She wants complete privacy at the telephone and computer.

  The first thing she does, when Mary's back is turned, is put in a call to the Spectator to cancel Lauren's advertisement. “I know,” she says, “it's terribly sad, but the fire has made it impossible for us to stay open. I'll call again when I know more.”

  Then after a suitable five minutes she calls back again to make a few alterations to her own advertisement. “So, have you got that?” she asks.” ‘Aah, it's Tuscany!’ With two A 's at the beginning? Good. That's great.” She smiles, so pleased with her-self. “Very kind of you indeed.”

  So, with Lauren's advertisement canceled and her own placed at the top of the list, Belinda goes on to initiate phase two of her plan. She turns on the computer, clicks into the secret “Rejects” pile of e-mails that she has placed in a folder marked “Extra Personal.” They are full of inquiries from people who, for some reason or other, have been refused entry to Casa Mia. The Longworths from Cornwall were rejected because the husband was a vegetarian, and the Parkers because they had posed the odd golfing question. Mr. and Mrs. Davies were turned down simply because she was called Sandra, and Belinda thought she might lower the tone. The Salaverts from France had wanted to bring their child, some Americans had asked about air-conditioning, two Londoners had required collection from the airport by taxi, and an Irish couple requested that, as asthmatics, they didn't want too many stairs. Now, smiling, her finger hovering over the Reply to All button, Belinda is going to pass them on to Lauren.

  “Dear Potential Guests,” Belinda's group e-mail begins. “I don't know if this might be of any use to you, but since, sadly, I could not accommodate you, I was wondering if you might consider a charming little place that has opened up in the same valley as the ever popular Casa Mia. It is a small place, run by an American woman, who is only too keen to cater to your every need. Feel free to contact her at …” Belinda copies out the details from the Spectator advertisement and presses Send. As her telephone line crackles, she wriggles with joy at her own genius and decides to pour herself a rather large sherry to celebrate.

  hile her mother plots and drinks not-so-fine sherry downstairs, upstairs Mary is sitting on her single bed, in her small white room, staring at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Her right leg bounces as she twists a cheap silver and turquoise ring on and off her left hand, running over in her mind exactly what happened last night.

  Kyle came over and asked her to dance. Dressed in his loose white shirt and jeans, he had bravely approached her in front of her mother and the whole of the valley. And, God, could the man dance! She had never danced like that before. She'd shuffled from one foot to the other at discos and nightclubs, or swayed with her feet stuck rigidly to the floor, but this was proper dancing. His hand in hers. His arm around her waist. It was contact. It was romantic. It had made her heart so tight in her chest that she could hardly breathe.

  Then he'd asked her if she wanted a drink, and they'd drunk Prosecco and talked, and he'd made her laugh a couple of times, and then he'd suggested a walk in the garden. He'd taken her hand and led her past Derek and Barbara's table, and Howard had given her a wink, although perhaps he hadn't been in complete charge of his facial muscles—it might simply have been a case of wind. But then, as the noise of the chatter and the laughing and the jazz faded, and the heady smell of jasmine increased, Mary cared less and less who had seen them and what would be said tomorrow. Kyle pointed out a soft patch of grass, surrounded by old lavender and jasmine planted by the previous owner. He lay down, she joined him, careful not to sit too close to him, and he suggested they stare up at the stars.

  The moon was high, the crickets were chirping, the sky was dark blue, and the stars were so numerous it looked as though someone had emptied a can of white paint across the heavens.

  “This is one of my favorite places I've found so far,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow, the light from the party flares dancing on his dark hair. “Not that I've been here long,” he smiled, “but this is really quite fine.”

  “I think it's beautiful,” said Mary, giddy on Prosecco, the smell of the jasmine and the proximity of such a handsome man.

  Kyle leaned forward and fumbled in his back pocket. Eventually he brought out what looked like a very fine, very thinrolled cigarette. “Do you want some?” he asked, holding it up so that Mary could see.

  “It's a remarkably small cigarette.” Mary smiled.

  “It's remarkably strong pot,” replied Kyle, with a gentle laugh.

  “Oh,” said Mary.

  “Do you want some?”

  He lit the joint, inhaled it, and held his breath. Unable to speak, he handed it to Mary, nodding encouragingly, as his eyes watered. She took it between her fingers. The end wasn't wet and sodden like Franco's roll-up, it was merely damp with just the impression of where his lips had been.

  “Phew,”said Kyle, with a cough, releasing a plume of smoke. “Unlike Bill Clinton, I do inhale. Go on,” he urged. “Just smoke it like a cigarette.”

  “Why not?” said Mary, suddenly sounding very English. “You've got to try things in life.”

  “Absolutely.” Kyle grinned.

  Mary inhaled a huge amount, coughed a huge amount, and flapped her hands in front of her face. “Oh, my God,” she managed eventually. “That's gone straight to my head.”

  “It can't have!” Kyle grinned.

  “It has,” confirmed Mary. “I feel a little bit strange.”

  “How strange?” asked Kyle, his dark eyes looking up at hers. “Tell me exactly.”

  “What exactly?” asked Mary, suddenly finding the word exactly rather amusing. “Well,‘exactly,’ I feel floppy, giggly, slightly naughty, and the world around me seems a whole lot brighter.”

  “You're stoned,” nodded Kyle, seemingly pleased with her description. “You're definitely stoned.”

  “Am I?” Mary started to laugh.

  “Yup.” He took a drag.

  “Well, I'm a cheap date.” She laughed.

  “Very cheap,” confirmed Kyle.

  “Maa-ry! Maa-ry!” She sat up straight as soon as she heard her name screamed. “Maa-ry! We're leaving—right now. ”

  “Oh, my God,” said Mary, attempting to get to her feet. “I'd better go.”

  “Why?” asked Kyle.

  “That's my mother calling.”

  “Let her,” said Kyle, shrugging his shoulders. “Let's just say you didn't hear her. What's the worst that could happen?”

  “Um,” said Mary, trying to think.

  “She'll go home and leave you here and all that means is that I'll take you home later.”

  “Mary! Mary!” came the scream.

  “Ssssh,” said Kyle, hunching his shoulders.

  “Sssh,” said Mary, doing the same.
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  “Anyway,” asked Kyle, “what is it with your mother?”

  “What do you mean?” whispered Mary.

  “She's driving my mother mad.”

  “Really?” asked Mary.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Kyle, taking another drag of the joint. “She knows your mother reported us to the art police guys and does nothing but slander us in town.”

  “Oh,” said Mary.

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “I personally don't give a shit. But my mom is a Wall Street witch, who used to specialize in hostile takeovers. She's cool, she's calculating, she takes no prisoners, and she has your mom right between her sights. I just thought I'd warn you.”

  “Really?” said Mary again.

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “Why do you think you weren't invited tonight? I'm really pleased you're here,” he grinned, “but my mom's not!” He started to laugh. “Fuck them,” he grinned. “Hey? Shall we dance?”

  Kyle and Mary wandered back to the party. The jazz had picked up a beat by the time they reached the floor, and Kyle's shoulders were moving back and forth as he turned Mary around.

  “This is great.” She smiled.

  “I know. It's even better now that we're stoned, don't you think?”

  Mary felt great. The music was great. The party was great and Kyle was even greater. She was dancing and everyone was watching, and for the first time in her life she didn't mind. She didn't want to fade into the background—she was having far too much fun for that. Kyle left her briefly and still she carried on dancing. He came running back with a not-so-shiny, obviously well-loved saxophone.

  “Watch this,” he said, with a wink, then walked over to join the band.