The Dating Game

by Susan Buchanan

  “Hi sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Great thanks. You?”

  “Fine, thanks. Shouldn’t you be on a plane to Pisa?”

  “It’s a long story, but I’m still at the airport and now fly out at four. I just thought I’d give you a quick call since I have three hours to kill.”

  “OK.”

  They chatted about trivial matters and then Holly said,

  “Well, listen, take care and I’ll talk to you in a few days.”

  “OK. Have a good flight. Love you.”

  “I love you too,” Holly said before flipping the phone shut.

  They’d been together four years. Holly was the monogamous type. She’d met Tom when she was looking for a new flat and had ended up moving into one not far from the town centre. It had been a real wrench to move, as she had great neighbours, but she was hardly ever there. She missed Jennifer and of course, proximity to town. Their ramshackle farmhouse wasn’t within walking distance of a supermarket, which killed her, but Tom had this master plan, with six kids, ponies, dogs and plenty of room for all of them. Fortunately he was good at DIY, or they could never have taken it on. The house needed an incredible amount of work done to it. She and Tom muddled along together pretty contentedly. He was very easy to please and they rarely argued, not like with her previous boyfriend. Tom was always there for her and she felt he always would be. He had lived through some of the terrible times she had, both having lost both their parents young.

  As Holly waited for her flight, she called her friend, Jennifer. She wasn’t home and unfortunately didn’t have a mobile, so she left a voicemail. Bored, Holly took out a notebook and started ticking off some tasks she was meant to have done. She wished that her parents were alive to see her now. Successful travel writer, engaged to be married, happy. The one thorn in her side about next year’s nuptials was that her father couldn’t give her away.

  “Flight 2602 to Pisa now boarding at gate 84.”

  This time Holly didn’t miss the flight. She sat back in her seat, fastened her seatbelt as tightly as it would allow and skimmed over what she had written. She hadn’t been satisfied with what she had written about Viareggio and Fornacette and was determined to improve upon it or shelf it. She preferred not to write only about places she had visited. Instead, she immersed herself in the culture, picking up on the idiosyncrasies. It seemed to work. She had written several travelogues, published in magazines and adapted for TV. Her first travel book had been published last year. Several TV programmes had featured her book and it had been hailed as ‘revolutionary in its genre’. She wasn’t so much writing as a Brit, but almost as an Italian who had moved abroad a long time ago and was returning home. Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera had provoked a lot of interest and had soon reached the top ten in the non-fiction charts. Now there was the pressure of making the second book better. It had to be sharp, avant-garde. Holly had chosen Tuscany as it had always fascinated her. From the yellow fields packed with sunflowers, or the hope of even catching a glimpse of those elegant blooms swaying in the light breeze, to the mules carrying sand up from the beach for the cement mixers, from the bartering at the market, to the bend over backwards to help you attitude, she loved it all. She had been attending evening classes in Italian for around three years now and took every opportunity to use it, when she was in Italy, as she knew it was the only way to become proficient.

  Emerging at Pisa airport, she noticed how much busier it was than when she had visited in March. She would have come back sooner, but was so busy trying to placate her publisher’s constant demands of her, that time had simply disappeared. So here she found herself nine weeks later, returning to Tuscany. Over the next few months she would stay in a couple of hotels, and simply travel back and forth. As she passed through the terminal heading towards the Hertz office, she noticed the very varied nationalities thronging past her. Evidently Tuscany was becoming a more popular holiday destination, as she heard several voices speaking; in what she was certain was Arabic, whilst some Russian gentlemen were heatedly debating something. Cries of “Niet” boomed over the usual level of chatter encountered in airports. How times had changed. Europe really was a veritable hotchpotch nowadays.

  After waiting half an hour for the Chinese group in front of her to be served, Holly had the chance to see if her improved Italian and frequent Hertz visits could gain her the much desired free upgrade. It looked like she was in luck. The blonde haired assistant, didn’t appear to have much grasp of English and seemed grateful that Holly had more than just a passing knowledge of Italian. Both inwardly sighed with relief and Holly, tremendously pleased with herself, collected keys for her Alfa Romeo Lusso, instead of the Punto she had been expecting.

  Holly reversed out of the parking space and headed out of the airport at a steady pace.

  Normally she hated driving but ironically enough in Italy she loved it. She liked the autostrade and the tolls. It was all so organized. The crazy Italian driver was a thing of the past. Since the law had been brought in, adopting the British system of applying penalty points and handing out fines for speeding, the Italians had slowed down considerably. They really did not like being hit in the pocket. She didn’t particularly enjoy driving in the dark, but that couldn’t be helped.

  The road from Pisa to join the A1 Firenze to Milano motorway was a winding, narrow one. It would take her forty-five minutes to reach the autostrada and then perhaps another hour and a half to reach the cut off to join the road to Arezzo and that was still another thirty miles. She wished she had just left the Clarins counter and managed to make the original flight. She wouldn’t be there now until at least midnight. She should phone ahead and let the hotel know. Suddenly she heard a loud crash and then a thumping noise. The car listed to one side.

  Shit!! I must have a puncture. She tried to think of where she could stop to have a look. Not that she had the faintest idea what to do. She had never changed a tyre before. She wasn’t even sure where the spare was, nor did she know who to call.

  About a mile down the road, she saw a light. It looked like a hotel. She squinted and tried to make out where the entrance was. She passed it, cursed, reversed and pointed her car up the driveway towards it. Putting her handbrake on, she felt around in the glove box for the Hertz manual and finding nothing, switched on the overhead light. She checked everywhere. Zilch. Bollocks! There was nothing for it, she’d have to go and ask for help. Uncertainly she approached the large portico of what looked to her, now that she was up close, to be a residence. Even in the all-encompassing darkness she could see it was a beautiful building. She had glimpsed a little of the perfectly landscaped gardens as she had driven up. The dimmed exterior lights cast a soft glow on the various cherubs and little fountains which adorned the perimeter of the garden. Having rung the bell and heard it peal out somewhere beyond the ornate decorated panels of the oak front door, Holly took a little step back. She was just about to leave when she heard a voice call out “Arrivo.”

  Brushing back her curls, Holly tried to compose herself and prepare what she had to say. She stretched herself up to her full five feet four. She didn’t know exactly how to explain her situation, as although her Italian was very good, it wasn’t every day you got a puncture in Italy.

  The heavy door opened, to reveal a Greek God. Standing at a little over six feet, he was well-built, muscular but not bulging. With dark brown floppy hair, brown puppy dog eyes, and eyelashes that any girl would kill for, he took Holly’s breath away. It didn’t help that he was wearing only a towel and had obviously just come out of the shower. His dark hair complemented his deep tan, in stark contrast to Holly’s Celtic pallor.

  “Si?’ said the man, with a smile, aware that he was unsuitably dressed. Holly managed to blurt out the whole sorry tale. His smile increasing, showing off very white teeth, he said that of course he would help her, but would she wait in the lounge, whilst he went upstairs and dressed. She followed him into an austere looking hall, with oak panels an
d what looked like real paintings on the walls. Doors led off in all directions. Holly trotted behind her new friend until he stopped, so suddenly that Holly almost bumped into him. She could see the droplets of water on his skin and sense the heat of his body. She gulped and stood back, as he showed her into the lounge.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes. Please take a seat,” he said, in his Tuscan singsong accent.

  Holly sat gingerly on the edge of an armchair. Everything in the room looked antique. The gold, brocade curtains the finely polished credenza, the oil lamps which lit the room. Rows of bookcases were stacked high and crammed with books. An avid bookworm, Holly found herself drawn to the first bookcase and her eyes slid greedily over the titles. Verga, Lampedusa, all the classics were there, peppered every so often by contemporary novels. Moving to the second bookcase, she recognised some Bill Bryson travel books and a few about Tuscany written in English. Intrigued, she continued along, until with delight, she found a copy of Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera. Holly felt hot all over. He had bought her book. Well, perhaps not him, but someone from this house had bought her book.

  “Le piacciono i miei libri?” Holly started at the sound of his voice. She stammered a yes. He clearly didn’t know who she was and who could blame him, as she looked an absolute sight and the photo her publisher chose for the book cover portrayed a glossier, shinier Holly. She was pleased he had her book. Perhaps she would have time to question him later. What was she like? How long did she think it was going to take him to change her tyre? She turned to face him. He was now dressed in Levis and a cream fisherman’s jumper. He smiled down at her, his handsome features crinkling in amusement at his real life, damsel in distress. He spoke perfect English, he had to for business, but this signorina was making such an effort speaking Italian that he felt it would have been churlish, to switch into English.

  “Andiamo.” he told her.

  Whilst relaxing in his lounge, Holly hadn’t realised it had started to rain. It had been so warm when she had arrived. Cursing her light jacket and skirt, she jumped when he enveloped her in a large waterproof jacket. His touch was electric. She felt as if she’d accidentally bumped into a high voltage fence. Approaching her car, she unlocked it with the electronic key fob. He was beside her, a torch shining from beneath his waterproof. He walked slowly around the car and whistled, then dug the jack out of the boot and worked away silently. After five minutes, he looked up at Holly, who hadn’t dared interrupt him and told her it was no good. It wasn’t just the tyre that was punctured, the wheel was buckled. It would have to go to a garage.

  Holly was at her wits’ end. What the hell was she meant to do now? She realised she was standing staring open-mouthed at this complete stranger. Eventually, she latched on to the idea that she would need to find a hotel nearby. She asked if he could recommend somewhere to stay. In typical Italian fashion, he gesticulated with his arms and told her that the nearest hotel was Il Giardino, but unfortunately it was twenty miles away. She couldn’t drive twenty miles with her wheel like that and besides the garage was only two miles away. She must stay the night here. There were many guest rooms in his house. Holly started to protest, but he silenced her, saying he would be offended if she didn’t accept and besides, what was the alternative? Smiling at her, he leaned forward slightly and said, “No need to be afraid. I am not some crazed madman.

  Holly followed her host inside. She didn’t even know his name. Dawning on him, too, he said “Dario Barsacchi.” He offered his hand to Holly, which she accepted, saying “Holly Jameson. Where am I anyway?”

  “This is Rosetto. It is around thirty kilometres from Pisa.” As Holly didn’t ask him anything else, he turned, passing the lounge and indicated a room on the left.

  “That is where you will find me once you have settled in. Are you hungry?”

  Holly was starving, but didn’t want to impose further. As if reading her mind, Dario said, “It’s no trouble. I am cooking for myself and it is always more pleasant to have company.”

  Acknowledging his generosity with a barely discernible smile, Holly followed, as he ascended a marble staircase. Alabaster busts were positioned at intervals along the staircase. Holly tried to appear nonchalant, but was dying to see, as she passed, if they were members of Dario’s family. Some of the inscriptions were so worn it was impossible to read to whom they belonged. At the top of the staircase, Dario swept towards the left wing. It was dark in this corridor, but Dario pulled an object from behind a hidden alcove. He then scrambled around a little more and the next moment, there was light. It was an old oil lamp, encrusted with semi-precious stones.

  Who is this guy? Holly found it odd that he should be knocking around in this stately home all on his own. She couldn’t deny it, the size and grandeur of this building made it obvious that this was the home of someone of standing. Leaning across her, Dario turned a key in the lock. He stepped into the room and laying the oil lamp down, beckoned Holly to enter.

  “Wow!” She wasn’t sure what was more impressive, her host or this sumptuous room. In front of her there was a huge four poster bed, with full canopy. The ruby red hangings looked ridiculously expensive. An enormous, cast iron bath, occupied the middle of the room. Glancing round, she was surprised to see the furnishings were terribly feminine. There was a mahogany dressing table, several replica, Louis XVI chairs, at least she imagined they must be replicas, they couldn’t be real could they, a credenza, a roll top writing desk as well as a chaise longue. How decadent. She had always imagined having a chaise longue, although she knew they were terribly impractical, much better off with a squashy sofa from Laura Ashley. She decided she would have a little lie on it later.

  Dario pointed to a room off the main chamber, which housed a bathroom with power shower and a dressing room. Such a strange mix, Holly thought, power showers, but oil lamps. She had noticed there was no electric lighting. After inviting her to use the telephone, Dario excused himself.

  Holly thanked him for his kindness and he left. She really must start being more articulate. She would be spending the evening with this drop-dead gorgeous man and she couldn’t string two words together. It wasn’t even speaking Italian which was making her tongue-tied, more the fact that Dario was stirring emotions in her, which she didn’t want stirred, because of Tom. She loved Tom. Dario probably had a beautiful wife or a girlfriend who was a sultry sex goddess. It was true how much women let themselves get carried away, one date and they were planning the wedding. She hadn’t even been on a date with Dario, nor was ever likely to be, yet was already picturing their dark eyed, perfectly tanned children, with her flawless complexion and green eyes. Snapping back to reality, Holly called the hotel in Bibbiena.

  Wonderfully relaxed after her exquisite soak, Holly lay down on the four poster. This was the life. She assumed the four poster was genuine, as the frame itself was pretty worn. It was too tempting to lie there for long though, as she knew she would drift off. Pulling herself up, she dressed hurriedly in the things she had taken off less than an hour before.

  Chapter Two

  Finding the door Dario had indicated, Holly hesitated briefly before pulling it open. Her senses were instantly assailed by the aroma of herbs and meat mingling.

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao, vieni,” Dario invited her in. He was standing in front of the hob, flipping the contents of a small saucepan. A larger saucepan boasted aubergines, peppers and courgettes, She joined him at the hob. He looked very au fait with what he was doing, as if he was no stranger to a spot of cooking. At the far end of the kitchen she saw what she supposed was the dining room. Dario invited her to sit.

  As he cooked, he asked Holly questions. She opened up to him quite freely. It was a lot easier, she soon discovered, to hold forth on topics she was used to discussing. She explained about her writing and told him about her childhood in a little village near Edinburgh and how she had started to write at the age of twelve. It had then become an obsession. He was a good listener. Sh
e told him about her life back in Ayrshire, in the south west of Scotland, of the farm she lived on. She didn’t mention Tom, and Dario didn’t ask if she had a significant other.

  This woman positively glowed, Dario thought. She was so animated. She was truly beautiful, unlike some women he met and seemed unaware of how lovely she was, which only made her more attractive. Her forest green eyes shone out from beneath her loose raven curls. Smaller than the women who usually surrounded him, he felt it would be nice for once to tower over someone, to be able to act protectively towards them. She was slim, with an impressive cleavage. Curvaceous, he supposed you would call her, sexy. He had found her striking when she had first rung his bell, but now, as she sat here chatting away as if they had known each other for years, he was warming to her even more, too much he realised. Tomorrow she would be out of his life again and there was nothing he could do about it. Unaware of the inner turmoil she was causing him, Holly babbled on. She was nervous, but at the same time exhilarated to be in the company of such a… gentleman, was the only word she could think of to describe Dario.

  After Dario finished preparing the meal, he led Holly through to the dining room. The food was divine. Holly hadn’t realised just how hungry she was, until Dario tempted her with his special bruschetta. He explained that the ingredients were all fresh from his garden and the olive oil from the olive groves his family owned.

  So that’s where the money comes from, she thought.

  When they finished the Chianti, Dario went off to the cantina. Bearing a Brunello di Montalcino 1997, he pulled out the cork and poured a small quantity into a glass. Holly thought it was OK. She wasn’t a wine connoisseur, but what she did know was that the more expensive a wine, the more acquired the taste. The Chianti was more to her taste, even if it was a classier and older version than that drunk in the UK. She wagered it wasn’t Chianti from Tesco at a fiver a bottle she’d had. The Brunello, however, didn’t do much for her. Honest to a fault, when Dario asked her impression of it, she told him apologetically she preferred the Chianti. Dario let out a belly laugh. He found her endearing, her brand of honesty so refreshing.