Kissing in Italian

by Lauren Henderson

  But the decision’s made for me. As soon as we get into the bedroom we share, Kelly shuts the door, sits down on her bed, and says to me:

  “What’s going on?”

  I stare at her, amazed.

  “Violet!” she snaps, still keeping her voice down. “I know you. You look like you just saw a ghost! Something’s definitely up. Come on! Spill the beans!”

  To be honest, it’s a huge relief. I didn’t know if I should tell or not, but I didn’t want the weight of carrying this secret all on my own. I flop down onto my own bed, take a deep breath, and tell a stupefied Kelly exactly what I just saw out in the villa grounds tonight.

  The Principessa-in-Waiting

  “We need to get into the castello,” Kelly says to me firmly the next day.

  My head jerks up and I stare at her. Then I raise my hand and wipe a drop of sweat off my forehead. We’re in the dining room, one of the coolest places in the house in the baking-hot hours after lunch; the thick stone walls keep out some of the heat, and we have the french windows open and the door propped to let the air circulate as much as possible. The trouble is, the air is so heavy and still that there’s no breeze at all. The thermometer has hit forty degrees—or, as Paige and Kendra would say, over a hundred Fahrenheit, which I actually prefer to Celsius: “over a hundred” definitely conveys that it’s boiling hot. Not a leaf or blade of grass is moving; they’re drying out in the heat, turning brown and crispy. Even the water of the pool is still and gradually reaching bathtub temperature.

  Our room under the eaves is like a sauna. We’re staying well away from it till night falls and it cools down even a little bit. Like most places we’ve been in Tuscany, there’s no air-conditioning in the villa. Catia sneered at Paige and Kendra when they asked if she could turn it on. Paige took umbrage, and I can’t say I blame her. Catia looked right down her nose at Paige, which, considering Paige is much taller than her, was pretty impressive.

  The American girls are lying in the shade, fanning themselves, waiting for the blazing sun to start to sink in the sky and loosen its iron grip on the countryside. Kelly and I thought we could convene in the dining room to look at the info on the di Vesperi family we photocopied from the book in the library, but it only works if we stay really, really still. Any movement makes us sweat, and my forearms, propped on the polished table, leave long damp marks on it when I peel them off.

  “I can’t go to the castello,” I say firmly. “Not after … I can’t.”

  Kelly’s not aware of all the details of my terrifying encounter at the castello a fortnight ago: I promised Luca I wouldn’t tell a soul, and I’ve kept my promise, which hasn’t been remotely difficult. All I want to do is forget it, and I know he feels exactly the same.

  The trouble is that the horrible scene we went through together was a confirmation of our worst fear—that we might be related. Luca’s mother, the principessa, barely clapped eyes on me on our first visit to the castello before she was commenting that I was the spitting image of her husband’s family in general, and his sister Monica in particular. And after my second visit—well, it’s out of the question that I ever go back.

  Luca and I really are doomed.

  “O-kay, you can’t,” Kelly says, her hazel eyes assessing me, clever enough to know that she mustn’t push me on this, mustn’t ask any questions. “But I can.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Even that small gesture brings out a bead of sweat.

  “That’s true,” I agree. “What would you—”

  “The portrait gallery, for starters,” she says immediately; she’s clearly been thinking this out. “I thought I’d like to see if there are any other pictures around the same period as Fiammetta di Vesperi.” She goes pink. “I know that isn’t anything to do with you, Violet—I mean, about you specifically—but I’m really curious now to know how that picture of her left the family castle, when the walls are, like, lined with family portraits! I thought it would make a really interesting project. I need a scholarship, you know that. Maybe it would help with my uni application if I researched something like this on my summer course.”

  “Definitely,” I say, realizing once again, as if I needed any extra proof, how smart Kelly is. It’s something I know instinctively, with my expensive private education, that university boards love something that makes you stand out, shows that you went the extra mile: a project like that would be really effective in her interview.

  “And,” she continues, “once I’m there, hopefully I can poke around and see what I can find out about you!”

  I have a blinding flash of inspiration.

  “Look at family photos,” I say slowly. “They have those everywhere at the castello—framed ones all over the place. If there’s any chance of working out”—I calculate quickly in my head—“where the principe was at the start of 1995 …”

  “The start of 1995?” Kelly looks puzzled.

  I swallow, and explain, looking down at the photocopies instead of at her:

  “I was born in October 1995. So, um, nine months before then would be the start of 1995.…”

  I feel as if my entire body is burning with prickly heat at the embarrassment of this conversation.

  “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, reading the expression on my face. “I should have got that.”

  “It’s okay,” I mumble. “I mean, we’re thinking it, we should be able to talk about it.”

  Kelly averts her eyes.

  “I’ll talk to Catia about my project,” she says. “She loves any excuse to contact the principessa or go over to the castello—she’ll be fine about it.”

  I pull a face.

  “She loves any excuse to shove Elisa and Luca together even more than they are already,” I mutter. “She’s just dying to see Elisa become the principessa-in-waiting.”

  That’s so true that Kelly, sensibly, doesn’t say anything to contradict me. Instead she looks at the clock on the wall above my head and comments:

  “It’s nearly three—I might have a shower to cool down and then come back to make project notes to show Catia or the principessa in case they ask to see ’em.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll have a shower after you. I’m so sweaty.”

  She nods as she leaves the room. I stare down at the photocopied images of the Castello di Vesperi, but I don’t really see them. Three in the afternoon: that means it’s been over twenty-four hours now, and Mum hasn’t answered my email. I’m longing to ring her but sense I should wait till she’s ready to get in touch. Still, it’s so hard not knowing what she’s thinking or feeling.

  And here I am, actually discussing with Kelly the month I was conceived! No one wants to think about their parents having sex, let alone their parents having sex with someone else. If I could stop this right now, never think about it again, I would: but how can I? I have to know! I have to know, not just for Luca, but for myself, and the fact that my mum hasn’t got back to me is the clearest of indications that I’m not making a mountain out of a molehill. There truly is something about my birth that I need to find out.

  In the hallway, the house phone’s ringing. I listen to it absentmindedly, grateful for a sound that’s cutting through the downward spiral of my thoughts. Catia’s heels come ticking down the hallway, and I hear a rapid stream of Italian as she talks to her caller; she sounds lively, excited, punctuating her conversation with a lot of theatrical gasps and cries of “Ma davvero,” which means “No! Really?”

  However, it hasn’t taken us long to learn that Italians almost always sound lively and excited. Benedetta, the cook, and Catia once had what all of us thought was a huge fight over something really important, with lots of screeching and throwing hands around, and it turned out to be about whether you melt an anchovy into the sauce for the pasta and chickpeas that Benedetta was cooking for dinner. So I don’t pay any attention until Catia comes clickety-clacking into the dining room, her eyes bright with anticipation, and says:

  “Violet! Where are the other g
irls?”

  I start to tell her, but she’s too hyped up to listen: she rides right over me, continuing:

  “You must tell them to get themselves ready for this evening!” she announces imperiously. “We have all been invited to a party at the Castello di Vesperi!”

  My eyes bulge; I can feel the skin around them stretching. I must look like one of those frogs on the nature channel whose eyeballs pop out on stalks.

  “The—the,” I stammer. “Are you sure?”

  Two weeks ago, after the-thing-Luca-and-I-don’t-ever-mention, the principessa took to her bed in a nervous collapse following the departure of her faithful maid, Maria, who had looked after her for her whole life. The castello was, to put it bluntly, really dusty and cobwebby and not very well cared for, as Maria, who had run it for years without much help, hadn’t been able to keep it remotely clean, and a lot of it looked like something out of a Dickens novel. The principe, Luca’s father, left to live in Florence with—according to Luca—a string of young model girlfriends when Luca was very young, and ever since then the principessa had been letting the castle go to rack and ruin.

  The idea that suddenly, in just a fortnight, the principessa has recovered from her nervous collapse and decided to throw a big party—and to invite me as part of the Villa Barbiano group, when my resemblance to her husband’s family is what started the whole mess in the first place!—makes so little sense that I’m sure Catia’s somehow got everything wrong.

  “Sì!” Catia says, her eyes sparkling. “Luca’s father, the principe, has returned from Florence, and he is throwing the party to celebrate!”

  “It’s so … sudden” is all I can manage to say.

  Catia gives me a narrow look.

  “The principe has always done exactly as he pleases. When you have money,” she says cynically, “you can make anything happen. We will have a light dinner at seven and leave the house at eight. Everyone must be ready and dressed in their best clothes.”

  Her mouth twists in a knowing smile.

  “You should probably tell the other girls immediately,” she adds. “They will want at least three hours to get ready.”

  Ooh, snarky! But to be fair, Catia has a point. I get up obediently, my brain racing. And behind me I hear Catia snapping open her phone, tapping the touch screen, and after a pause, saying excitedly:

  “Elisa! Carissima! Indovina cos’è successo! Ho appena ricevuta una chiamata dalla Donatella—”

  She’s calling Elisa to let her know the exciting news. The party. The return of the prince.

  But with the amount of time that Elisa’s been spending with Luca, I think sadly, surely she already knows everything that’s happening with the di Vesperis.…

  None of This Is My Fault

  To my great surprise, Paige and Kendra are shockingly un-enthusiastic about the news. I thought they’d be over the moon: they love parties, they love dressing up for parties, and they particularly love the attention they get at Italian events, where their unusual looks draw huge numbers of males flocking around them. But although they’ve turned themselves out with their usual gorgeously groomed attention to detail, they’ve been lackluster about the evening’s activities, and positively sulky during the early dinner Catia gave us, presumably to make sure our stomachs were lined before the wine started flowing at the castello.

  “What’s up with you two?” I hiss to Kendra as we get into the jeep. “You’re acting like you don’t want to come!”

  “I don’t,” she whispers crossly. “Paige and I were going to go out after dinner with a couple of the boys who’ve been texting us. Ones from the village.”

  “I bet it’ll be all oldies at the party,” Paige adds. “Friends of Luca’s mom and dad.” She pulls a huge, theatrical grimace. “Bor-ing. We were going to go hang at the Casa del Popolo and maybe go dancing after.”

  “Thanks for asking us along,” Kelly says teasingly, twisting around from the front seat. She looks amazing: Paige has spent time this afternoon doing her hair and makeup in exchange for Kelly’s helping her with her Italian homework assignment. Hot rollers have given Kelly’s fine red hair body and bounce, like something from a shampoo ad, and she’s made up with more makeup on than usual but actually looks as if she’s got less on because Paige has spent so much time applying it subtly.

  It’s obvious that Kelly’s joking: her tone is light, and there’s no reason Paige and Kendra should have to take us with them. We’re not all joined at the hip. So I’m briefly surprised when Paige shuffles nervously in her seat next to me, tilts her head to look at Kendra, and emits a high-pitched giggle. Something’s up with them. Kelly looks at me and raises her eyebrows, but I’m too nervous about what’s awaiting me at our destination to wonder what Paige and Kendra aren’t telling us.

  The prince, back from Florence, throwing a party to celebrate. The playboy father whose behavior his son, Luca, resents so violently that he doesn’t have a good word to say about him. The playboy who might, just maybe, have met my mother at the start of 1995.

  Does the principe know anything about me? I’m asking myself. Does he know why Maria left the castello, why the principessa’s so upset? Did she or Luca tell him what really went on?

  Or will the sight of me be a total surprise to him?

  For a minute or so, I did consider pulling a sickie. Insisting at the last moment, that a headache or period pain had just hit me, rendering me unable to go to the party. I knew Catia wouldn’t fuss too much about it; you can’t physically drag a whiny girl complaining of cramps out of the house. I’m scared of going back to the castello, of meeting Luca’s father. Of seeing Luca, the principessa—of everything there.

  But clearly my curiosity is stronger than my fear. Because here I am, in my best dress, a silk jersey my mum picked out for any smart parties I might be invited to in Italy: black, boatneck, with a swirling print of red roses and green leaves. My makeup is as carefully done as I can manage, and I’m wearing high-heeled red sandals bought from the market that are probably going to leave me blistered but that give me a few precious extra inches of height and make my legs look nice.

  I swallow hard. My palms are already sweaty. I’m trying to make my mind as calm as possible, to keep my breathing even. By the time the jeep bumps up the hill to the castello, however, I can’t even swallow anymore; my throat has locked up. There’s a huge lump at the back of it. I can’t speak: my mouth is completely dry. As I climb down from the Range Rover, my legs are actually wobbling. Kelly notices and quickly winds her arm through mine. It looks as if she’s just being girly and friendly; actually, she’s helping me stand up, helping me walk across the gravel parking area, past the other cars that signal that plenty of guests have arrived already, through the high arched gateway, and up the sloping path to the huge wooden carved double doors.

  Immediately, I see the difference from my last visits. Before, we gained access through a smaller door set into the left-hand one, creaking like something out of a haunted house when it eventually swung open. Now, both doors are open wide, propped back with a matching pair of huge wrought-iron lions, and light spills from the entrance, as warm and inviting as it was bleak and forbidding before. Candles burn in sconces set along the hallway, their light flickering prettily, and a smiling waiter stands just outside the front door, carrying a silver tray laden with Prosecco.

  We all gasp. From a haunted house, the castello has turned into a setting for a fairy tale. Even Paige and Kendra, who’ve been sulky at having their plans for the evening curtailed, perk up, stepping to take a glass each from the waiter; he’s slim and elegant, his dark hair slicked back, and Paige looks him up and down with barely concealed appreciation.

  “I don’t know which she’s leering at more—the Prosecco or the waiter,” Kelly comments to me. Paige, overhearing this, flashes a smile at us, tossing her blond curls in a way that makes the waiter swivel to watch her sashay into the castello.

  “Both!” she says over her shoulder, winking at him
and us. Clearly, she’s got over her sulks about the last-minute change to her evening plans.

  “That girl could win an international flirting competition,” Kendra says dryly.

  “International? She’d win a galactic flirting competition!” Kelly adds, one-upping Kendra, and even Catia allows herself a quick snicker of amusement as we follow Paige’s swaying hips into the great hall of the castello.

  Another waiter is stationed at the foot of the carved staircase, with a tray of canapés in one hand and linen napkins in the other. He directs us into the Gold Salon, where we had drinks before with the principessa. It’s a beautiful sitting room with gold brocade walls and pale-yellow-silk-upholstered furniture, everything trimmed with reams of gold braid and dangling tassels. There’s a harpsichord made of inlaid wood against the wall, and a lady is playing tasteful, soft music, the ivory keys tinkling gently, the kind of background music that’s perfect for a grown-up drinks party, filling in any conversational gaps.

  The room is impressive in itself, but at one glance I know the guests are real Italian high society. The women are in tailored linen dresses and Hermès silk scarves, their jewelry glistening, their tans even. The men are in light summer suits, their leather shoes as gleaming as their hair. They’re mostly older, Catia and the principessa’s age, and the sheen of wealth and status gives them the confidence that money really can buy.

  Beside me, Kelly comes to a dead halt. I know this is incredibly intimidating for her, and the need to reassure her helps me. Now it’s me who tightens my arm through hers, me who gives her the courage to start walking again, to cross the room behind Catia and be officially introduced to our host.

  It helps too that everyone’s looking at Paige and Kendra. As always in Italy, they’re the ones who draw attention, and we can follow comparatively unnoticed in their wake. Knowing that my resemblance to the di Vesperi family might be commented on, I did the best I could to change my usual style; I straightened my curly hair, which is exactly the same as the hair of all the women in the family portraits, parted it in the middle, and pulled it back into a smooth ponytail. I don’t think it’s a very flattering look for me, but it’s definitely different. I look more fashionable, older, but mainly conventional. Less likely to call attention to myself.