Kissing in Italian (15 page)

“Eccoci!”
Catia says, after paying the taxi driver and shutting the doors. We all sigh in disappointment at the amazing view of the canal being blocked off. “We are in Venice! We are here as the guests of the di Vesperi family, or rather, of the principessa’s family, the Giustinians. They have been kind enough to let us stay here.”

“How long are we here for?” Kelly asks bravely.

We haven’t dared yet to ask Catia a single question about our sudden trip: we were too relieved that no one was being sent home in disgrace. She said to bring lots of clothes, so we all crammed our suitcases, but she didn’t give us any more
information, and we kept our mouths shut and our heads down. She did tell Evan, whom she’s really taken to, that he could stay on at the villa with Leonardo and Elisa, but Evan said he wouldn’t dream of it without his sister there, and he ought to be heading off to rejoin his friends anyway.

I miss Evan. We’re friends on Facebook now, of course, and before he left he asked me to swap mobile numbers, at a time when no one else was around. We gave him a lift to the station, and he sat next to me and I felt his arm hovering over my back, sinking slowly, cautiously, faux-casually, to avoid startling me or having any of the other girls notice. But it settled eventually, and for the last twenty minutes Evan’s arm lay along my shoulders, warm and heavy, a secret that we were sharing in plain sight.

I liked it. I liked it a lot. It made me feel … secure. Steadied. As we drove through Florence, with all its distractions to look at, he closed his fingers around my shoulder in a gentle clasp that turned the arm around me into something definite and made me shiver a little with pleasure. And when we all said goodbye, hugging him one after the other, I felt his hands tighten around my waist and he kissed me, swiftly but unmistakably, on the side of my head that the other girls couldn’t see.

I was the last: he’d already shaken Catia’s hand and said his polite thank-yous to his hostess. So after the kiss, he bent down, picked up his big rucksack with the guitar slung on the back, and strolled off to find the bus terminal and buy a ticket to Arezzo, where he was meeting his friends at a jazz festival. And as I watched him make his way through the crowds, girls’ heads turning to look at the big,
tall, handsome blond boy, I felt a spike of jealousy, the last confirmation, if any were needed, that my feelings for Evan had passed from friendship into maybe, just maybe, the possibility of something stronger.

“We’ll see” is the only answer Catia gives Kelly to her question about how long we’re staying in Venice. And just then a smartly dressed lady bustles into the hallway, exclaiming:

“Ma siete già arrivate! Avete fatto veramente veloce!”

She’s the housekeeper, Bianca, and she wastes no time in sweeping us upstairs to our bedrooms, past a series of huge and rather empty reception rooms whose walls are covered in delicate frescos and smell a bit damp. When we realize we have bedrooms overlooking the canal, with balconies just about big enough for two of us to stand on, we’re too excited to think about anything else. Kelly and I are together, of course, Paige and Kendra next door, and we wave to each other from our respective balconies, whooping with delight.

“Girls! Please behave with decorum!” Catia calls from the corridor. “We are guests in the home of the principessa’s family. We do not want the neighbors complaining to her that you are all shrieking like hooligans!”

Grimacing, we pull horrible faces at one another.

“Now please unpack, and bring a swimsuit each and some sun lotion and be downstairs in half an hour,” she continues. “We have been sitting still all morning, so I have decided to take you to the Lido beach to swim this afternoon to let off some energy. The taxi will come back in thirty minutes, so be in the front hall by then.”

We all shoot back into our rooms, galvanized by this,
and dash around, calling dibs on beds, unzipping suitcases, and fighting over who gets more hangers.

“Catia sounds really happy,” Kelly comments to me as we divvy up the drawers. “I know she’s trying to sound stern, but actually I think she’s really happy.”

“Because of being in Venice, do you think?” I ask. “It
is
amazing. Even if you’ve been here before it must still be massively exciting to come back.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” says Kelly, and now I’m all ears, because whenever she starts that way something interesting’s coming. Something I haven’t been clever enough to think of myself.

I make an encouraging noise.

“Coming to Venice, taking taxis—” she continues. “I looked at the map of Venice last night, and the Lido’s like a beach quite a way across the lagoon, it’ll take quite a while to get there—I bet there are buses we could take—”

“It’s expensive!” I say, having caught on faster than usual.

“Right,” Kelly says, folding her T-shirts neatly. Sharing a small council house with a big family has made her very tidy and efficient at fitting into a small space; I’m an only child, so I sprawl out everywhere and have to work at making sure we split the available room evenly so I don’t take advantage of her. “And coming to Venice wasn’t in the budget, was it? She can’t ask our families to chip in any more dosh—it’s pricey enough as it is. I’m sure we could have taken a bus from the station to near here. There were stops everywhere. Same for the Lido. But instead she’s throwing money around, when we know from Leonardo that she doesn’t actually have that much. And she seems really cheerful, considering the
whole Kendra mess. And here we are, suddenly staying in the principessa’s family house, which is a big deal.…”

I stare at her, sinking down to sit on my bed as I take this in. The springs squeak horribly and the mattress feels like horsehair.

“Someone’s given her some money,” I say slowly. “To get us out of Chianti.”

“We all go to the Castello di Vesperi,” Kelly says, putting her shoes in the huge painted cupboard. “And the principe gets a good look at you. And then maybe Catia rings up the principessa to have a fit about the Kendra thing, let off some steam, or the principessa rings her, but either way they hatch a plan that sends all of us well away from the castello, across the country, and Catia’s spending money like water, and we know the principe has a ton of money—”

“They sent
me
away,” I say. “This isn’t really about getting Kendra away from Luigi—that was just a convenient excuse. It’s about getting me away from the whole di Vesperi family.” I take a deep breath. “Which means—which really does mean—”

“It’s just a theory,” Kelly says quickly.

Which means that Luca really is my brother and the principe is my father. A father who doesn’t want me around—who positively wants to get rid of me, so much so that he’ll pay Catia to bundle me away
.

I texted and emailed Mum, of course, to say where we were going. I was dying to ring her, and it would have been the perfect excuse. But I couldn’t bear the idea that my call might go to voice mail—that she might freak out, seeing my picture pop up on her screen, and not pick up, because she
isn’t ready to talk to me yet. It’s the first time ever that I’ve imagined Mum not wanting to hear my voice, and it’s such a painful image that I pushed it away at once.

Or tried to. Because it keeps on coming back. Especially because all I got in response was a text saying:

Which wasn’t exactly the satisfaction I needed.

“Hey!” Paige bursts into our room, a huge smile on her face. “Are you two ready?” She’s so revved up that she’s forgotten she’s pretending Kelly doesn’t exist, and as soon as she continues I realize why.

“We’re going to the beach!” she carols. “And you know what that means? Tons of boys! Plus,
lifeguards! Hot Italian lifeguards
!”

Wow. Lounging by a private pool in Chianti with a couple of boys hasn’t prepared us in any way for an Italian beach in the full height of summer. It’s packed as full of tanned and oiled Italians, their skins as dark as cherrywood from this long hot summer, as the narrow Venetian streets are with tourists. Catia’s picked a
stabilimento
, which has a bar, an open-air restaurant, and its own stretch of beach; you have to pay for lounger and umbrella hire to get in, and the guy who’s leading us to our group of chairs weaves through a throng of happy, swimsuit-wearing, chattering Italians who are standing around in groups everywhere, waving their hands as they talk, pushing back their hair, and all looking so cool that by the time we get to the loungers,
we’re relieved just to sit down in the shade and get our bearings.

This is glamour central. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say confidence central. It’s like walking into a party where everyone knows everyone else. You look around and slowly realize that people are in small groups, that there are couples together and maybe even some lone singles, but the overall impression is utterly intimidating.

“They’re all so—” Kelly starts.

“I
know
,” I say.

It’s totally unlike any English beaches I’ve ever been on, or any Scandinavian ones; when we visit Mormor and go to the lake in Norway, the locals are much more reserved. And
covered
. With a lot of the guys here, I just don’t know where to look. There are a
lot
of Speedos. I didn’t expect that. Leonardo and Andrea, by the pool, always wore looser swimsuits, sort of like boxers, and Evan has those typical baggy American shorts—American boys seem much shyer than Italian ones about showing off their bodies, as far as I can see.

“See! Told you!” Paige sings out, pointing up at a wooden tower, on top of which a lifeguard is lounging, smoking a cigarette, talking on his mobile phone, his skin tanned so dark he might be Indian, wearing nothing but a tiny, shiny pair of red Speedos.

“But
Paige
, his
swimsuit
!” I object.

Paige tosses her head.

“
Actually
, Violet,” she says, “I think you’re being really sexist. Why should girls be able to wear bikinis if boys can’t wear Speedos? Boys like to tan too!”

“My dad calls them budgie smugglers,” Kelly volunteers, and I snigger at this.

So does Paige, when she figures it out. Then, however, she shuts it down, because it came from Kelly. Turning away from us pointedly, Paige pulls off her T-shirt and skirt and lies back on the lounger in her pink crocheted bikini. I sigh. This whole snubbing of Kelly is already exhausting me, and if I feel like that, how must Kelly be reacting? Before, with the four of us, there was always a good flow of conversation. Kelly and Kendra might have the occasional flash of competitiveness, but it would be only a momentary hitch, easily caught up and smoothed over by myself or Paige.

“Paige,” I say, standing up, pulling off my dress and draping it over one of the struts of the umbrella, “let’s go and see how warm the water is, okay?”

Paige glances to her side, at Kendra, but Kendra’s just lying there, sunglasses on, not doing a thing or saying a word.

“Okay,” Paige says, standing up and stretching to draw attention to herself, which has the desired effect. Thank goodness, at least I tan fast, so I don’t feel like a small white garden gnome toddling along beside her. I’m not as dark as the Italians, but I blend in well enough. I’m bravely wearing my polka-dot bikini, and as long as I remember to keep sucking in my tummy, I feel relatively fine.

“Paige!” I hiss, momentarily distracted. “Look—those girls are topless!”

“Wow,” Paige says, looking over in the direction I’m indicating discreetly. Three girls are strolling along the edge of the water, in the damp sand, wearing nothing but small bikini bottoms. “You wouldn’t see
that
back home!”

“Not in England either,” I assure her.

“Though,” she adds, “those girls can get away with it because they don’t have much up top. If you or me tried to walk around topless, we’d be going
boing-boing-boing
like yo-yos.”

I snigger at this vivid image. The sun is deliciously warm, the sky’s blue as an Easter egg, the sea is aquamarine, the sand is golden and bouncing back heat, and the Adriatic Sea, when we dip in our toes, is pleasantly cool, just enough to be a lovely contrast to the heat all around us. It’s a perfect day, and we’re in Venice. Even if we’re all—apart from Paige, as usual—struggling with our own issues, we should all be blissful in this moment, and when I open my mouth, that’s exactly the point I plan to make.

“Paige, look,” I say. “This is gorgeous, right? We’re the luckiest girls in the world.”

Paige, who’s eyeing a group of boys complacently, nods in agreement. We walk into the sea, oohing and aahing with the initial chill as the water rises higher up our legs.

“So can we just drop this sending-Kelly-to-Coventry thing that you two’re doing? You’ve made your point, okay? She gets it. She knows she was wrong and she’s said she was sorry.”

“Sending to Coventry?” Paige asks.

“Not talking to her.”

“Oh, a freeze-out! Why is it called—”

“
Paige
! This is important! I don’t know why it’s called that, okay? Just start talking to her again!”

Paige drops down suddenly to her bum.

“Ooh!” she exclaims, water lapping around her chest. “I
love to sit in the sand and splash around! I’m not a big swimmer,” she adds cheerfully.

She’s so infuriating. It’s like talking to a slippery eel. But if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I plop down next to her, gasping in my turn; I’m considerably shorter than she is and the water’s up to my chin. I tilt my head back and submerge my skull completely, bubbling air out through my nostrils. It feels wonderful to be underwater after all the hot sweaty traveling of today. When I come up, I spit out a stream of salty water, pretending I’m a dolphin.

“You’re so brave to get your hair wet,” Paige says, primly patting her own pinned-up locks.