Kissing in Italian (21 page)

No more waiting. No more being Miss Nice Daughter. I ring Dad in Hong Kong: I don’t even work out the time difference. If I wake him up in the middle of the night, that’s his own bloody fault. I get the answering machine, horrible Sif’s stupid voice on it, of course, to make the point that she and Dad live together: well, she certainly gets an earful, because I scream down the line that Dad has to ring me
now
, this
second
, the
moment
he gets this message. I ring his mobile, get voice mail, and scream louder. Then I ring Mum: same thing, both home and mobiles, her recorded voice but not her. I’m hoarse by the time I finish, every message angrier than the last. Kelly comes back from her shower in her dressing gown, takes one look at me, and zips her lips shut,
seeing that I’m in a foul mood but locked into myself; she’s smart enough to know to leave me alone till I reach out to talk to her.

I don’t. I’m over talking to anyone but Mum and Dad, the two people who can actually, finally, get off their bums, come to Venice, and tell me the truth about myself. I barely say a word all day, and it’s particularly annoying that I’m in such a strop, because normally there’s nothing I would have enjoyed more than another fast, bumpy, exhilarating ride in a water taxi to two of the prettiest islands you could ever imagine. Murano is the glassblowing one, and according to Luigi Two, until a few centuries ago, all the glassblowers had to live here so that they could make sure their secret techniques were preserved. Burano is the lace-making one, though the lace-makers seem to have been free to travel around and live where they wanted, so they were luckier. Both the islands are, as Paige comments, like something out of a Disney film: ridiculously pretty, with canals running through the center of them, lined with brightly painted little houses, their colors as vivid as the ice creams from last night at Gelato Fantasy. Luigi Two says the fishermen painted their houses such vivid colors so that they could see them from far out on the water; there are quite a few that the girls gleefully call “
Puffo
Blue.”

We go to the glass museum and the lace museum and the little leaning tower of the Church of San Martino on Burano. The peace pact last night has had the effect of us all bonding together to say we don’t want to have to eat weird fish dishes, like spaghetti with parmesan and mussels, anymore: presented with this united front, Luigi Two and
Catia sigh, roll their eyes, and agree to take us to a restaurant that serves risotto, which makes everyone whoop with happiness.

Apart from me. I couldn’t care less if they were serving us spaghetti with sawdust and rotten eggs: I can’t eat anything anyway. I push my risotto around my plate to make it look as if I’ve eaten some, and tell Catia I’m feeling too hot to manage more than a few bites.
I must be at my absolute lowest point
, I reflect grimly. The risotto, with peas and parmesan (“Cheesy peas!” Kelly’s yodeling in amusement), looks delicious, and I never, ever lose my appetite. I’m not one of those girls who drops seven pounds whenever she has a breakup or a heartache: I’m too greedy.

But what heartache can’t do, existential angst about my parentage, plus a heaping side order of complete and utter fury with my mum and dad, clearly can. Catia would have to force-feed me to get any more risotto down my throat, and I’m almost surprised she doesn’t try: she’s usually quite strict about us eating what we’re served—more strict than she is with her own skinny daughter. But she shoots me the oddest look when I mutter my excuses, nods, and lets it go without another word, which is very unlike her.

Maybe
, I think,
she’s decided not to fuss over little things like someone losing her appetite now that the whole atmosphere among us four girls is so massively improved
.

Everyone’s talking to everyone else, laughing, giggling, exclaiming at how lovely Burano and Murano are, what lace they want to buy to take back to their mums, what glass they want for themselves. It’s as if there were a cork stuffed in a
bottle of bubbles ever since Kelly betrayed Kendra, and now the bubbles have all burst forth, effervescent and sparkling. Paige, Kelly, and Kendra are blissfully happy not to have the stress and tension of fighting.

And the icing on the cake is that it turns out Kelly has been secretly making an online scrapbook of our stay here, which she planned as a combination diary for her and gift for us all at the end of the stay. Given the big reconciliation last night back at the palazzo, where the three of them fell into one another’s arms, hugged, cried, and told one another how fabulous they were, Kelly decided to show it to us early, and we were incredibly moved and impressed. It’s truly beautiful. Not only is it full of funny little observant details about all of us, it also has tons of photos: Kelly’s been snapping away on her mobile phone, it turns out, since the moment we arrived. Paige and Kendra clutching their pillows and dragging their suitcases, me laughing at the funny bronze sculptures at Pisa airport that looked like crocodiles climbing out of the grass—she’s been documenting this trip all the way along, tagging each photo with a clever caption.

Not only do I stare at it in awe as we click through the pages, it occurs to me immediately that this diary is the perfect proof that Kelly was born to be an art historian. She’s found images on the Web of every museum, every historic place, every artwork we’ve seen, and annotated them all with really thoughtful, interesting comments: I tell her that if she makes a separate folder with all the art stuff, that will be an ideal addition to her university application. I honestly can’t imagine anyone who sees this not giving her a place—
maybe even a scholarship—on the spot. She goes red with excitement and asks me if I really think so about twenty times. I’ve never seen her so happy.

So everyone’s blissful. Well, Paige and Kelly are blissful: in Kendra’s case, it’s more that she’s at peace with knowing she’s done the right thing, closed the book firmly on Luigi forever. The three of them are so content, in fact, that my own utterly gloomy state of mind is more or less hidden under their release of high spirits.

But not quite. Catia has noticed something, I’m sure. She’s different with me today, very careful, as if I need special consideration. She’s quizzing everyone else on their Italian, on what they’ve learned so far about Venice and its history, but she barely asks me anything, and when she does, it’s so easy that it’s what Paige calls a “softball”: the rest of the girls groan that they weren’t asked that question.

I have no idea why she’s treating me with kid gloves, and I’m so grumpy that I don’t much care. The answer only becomes clear when the water taxi, on our return from Murano, doesn’t take us directly back to the palazzo, as we all expected from the itinerary Catia outlined for us that morning. Instead, it slows down as we pass the Piazza San Marco, then the Alilaguna stop, and turns in a semicircle so that it can back into the same pier where Luca and Kelly’s water taxi moored last night.

Catia’s been inside the cabin, on her mobile phone, for part of the trip back; now she emerges, clicking the phone shut, and says to me:

“Violet, you will get off here. There is someone ready to meet you.”

I’ve been curled up, slumped, really, in the corner of the seat, watching the water splash up against the side of the boat as we slice through the waves; my brain is so dulled with unhappiness I don’t even realize, the first time she says it, that she’s speaking to me. Catia has to repeat herself, and even then Kelly, beside me, has to elbow me to get me to focus.

“What’s going on?” I say, looking around me blankly.

“You’re getting off here!” Kelly says, as all the girls crane around to see who’s waiting on the pier. “Violet! Is that—is it—”

For some reason, I think it must be Luca; but that’s just because he’s on my mind so constantly. I’m caught in a vicious circle of telling myself not to think about him ever again, which of course makes me think about him all the time. But it can’t possibly be Luca. I swivel around, kneel up on the white cushion, and prop my hands on the chrome bar that runs along the back of the boat so I can twist to see down to the end of the pier.

Then I shriek my head off, jump down, run up the steps, and literally throw myself onto the pier even before the boat is properly moored. The driver yells at me but I don’t care; behind me, I hear the girls loudly speculating about who it is. The taxi starts up again, pulling away, but that’s all a million miles behind me already.

Because all I care about is tearing down the pier and throwing myself into my mother’s arms. She smells just like she always does, the most wonderful, comforting smell in the world, a mix of Elizabeth Arden Beauty perfume, Chantecaille powder, apple shampoo, and herself, not necessarily
in that order. I’m crying, but it’s out of pure happiness and relief, as if I’ve had my own cork in my own bottle, and it’s finally popped.

“Darling,” she says again and again into my hair, bending over a bit, because of course she’s quite a lot taller than me, being model-height. “Darling, darling Violet, I’m so sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m so, so sorry.…”

We cry and cry and cry in each other’s arms. Mum’s tears make my hair wet; mine are soggy against her silk blouse. It feels wonderful. We’re sagging against each other, propped up, I think, just by leaning our bodies together, like two pieces of wood stacked at an angle that means one would crash down if you removed the other. Goodness knows how long we stand there. Ages, it feels like. Until we’ve sobbed everything out that we possibly can, until we’re hiccupping as you do at the end of a crying jag, pulling back to blow our noses—mums always have tissues in their bags for this kind of thing—and smile blearily at each other as we mop our faces.

“I missed you so much!” I say. “I was
freaking out
about not hearing from you. Did you get my messages today? I couldn’t have waited any longer! I need to know, Mum—I need to know what’s been going on, I need to know
everything, now.…
”

Mum grimaces, twisting her wide mouth into a comical shape. Because she never wears much makeup, she hasn’t smeared anything, but she pulls another tissue out of the packet, licks the edge, and starts dabbing around my eyes, as obviously my liner must have got smudged.

“You’ll understand very soon,” she assures me. “I promise, darling.”

“Very soon?”
It comes out as a high-pitched squeak. “Why not now? Mum, I feel like I’m going mad!”

Mum finishes cleaning my face, takes it in her hands, and kisses my forehead.

“Come with me,” she says, linking her arm through mine, walking me along the pier. “I can’t talk about it without—” She draws a breath. “There are some other people that—there are some other people waiting for us.”

“Is Dad here?” I ask eagerly.

“Yes.” She squeezes my arm. “Yes, he is.”

“And Sif the loo cleaner?”

Mum laughs: usually she ticks me off for being rude about Dad’s girlfriend, and the fact that she’s letting me get away with it speaks volumes for her state of mind.

“No! She’s not here! Isn’t it
lovely
!” she says confidingly.

I heave a big sigh of relief. The thing about Sif is that she seems incredibly resentful of the fact that Dad was married and had a daughter when she met him. Once she got him to leave Mum for her, it’s like she tried to erase his past, to pretend that he didn’t have a life before meeting her. That makes seeing him when she’s around really hard for me, as she acts as if I don’t exist even when I’m in the room. Once I visited Dad and her for a week, and she said loudly over breakfast on the third morning that in her country they have a saying that guests are like fish—they start to stink after three days. Charming, eh?

“It’s absolutely nothing to do with her,” Mum says firmly
as we walk along the waterfront. “And to give your father credit, he completely understands that too. He didn’t even suggest bringing her.”

“She must be
fuming
,” I say with great satisfaction.

I assume we’re going to the hotel, where Mum and Dad are staying; so I’m surprised when, after barely a minute, Mum guides me onto another little dock. Or rather, stops in front of a very smart gate, beyond which blue, red, and gold pillars run down the length of the pier. Mum presses an intercom button and says:

“It’s Mrs. Routledge. Could you please send the boat back for me?”

“Eet is already on eets way,
signora
,” buzzes a voice through the intercom, and the gate clicks open; we step through.

“We’re staying at a hotel over there,” Mum explains, pointing across the lagoon.

“On Giudecca,” I say, showing off the local knowledge I’ve learned.

“Yes, it’s called the Cipriani. It’s very lovely, Violet. You can stay there with us if you’d like. There’s a swimming pool! You’d like that. Really, you can have anything you want, darling … anything at all.… We’re
so
sorry.…”

Her voice wobbles dangerously: I squeeze her arm and say swiftly:

“Mum, don’t cry! Don’t! It’s all right. I love you.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose hard and takes a deep breath. A water taxi is coming straight toward us, like an arrow fired from Giudecca Island directly to the dock; as it gets closer, I see
HOTEL CIPRIANI
painted in white letters down its side. It slides into the pier, a very smart couple
dripping in Gucci and Missoni step off, and Mum and I are handed in by the smiling, liveried driver. We sit in the back, our arms around each other, her long blond hair blowing across my face, and don’t say a word for the entire short trip.

I’m in suspension, waiting for the big revelation. I’m terrified, of course, how could I not be? But having my beloved mum with me makes me feel stronger and more secure than I have in absolutely ages. I know I wanted to stand on my own two feet, and I think I’ve done pretty well while I’ve been in Italy. But sometimes, even if you’re growing up and trying to be adult, you really need to run back to your mum and hug her and smell the special mix of scents that are so familiar they mean home and love and security to you.…