Kissing in Italian (8 page)

Evan goes bright red.

“Um—I really don’t think I’ll be okay with—” he starts to blurt out.

“No!” I say just as quickly. “I’m sure you don’t need to!”

“That would be like, from zero to a hundred,” Kelly observes, grinning now. “One day you’re drawing flowers, the next day a big naked American!”

“I’m
sure
you could just take your shirt off,” I say firmly to a still-red Evan. “That’s more than enough to be getting on with.”

Definitely
, I reflect, remembering Evan’s naked torso in the club, his big, defined muscles.
More than enough
.

And I stand up quickly, mumbling something about going to have a shower, because I have the suspicion that I’m going red too.

I still haven’t heard from Mum. It’s been a whole six hours since I sent the email. She could be out for the day, I suppose, seeing a film, going to a museum. Maybe Aunt Lissie’s visiting and they’re out to dinner. Or maybe she simply hasn’t checked her email. Mum isn’t remotely technological and barely goes online. She doesn’t even like booking airline tickets on the computer—she’s always moaning about the olden, pre-Internet days, when travel agencies did all that kind of thing for you. I can’t even imagine how slow that would have been.

So it’s totally, a hundred percent normal that Mum hasn’t got back to me yet. She’ll have her phone with her, on silent if necessary but never turned off, in case I need to
get in touch with her urgently; she’ll check it constantly for messages or missed calls, but it wouldn’t occur to her to keep checking her email.

She probably hasn’t even read it yet. It’s just not possible that she’s sobbing on her bed, curled up in a ball, reduced to an absolute tearstained mess because I wrote to her asking if there’s something about my birth that she and Dad haven’t told me.…

And yet, I can’t relax. I can’t sit still.

Unfortunately for my restless mood, it’s a quiet night in with no outside distractions. We’ve had dinner, at which Leonardo and Andrea didn’t make an appearance. So no offers from them to take us to the village for coffee and gelato, which we often do now. In Italy all the teenagers eat at home and go out afterward—in the summer, anyway—strolling down to a bar to sit outside, play table tennis or table football, say hi to all their friends, like a never-ending party that rolls over from one night to the next.

But tonight we’re party poopers, curled up in the small living room, what Paige and Kendra call the den, watching a film. It’s one of those American rom-coms with a lot of rude jokes and a hero who isn’t half as attractive as the heroine: he’s a bit doughy and plump, and loads older than she is, which seems unfair, as she’s in a bikini half the time and absolutely gorgeous. Everyone else is howling with laughter as the hero and his best friend accidentally crash their car into a septic tank and get drenched in poo, but though I’d normally be laughing along too, I can’t get into it.

My thoughts are completely elsewhere. It’s as if there’s a glass wall between me and the rest of them. I’m sitting
on the end of one of the big sofas, next to the open french doors, and when I get up and slip out onto the terrace I don’t think anyone even notices.

It’s a warm, velvety night. I’m wearing a T-shirt and light pajama bottoms, and the soft evening breeze is lovely on my bare arms as I pad around the side of the villa, cross the front lawn, and go down the short flight of steps into the ornamental garden, heading for the art studio on the far side. The moon is big and bright, almost full, and the outside lights are on to illuminate the parking lot for Elisa and Leonardo, neither of whom are home yet. I close my mind firmly to the implications of Elisa’s absence as I lift the big wooden bar that latches the studio door, swing it down, and pull the door open.

Flicking the bank of switches on the wall floods the studio with clear white light. I blink, my eyes accustoming themselves gradually to the sudden brightness; then I shut the door behind me and walk over to my easel, where my last sketch from this afternoon’s class is propped. Evan’s face, rendered in charcoal, looks back at me.

Well, sort of. I don’t think that if you showed it to someone who knew him, they’d recognize him. I do need to learn the basics. I found it hard to sketch Evan in black-and-white, maybe because his coloring is so strong: without his blond hair, his tanned skin, his blue eyes, it was hard to get a likeness. His features are neutral and even: regular, Luigi called them. To get the resemblance, I needed to focus on the eyes.

And I didn’t do a brilliant job. His squinch up more at the corners, and they have more of those fine white laugh lines in his tan.

I rub gently with my thumb around the contour of Evan’s eyes, erasing the outer corners. Then I pick up a stick of charcoal, think for a moment, and start to try to get the shape right.

I’ve discovered over the past few weeks that drawing or painting is the only thing in the world that can completely absorb me. It distracts me from any outside worries. When the art studio door closes, when I’m inside with paint or pastels or charcoal and a subject to focus on, I’m vacuum-sealed. The world beyond disappears.

I feel beyond lucky to have discovered this. Kendra has it with her physical exercise and sports, I think; Paige doesn’t need it, she never seems to have a care in the world. And Kelly? I don’t know if she’s found hers yet.

I should ask her
, I think vaguely as my hand carries on without me, erasing, redrawing, until I’ve gone over the outline so many times the paper’s getting dirty and I need to start again with a fresh piece, sketching Evan’s face partly from memory now, using the old one, propped up, as a rough guide to what worked and what didn’t. I have all the time in the world. Catia doesn’t keep a curfew on us; if they’re all going to bed, someone will work out where I am from the studio lights and come and get me, but I have hours yet.

I lose myself in what I’m doing, stepping back to look at what I’ve just done, stepping in to make corrections, the only sounds my slippered feet on the stone floor shuffling back and forth, and a quiet hum coming from between my slightly parted lips, a habit I’ve fallen into when I’m working. It isn’t a conscious decision when, eventually, I stop; my body seems to decide it for me. I know that I’m done when
I yawn, put down the charcoal, start rolling my head in a circle, and then shrugging my shoulders, easing out the stiffness that’s come from—I look at the clock—over two hours, working solidly.

I feel amazing, though exhausted from concentrating. I realize I’m grinning from ear to ear. I look at what I’ve done, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh. The portrait isn’t perfect, not by any means. But it’s definitely improved. Evan’s eyes look more the way they did when he smiled at me by the pool, crinkled at the outer corners; it was really hard to get those crinkles done without making them look like crow’s-feet, turning him into an old man, and I haven’t quite managed it.

Luigi’s coming the day after tomorrow for another art class
, I think as I yawn again, switch off the studio lights, and step outside into the dark.
I can show him this. I bet he’ll be impressed I’ve been working on my own
.

It’s past eleven. Lights are still on in the house, streaming out from the french doors of the den, and I hear the TV still going. The film must have finished; they’ll be on to something else by now. I walk slowly through the garden, coming down from the high of a successful sketching session, past the rose beds, and up the little flight of stone steps.

It’s so lovely and peaceful out here. I sit down on the top step, enjoying the calm and the varied sounds of the Tuscan night. An owl, hooting as it dives for its prey, its wings beating softly, and the squeaks of a mouse as the owl’s talons close around it. Bats, rustling in the cypress trees where they nest. A dog, barking far across the valley, probably at the wild boar that come out at night to forage for berries and
hazelnuts and walnuts. I’ve never seen a live one, but there’s a stuffed boar in the village outside the butcher’s, and it’s so formidable that I’m quite happy to have skipped that experience so far.

Then I hear a heavy rustling sound in the neatly clipped bay hedge that borders the lawn, and I stiffen, listening intently. It stops, and I relax, thinking it must have been the wind: but then it starts again, and I know it definitely isn’t the wind. It’s like an animal trying to push its way through, or rooting at the base of the hedge for food.

Oh no, not a boar! Not this close to the house, surely!
I stare nervously at the hedge. It’s dark, but I can see the leaves moving in a clump. There’s definitely something in there. I would think it was a dog, but there are none at the villa, and though we see the occasional half-feral cat, no cat’s big enough to make that much noise.…

This is crazy.

My brain’s spinning, working out what I’ll do if a wild boar comes through the hedge. I picture the spot where the sounds are coming from and visualize what’s below it, another short flight of stone steps that leads to a smaller lawn below. I can’t get to the house: the boar will emerge onto the lawn, blocking my access. I could try to nip back to the studio, but then how would I know when it was okay to come out? I could be in there all night!

You idiot
, I tell myself furiously.
Why did you have to start thinking about boar? It’s like you made one appear by thinking about it!

I’m biting my lip, trying to keep really still, as the bushes rustle more and more. I’m tucked in, my back against the
stone pillar at the top of the steps, and there are no lights anywhere near me. I’m completely in the dark; if I don’t move, the boar might not spot me. And if it does, I can dash down the steps and make for the studio.

Dry leaves crackle against each other as a dark shape emerges from a gap in the hedge. I stifle a gasp, biting on my lip harder.

I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I wish it had been a boar.

Because what I’m seeing, unmistakably, is Luigi and Kendra, tightly linked together, their arms around each other’s waists. That’s what caused all the rustling: the gap in the hedge is big enough for one person, but not two, unless they’re wrapped around each other so closely their shape is like a two-headed beast. As they emerge from the hedge, they stop and turn to each other, Kendra’s arms winding around Luigi’s neck as they kiss passionately.

I don’t move. Not a muscle. If it were a boar prowling the lawn for stray bits of food, I couldn’t stay any more still.

Kendra is wearing a pale dress and Luigi a white shirt and jeans; the light-colored clothing shows up against the hedge, a black background in the shadowy night. I see her hands running up and down his back, her face pressed against his. I wonder if Luca and I, kissing in the river, looked like this, wrapped up so tightly in each other’s arms that we were utterly oblivious to anything else around us. The memories of that night flood back so vividly that my eyes close as I remember the feel of his bare chest pressed against me, his bare arms around my waist, his wet skin so close, his skin slippery with river water.…

My eyes snap open. I mustn’t do this. I can feel my body melting just at the thought of Luca, and it’s much more dangerous to give in to these feelings in the warm, dark, romantic Italian night. I do understand Kendra and Luigi sneaking around, having a secret rendezvous by moonlight; what’s more, I have to admit I’m jealous, because I would love to do that myself. I know where they’ve been—set into the retaining wall of the lawn below is a curving alcove with a marble seat inside it, a perfect place for a couple to sit together and make out, with a spectacular view of the valley below by day and the stars in the sky at night. If Luca had asked me to sneak out and meet him there … if we were free to be together … I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Kendra and Luigi are still kissing passionately, so absorbed with each other that they haven’t even taken a moment to look to see if there’s anyone around. They’ve stopped just by the hedge, where they’re sheltered from the main terrace, but there are windows along the side of the villa, and gardens surround them, stepped on levels up and down the hillside. They could be spotted from so many different angles that the recklessness of what they’re doing makes me terrified for them.

The gravel border of the lawn is barely a foot away from me. I sneak my hand out, pick up a handful, and scatter it lightly as I slip down a couple of steps so that only my head emerges at the level of the lawn. They won’t be able to see me; I just hope the gravel noise did the trick, reminded them that they’re not alone out here in the moonlight. And that if they’re caught by Catia, or Elisa, they’ll both surely be in major trouble.

It works. From my low vantage point, I see them start and pull apart. Their whispers are soft; I can’t make out any words, but they must be asking themselves what that sound was, if anyone saw them. Luigi ducks back into the shadowy gap in the hedge. Kendra disappears briefly too, presumably for a last kiss goodnight, before emerging once more onto the lawn, smoothing down her skirt, strolling around the house with the aplomb of someone who has just been out for an evening walk alone, with absolutely no intention of meeting an art teacher who must be more than fifteen years older than her.

Only the occasional quick turns of her head give her away. She’s trying to see if there’s anyone else out here too, who might have spotted her and Luigi. But she’s looking much too high to see me kneeling on the fourth step down, and in a minute she’s looped around the side of the villa, presumably to go in by the kitchen door and sneak up to her room, so that no one will know she’s been out tonight at all.

No one but me. I stand up slowly, and then cross the lawn at a normal pace, just as I would if I were coming back directly from the studio after a sketching session. I feel like my head’s about to burst with what I’ve just seen, all the implications. When I reappear in the den, Paige, Evan, and Kelly are just finishing an old episode of
Friends
and are turning off the TV and DVD, heading for bed: my timing’s perfect. I mumble about being in the art studio, and no one even cares; they’re all sleepy and wound down. We stumble up to bed, saying goodnight to Evan, who’s crashing in the den while he’s here. Despite my pretense of sharing their sleepiness, my brain’s racing as fast as Luca shooting down
the hill earlier today. I don’t know what I should do now, whether I should tell anyone or pretend that, as far as I’m concerned, Kendra and Luigi’s secret meeting in the garden never happened.…