23. MAGDALEN
23
MAGDALEN
My hands shake at my sides as I hear the gate close. Taking a deep breath, I sink down in the chair that Theo had sat in moments ago, wondering what the hell just happened.
I gave Theo Sinclair a haircut, shirtless?
I’m not one to fawn and blush over men who keep in shape, but, fuck me . Besides, it’s not like I have never seen him without a shirt. Years of going to the tennis club with the Sinclairs, swimming in the pool or watching our families play football together have familiarized me with shirtless teen boys. But Theo Sinclair is no longer a teen boy. In fact, the word ‘boy’ feels offensive to describe him. This was different. He is different. Was he always this fit? Broad shoulders hardened with muscle spanning his entire body. Tanned skin stained with the dark ink of his tattoos. Painfully sculpted abdominals.
I press my fingers to my temple, trying to shake the image of the tattoos stretched taught against his chest, his shoulder blades. While he was quick to mention the ankh, he didn’t acknowledge the scarab on his back. The beetle somehow belongs on him, the hard shell looking ominous and unforgiving, as if it guards him. But what really caught my eye were the wings. Spanning past his shoulder blades and hooked around his biceps, they have become a part of him, giving the illusion of movement at the slightest flex of muscle. And the ankh symbol that rests against his collarbone, historically a symbol of life, somehow looked foreboding on his body. As if warning off anyone who comes too near. Stay away , it seemed to scream. Stay far away from him . My fingers yearned to trace its outline, drawn to the parallel between the two symbols. The key to life marks his front and yet the symbol of resurrection covers his back. Another mystery. It seems I’m constantly reminded of how much I don’t know about him. Dragging me from my daydream, the sliding doors jerk open.
‘What are you still doing here?’ Anika shrieks as she observes me in my bikini and shorts. ‘We’ve got to be at dinner in two and a half hours, Mag! You need to shower and...’
‘Anika, I could get ready three times in two and a half hours!’ I try to contain my laughter as she walks towards me, utter horror in her eyes.
‘But... but there could be men there, Mag! Torino equals city men. Men that will pay for our drinks and date us and not look like they don’t know how to do laundry!’ Grabbing my wrist, she hauls me off the chair and towards the house. I steal one last look back at the chair and wonder if any of this really happened.
Steam from the shower floats through the bathroom and onto the floor of my bedroom. Shaved, scrubbed and spotless, I scour through the dresses that Marta picked out for me and groan. Tonight, all members of the Savoys and Sinclairs will be together for the first time in over seven years. Seven years . There was once a time in my life I thought I couldn’t live without any of them. I hold the light pink slip dress and swallow hard.
Anika has picked the restaurant. As per her recommendation, we will be going to a waterside venue looking towards the Po, the longest river in Italy. University had only sticky-table quiz nights at the pub and cheeky McDonald’s runs. It’s been a while since I’ve had to actively think about how I want to present myself. Anxiety spreads into the centre of my chest, a deep worry at the reunion. There was once comfort in our little quilt of a family, crocheted together with our museum, with faded scopa cards beside the hearth and Cinzia’s rosemary lemonade. But now?
I slip off the towel and throw the dress on, then walk to the mirror to look at myself, my toes skimming the bathroom floor.
I grew up watching Theo Sinclair flirt. I can recite his routine, the lazy smile and slow wink, how deep his voice can get when he’s in the mood for more. It was fascinating to observe from afar. He had the uncanny ability to make every girl in Chivasso feel like a real woman. He knew where to stare, how to elicit flushed cheeks and nervous laughter. Never once did I imagine being, or even wanting to be, on the receiving end of his charm. Because while those girls felt special for a few hours, blushed and giggled and fluttered their eyelashes in fascination, I also know that they hurt for days after. That something never quite heals when you’re forgotten by Theo Sinclair. No man should have that power. It’s disgusting and infuriating and anti-feminist, in fact, that we as a collective gender could all be burned by the same, beautiful fire.
I don’t want to hurt. And I certainly don’t want him to know that I’ve never really kissed anyone.
I’m embarrassed and ashamed and these firsts were supposed to be had with someone, drunkenly at a pub in Oxford, a place where no one needs to know who I am. For the experience. I’ve always thought about intimacy as something I need to just get over. Like a driver’s test or gynaecologist appointment. Something about Theo being the first to experience the messiness of my firsts makes acid crawl up my spine. I’m just the last girl in Chivasso available.
Despite my better judgement, I want him to want me. To be desired for a minute and maybe get to use what he teaches me with someone new, someone permanent. The thought strikes an idea in my mind that makes me pause.
He could teach me.
Is that selfish? No, no. I would be mortified to ask. I physically shake my head enough to dispel the ludicrous idea.
Wiping the steam away from the mirror, I find my reflection and gape. The dress is stunning. Dusty pink silk falls delicately over my body, outlining the shape of my hips, the dip of my belly button, enhancing the swell of my breasts – giving the complete facade of femininity. I smile, silently thanking Marta for her magic touch.
Suddenly the prospect of seeing Theo tonight is less daunting. Do I disgrace feminism for feeling more confident in a little pink dress? Brushing out the wet strands and smothering the ends in an oil Anika brought me from her trip to Nice a few years ago, I shake my head from left to right to get rid of any excess water. Too hot for a hairdryer. Once the blood has settled back into my head, I stare at the makeup bag that sits on the bathroom counter. Bedazzled with my name, it was a present from my mother when I was fifteen. A symbolic metamorphosis from girl to woman disguised in a chrome box with the letters MAG glued on with pink rhinestones. I peer into the box and feel excited for the first time seeing it. It’s not so much a desire to change who I am, but a chance to show how I feel from the inside out. Taking a peach-coloured blush, I sweep the shade over my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, then lightly on my eyelids.
‘Not bad.’ I tilt my head to the side. Curiosity and a sudden power surging through me at the possibilities of what or who I can choose to be tonight. My hand dives into the chipped box.
Let’s see what we can do.