Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
‘W ait, Gemma!’ Weasel is calling out to me and running across the driveway.
I think about ignoring him but just in case there’s anyone from my family watching, I force myself to turn around.
‘I’m coming with you. I tried to say that but you just exploded out of there like you were part of a bunting storm-out.’ He grins at me as he arrives at the car. ‘Boyfriend duties.’
‘You really don’t have to.’
‘I do.’ He turns and nods towards the foyer, where Lulu is staring at us through the window, as though she could sense something. ‘Maybe we should hug? Even if you look a bit homeless.’
God, he’s enjoying this.
‘Not a chance.’
‘Fine, but at least look like you’re happy to be spending time with me, your loving boyfriend.’
‘You can drive then,’ I say, throwing him the keys. ‘ Loving boyfriend.’
He walks towards the carpark, but I nod at the tiny little car. ‘Your chariot awaits.’
‘You have to be joking,’ he says, eyeing it up.
‘Well, you can always go back to the hotel…’ I plead with the universe.
He shakes his head and shrugs. ‘Nah, I got this. Easy.’
I’ve never laughed so much as when Weasel tries to stuff himself in that driver’s seat. He wiggles around a bit, but not a part of him can move. ‘Well, this is … tight.’
Laughing, I settle into the passenger seat, finally finding a great reason to be small.
‘I see you find this funny.’ He is hunched forward in the driver’s seat, so his long legs are bent like a spider’s and his knees could almost be earrings.
‘Too … funny,’ I manage to splutter, in between those hiccupping laughs you get when you can’t catch your breath.
The car, with the added weight and height of Weasel, almost stalls as we turn onto the gravel road, and I hold on to the sides of the seat as it suddenly lurches forward under his heavy foot. I’m sure he’s used to a convertible sports car, zooming around with supermodels cooing at him, not a matchbox car.
‘This car is a shit,’ Weasel mutters under his breath.
‘You know, if you were a car, you’d be one of these.’
‘Well, Gemma I’m not really that small at all?—’
Ew . ‘Don’t even start…’
‘I meant my height . I’m six foot three. And, while we’re on the subject, you’d be a Mini Cooper.’
‘Oh they’re quite savvy. Vintage. I’ll take it.’ I sit back with a satisfied nod.
‘No, like a three-wheeler one. Like the one Mr Bean drives around London and it keeps tipping over.’
He wants to get under my skin, but I won’t let him. ‘A-ha, so one that requires great driving skills, and doesn’t just go for anyone.’ I felt quite chuffed with my witty response.
‘For no one actually.’
His comment doesn’t even sting. I feel proud of myself. ‘Actually, on second thought, Thomas Benjamin, you’d be a tank that plods over everyone, but one of those ones that have run out of petrol and have been lost in the desert.’
He can’t help but crack a small mile. ‘With just a nozzle sticking up?’
‘Rusted.’ I poke my arm up as though it was a sad little rusted tank nozzle. ‘Forgotten.’ And I can’t help but laugh at the idea of Weasel as a rusted tank.
‘I don’t know why I helped you out.’ He shakes his head, trying to ignore my laughing, which has become weird little snorts as I struggle to breathe. I start laughing harder, and he looks at me like he wants to throw me out of the car. This feels different … and suddenly, I realise, I’m enjoying this.
Sighing, he shifts the gears as we near a hairpin turn, and the car makes a weird clunking sound. He looks at me and says, ‘By the way, you sound like a walrus when you laugh.’
And I take pleasure in that too because I can tell I’ve hassled him enough that he’s lost his charm for a second, and is trying to get under my skin, and it isn’t working.
On the way to Florence, we have to stop multiple times as Weasel has lost feeling in his foot, which makes me laugh even harder. At one point he has to lift his left onto the car bonnet to stretch out a cramp and I try not to look at how muscular and tanned his legs are in navy shorts, like he’s a regular rower.
The memory of the kiss this morning – Weasel’s lips on mine – flashes in my head. I think about it for two seconds before I put on a layer of lip balm to try and cover the sensation. I try not to think about, or look at, his inviting lips from then on.
My intent is to keep everything completely PG, so when he gets back into the car, I say quickly, ‘Do you bottle tan?’
He smirks. ‘Staring at my legs, Gemma?’
‘Only out of pity. I heard you’re meant to exfoliate first, otherwise it streaks.’
He looks down at his legs quickly, and I feel a pang of happiness. Got him again! The look on his face tells me I’ve won round two. I kinda like this less charming version of Weasel; he seems almost … human .
When we get close to the store, he turns into a small avenue next to the famous street Via Maggio, and drives past a small Bar Tabacchi. A little further on he manages to expertly park the car right outside a little trattoria, with one hand on the wheel like a race car driver, which even I have to admit is a little impressive. Inside the shop, we buy the entire stock of powered yellow bunting. All of it, just in case. I think it cost about a hundred euros.
On the way out, I stand on the side of the narrow cobbled roadway, looking around this big, beautiful city, and thinking about the history of such a place. I’ve been in such a rush before I haven’t had time to take it all in: the curved narrow streets, so many beautiful big doorways, some heavy bronze, lavishly decorated, with high archways, some tiny and in between ancient stone archways and walls. I run my hand over the cool stone, gaining some respite from the heat, and I imagine what living here hundreds of years ago would have been like.
As I walk towards the car, I trail a finger across a red wooden door, and wonder who I would have been if I’d lived during the Renaissance. A peasant woman? Likely a girl that dresses as a boy and poses as a writer all her life just for the chance of being published?—
‘Come on, Michelangelo, before you decide you need to start painting it,’ he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me away. I give him a withering look, and try not to notice that his hand is large and warm, and my hand feels small and delicate in his. Because being nice to each other isn’t something we do, I pull my hand away and say defensively, ‘I can walk, you know.’
He shrugs, his blue eyes becoming a bit cloudy, and says, ‘Suit yourself’.
And instead of thinking strike three ! I feel … almost guilty.
Back in the little yellow car we zoom out of the city. On the way, we take the famous Lungarno Torrigiani freeway, which stretches along the south bank of the Arno River. Across the water, on the shoreline, are historic buildings with bright yellow facades, the brilliant green hills of Tuscany behind. It’s glorious and for a second I forget that I hate Weasel, because I can’t help but feel extremely happy.
I sigh contentedly. ‘I love Italy.’
Weasel glances at me. ‘Yeah, it’s beautiful. Have you been to Pienza?’
I shake my head.
‘It has beautiful cobbled streets.’
‘And little piazzas?’
‘Yep, most of them honey-coloured. And an ancient well.’
I nod enthusiastically and wonder who he went there with, but I can’t bring myself to ask.
‘You’d love it there, I bet. It’s one of the most romantic places.’ He says this without a hint of cynicism. Is this man a romantic? Surely not.
‘It does sound wonderful.’
We share a look and it makes me feel … unusual. I sense his eyes running across my face and when I take a quick side-eye glance at him, he smiles. He is being at least twenty per cent nicer than he’s ever been in his life. Shocked that neither of us is being snarky or haughty for once, I’m caught off guard. I try to remember that I hate him, but I can’t summon the feeling.
‘We could go now, take a little road trip.’
‘We couldn’t.’
‘It would just take an hour. No one would miss us.’
A little road trip to a romantic city? Weasel and I? What madness is this? And why do I feel slightly tempted?
‘No, we can’t.’ I try to say it firmly, sticking to my guns. I stare down at the map unfolded near my feet and try not to watch his large hand as it shifts the gear stick with an authority that makes me sweat a bit. ‘Are you hot? I’m hot.’ I wind down the window, but the air is steamy and sticky outside, so I wind it back up.
‘How about that newly found invention – the air-conditioning?’ He gives me a puzzled glance and turns up the dial, and a stream of slightly cooler air huffs into the small car.
I’m thankful he changed the subject. ‘Do you think Lulu would even have noticed the sunshine yellow bunting if we’d just hung it up?’ he asks.
‘Without a doubt. Don’t let her innocent looks fool you. Lulu’s like a shark: she can sniff out a drop of bad colour anywhere. She works for British Vogue .’
‘Oh what a paragon of the world,’ he says with a hint of sarcasm.
For the next ten minutes we chat about Lulu’s job, and interiors, and then he asks if I could design the interior of any house what my style would be.
Him: industrial glass and steel.
Me: Tuscan country cottage.
‘Yours sounds like a fortress.’
‘Yours sounds like it’s full of the colour peach, from the 1980s.’
I shrug. ‘You and I are so different. I don’t think we’d ever agree on one thing in this entire universe.’
Just as I say that, Weasel turns the car onto a lovely stretch of winding road, to the right of which is an old millhouse entirely made of stone, and a cute little wooden sign out the front that says formaggio .
‘Let’s stop and try some,’ Weasel suggests.
I have images of Lulu losing her shit over the bunting. It’s been three hours since she originally sent me out and it would be siesta soon, and then afternoon tea.
‘I don’t have time.’
He’s already slowing down near the turn and I can feel myself waning. ‘C’mon, just twenty minutes.’
I look at my watch. ‘We can’t be late. Lulu would kill me, skin me alive and probably keep my head on a stick outside her house as a warning to everyone else. Bunting is a very serious matter.’
‘She’d have to go through me first.’ He winks, turning into the gravel driveway. ‘And if it’s got to do with a wheel of brie, I’m going to come out swinging.’
I feel myself relenting. Cheese in any form is most definitely my kryptonite. It would be nice to have some soft delicate brie, even if it was with Satan. ‘Fine. Five minutes.’
‘And who knows, they may not have a dress code and will be fine letting a homeless person in.’ He smirks.
As a reflex, I lean over to hit him, but I have terrible aim, and manage instead of getting his arm, to swat at his chest, where his white shirt is open and I touch his wall of muscle and feel his chest hair. Instantaneously I snatch my hand back as though it’s been burned. Yikes.
‘Gemma.’ He leans over and looks me deeply in the eyes. Close. Very close . ‘If you want to touch me, you just have to ask.’
‘You’re revolting,’ I say, but it seems to lack the sting it had just a day ago. I busy myself getting out of the car and making sure I walk at least a metre away from him, keeping a distance so he knows I didn’t want to touch him.
The old stone building is gorgeous. On the outside it looks like a little church, inside is the cutest little cheesemonger’s, with beautiful soft pecorinos. There’s a hard cheese that’s aged in mountain caves, and a creamy goats log. And my favourite: melt-in-your-mouth creamy mozzarella. There’s a wheel of parmigiano, about a metre wide, and the man behind the counter shaves off slice after slice, with the sharpest of knives.
Weasel orders for both of us, and I’m surprised, because he selects exactly what I was hoping he would: a sample platter of five different cheeses, with a cluster of tiny round tomatoes that burst against the roof of our mouths.
The waiter offers us a rosé, the colour of soft pink petals. Weasel orders a bottle, and out of spite, I decide not to drink it, but it smells like soft, blushing honey, and is called bacio al lampone – raspberry kiss – so I can’t help myself.
It’s cool and flowery. Slightly sweet. Delicious.
The waiter arrives with olives, handpicked he assures us, from the nearby grove. They’ve been covered by a dash of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt. I close my eyes and eat one. It makes my lips slippery and taste so salty, I don’t know how to describe it, other than to say that it’s a thousand times better than the bottled ones I usually buy at Coles.
‘It’s like sea air and deep earth,’ I murmur.
Weasel laughs. ‘Have you ever thought of being a writer?’
My eyes snap open. Does he know? Has Tony let on? I try not to look at his mesmerisingly full lips, slippery with oil too. I ignore him and drink the cool honeyed wine.
‘So? Have you?’
‘Can I get some more of that rosé?’ I try to keep my voice steady, and act as if he’s not said something that travels straight from his smooth, deep voice to my heart. That’s the most vulnerable part of me. The soft squishy starfish underbelly. Not a chance I’d ever let on to him – even Adam doesn’t know I want to be a writer. He’d want to map out a series of best-selling books for me to write, and I know he’d ask me how much a writer makes and I’d have to admit: not much at all. Unless you’re one of the two per cent of authors that sell a million books, but most writers aren’t; they do it for the love of writing, not for the paycheck.
Back in the car, the two glasses of wine have softened me. Italy has softened me. I don’t even hate Weasel anymore. Suddenly, I’m not even worried about getting back, or Lulu, and I roll down the window and let my hand ride the breeze. It feels it hot on my skin. Still hungry, I eat camembert straight from the shopping bag of cheese Weasel insisted we purchase, using my fingers as a knife.
‘Can I have some? Or are you also a cheese hoarder? Should I know this about you?’ he asks.
‘I am a cheese hoarder. Also biscuits,’ I say, carving him out a piece. ‘Mind my fingers.’
‘Should I disinfect myself?’ he teased. ‘Don’t know where those fingers have been.’
‘Well, I can tell you where: on a dirty bonnet, on a map, in a bunting store, all across the city of Florence, and worse still, I had to touch this guy last night during a dance, and I have no idea what he gets up to.’ I plunk the piece of cheese into his outstretched hand.
‘You’re telling me you haven’t showered since then?’
I try not to smile, but I’m sure he catches me quickly before I look out the window. ‘I have .’
On the way back, we’re held up on a tiny, narrow road behind an English tourist in a slightly bigger vehicle than ours, with a flat tyre, and Weasel gets out to help him. I think he’s taking the ‘I’m a nice guy’ act way too far because I’m sure the real Weasel would just sit back and beep like the other asshole did to me earlier.
At first, I find myself watching Weasel and his muscular arms pump away as he jacks the car into the air and I’m surprised at how easily he does it.
Back at the hotel, late and anxious, the glow of the wine has worn off and a headache looms across my temples.
Weasel grabs my left hand as we walked into the foyer, and when I look down in surprise, he says, ‘Just in case.’ He seems to be taking these pretend boyfriend duties even more seriously than I am.
I try to ignore the warmth of his hand as I quickly walk, almost jog, across the foyer, dragging him with me, and hand the bunting to the concierge like I’m suddenly on The Amazing Race . ‘Please make sure these go up in the oil mill immediately. It’s for the afternoon tea, and’ – I lower my voice – ‘the bride will have a fit if they’re not there like, um, pronto.’
The concierge nods, and I turn around and breathe a quick sigh of relief. We’ve made it, relatively unscathed.
‘Can I have my hand back now?’ I say, detangling myself and walking purposefully towards the lift. My mind is already back in wedding planning mode, racing as I think about what colour I’m allowed to wear, and whether I need to check on Lulu.
Weasel swaggers next to me. ‘Now how about a wine to celebrate Buntinggate? Go upstairs, have a shower, get dressed and come back down in ten minutes.’
‘Stop ordering me around like this is the 1950s. How about you go upstairs, have a shower, get dressed and come down in ten minutes.’
‘How about we both do it?’
I check his face for a hint of mockery, but he seems sincere.
Inside the lift, he presses the button for the second floor.
‘I’m cutting it fine as it is, and I need to check on Lulu, and do all those other sisterly pre-wedding things, before I even consider getting changed for the ladies’ afternoon tea. Which I’m already probably late for. And you have the boys’ golf afternoon.’
‘Since you’re busy, I could bring a wine to you.’
I stare at him, and then look around. ‘You don’t need to pretend to be nice. No one’s even in earshot. This is a lift.’
He gives me one of those earth-shattering smiles, which I expect makes the pants of unsuspecting women fly off – not mine – but I have to admit, something in me jolts a little. The lift door opens and we step out, and I’m half expecting some witty one-liner, but instead, he glances at me with those blue sapphire eyes as he walks towards his room, and says without a trace of sarcasm, ‘Who says I’m pretending?’