Chapter 12 Elisa
Elisa
When I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I find Giada busy putting on make-up.
It’s nothing new. Her make-up and hair are perfect every morning, but today something seems different.
Her hand trembles as she struggles to apply her eyeliner, something she can usually do in the dark.
“Elisa, look at me: Are my eyes the same size, or is one bigger than the other?” she asks anxiously.
“They look perfectly identical to me,” I reply, squeezing the toothpaste tube. “But I just woke up three minutes ago and haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Is the line too thick? Is it too long? I don’t look like Cleopatra, do I?”
“No, you’re beautiful enough to stop traffic, as always,” I reassure her. “This toothpaste tastes strange . . .”
My sister snatches the tube from the toothbrush holder and holds it up to my face. “Um . . . Elisa . . . You didn’t use this by any chance?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because it’s eyelash glue!”
“Whaaat?!” I spit and rinse with a liter of mouthwash.
“Never ask me anything before I have my coffee. And keep your things on your half of the vanity.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight today,” she says.
“I can see that. What’s going on with you?” I ask, even though in my mind, I’m thinking of all the horrible ways that eyelash glue could kill me. Will it be a sudden death or a slow and painful one?
“This afternoon Charles and I are going to Monteriggioni, and I don’t know if I’m dressed right, if it’s too much or too little . . .”
“You’re getting ready now to go this afternoon?” I ask, even more amazed. She cares a lot about her appearance, but she usually gets ready last-minute for her dates. She even has an app for her outfits so she doesn’t waste time. This version of Giada, insecure and anxious, is completely new to me.
“This morning I have three clients. I don’t want to be pressed for time and then find myself with hair that won’t style, bad make-up, and nothing to wear.”
“Hon, your closet is so full you take up half of mine. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Okay? I’m fine!” she exclaims, cheerful, her eyes gleaming. “It’s just . . . promise you won’t make fun of me for what I’m about to tell you.”
“I promise.”
“I think Charles is the one.”
“That’s what every mother in Belvedere thinks. Only Michael could beat him with how filthy rich he is, if he didn’t take such pride in having become such an arrogant asshole. He’s always been proud, but the years have brought out the worst in him.”
“You talk about Michael’s money as if it were his fault. He didn’t choose to be born into one of the wealthiest families in England.”
“No, his fault is insisting he’s better than everyone else.”
“Look who’s talking,” Giada sprays a jet of hairspray in my face. “Miss, ‘No one here is good enough for me.’ It’s no coincidence that the only person to whom you extended the gift of your pristine flower was—”
“Shh!” I silence her with a hand over her mouth. “Are you crazy? Linda is in the other room! What if she hears you?”
“If only she did. That kid has every right to know whose daughter she is.”
“It’s irrelevant,” I cut her short. “And anyway, we were talking about you. How did we end up on me?”
“You were the one who mentioned Michael,” she retorts. “Actually, ever since he made his appearance here, you somehow manage to slip him into every conversation.”
“That’s not remotely true. In any case, you were saying that Carletto is the one . . .”
“As soon as we saw each other again, a spark lit up inside me, and now I feel like I’m on fire!”
“Pepto-Bismol,” I say, taking the box from the medicine cabinet. “Four times a day after meals. Works like a charm.”
“You take the antacid,” she retorts. “It’ll do you good. He and I, on the other hand, are on the same wavelength. We get each other, and he’s kind, and thoughtful, and a romantic dreamer with his feet on the ground. He’s my ideal man.”
“I wish I had a euro for every time you’ve said that.” I’d be richer than the Aga Khan. “Like the time you fell in love with that poet, whatshisname? The one who dedicated all those sonnets to you. It was supposed to be forever until he disappeared.”
“I’ve uninstalled MatchMe and all my other dating apps,” she exclaims, showing me her phone.
I don’t believe it. Someone call a doctor. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as a tax collector.”
I believe her. I’m used to her crushes, but I’ve never seen her quite like this: She’s literally emanating light. “I’m happy for you, even though Carletto will take you around the world from New York to Singapore like you’ve dreamed of all your life, and I’ll basically never see you again.”
“It’s still early to think that far ahead, but I think he feels the same about me. If we do end up together, I’ll find a way to visit often . . . Even if it’s just to make the wives and their poisonous daughters seethe.”
I’m about to reply that it would be a scene I’d happily watch with popcorn and a Coke, when, in the silence, I hear someone talking.
“Giada, listen,” I say.
“What?”
I point my finger toward the ceiling, in the direction of the voice. “Do you hear a man speaking?” It’s definitely a man, judging by the baritone.
Giada nods. “Yeah, I hear it. It’s coming from outside, though.”
We open the window and now the voice seems as if it’s coming right from . . . the roof?!
I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, just something about a Bogdanovic, or rather, I think it’s Bogdanovic. Giada and I open the shutters and hear a scream followed by a figure falling right before our eyes.
We look down, and on the pile of enriched fertilizer bags Mamma uses for her geraniums is Michael, splayed out with his cell phone in one hand. Next to him is an overturned ladder.
“Do you think he’s dead?” Giada asks me, worried, though he answers by letting out a hoarse moan.
I race down to the courtyard, where Michael is still recovering from his fall. “Were you trying to kill me?” he asks as soon as he sees me.
“What the hell were you doing up there?” Luckily the annex only has two stories, and Mamma always has a nice supply of fertilizer ready to go.
“I had to send some work emails and take a few video calls.”
“And to do that, you decided to climb a ladder to our roof?”
“That’s the only place there seems to be a signal.”
“How did you know that?” I ask him.
“Linda, Donatella’s great-niece. Big help around here.”
“Too big.” If I superglued my daughter’s lips together, would child services come after me? “So you’re making millions on our roof?”
“No . . . it was nothing important . . . a regular call. Hey, how about you and I get a pizza tonight?”
He comes out with this invitation so casually, out of nowhere, that it catches me off guard. “What?”
“To chat, catch up on all these years we’ve missed. Weren’t we friends once, or am I mistaken?”
“You’re not mistaken, but we’ll have to do it some other time.”
“Are you busy?” he asks, finally getting to his feet.
“I’m not, you are,” I reply cryptically.
“I am?” Michael frowns, confused. “I have absolutely no plans.”
“You’re having dinner at Regina Cozzi’s,” I reply with a devilish grin.
“I haven’t planned any dinner, and I assure you I haven’t lost my memory in the fall.”
“You’re right; you didn’t plan a thing. I did.”
“You?”
“Yeah. And tomorrow you’re having an aperitif with Intemerata and then a picnic with Pompilia.”
“I don’t have any suitable clothes,” he replies with an obvious excuse. “I still don’t have my suitcase, and my only shirt has now been fertilized.”
“At the local store, they’ll be more than happy to outfit you with a brand-new wardrobe. You won’t find any Armani or Prada there, but Regina will still like you just as you are.”
“Great,” he replies sarcastically. “How can I ever thank you.”
“Look at it this way: Once your dates with the three Cozzi cousins are over, we can go out for that pizza. And don’t try to cancel. You’ll offend the ladies.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle all three at once.”
Yes! If the Cozzi cousins deliver the best of their worst, I think they’ll make Michael think twice about strutting around the way he does, I muse as I watch him leave.
As he walks down the path leading out of the courtyard, he takes off his shirt and stops at the fountain, where he takes the hose and showers the fertilizer from his body.
I could go back inside, but for some reason I’m stuck there, in the doorway.
“Maremma infoiata!” Mamma exclaims, planting herself at my side. “Is that Michelangelo’s David right here in our courtyard?!”
Giada materializes on my left. “Two, four, six . . . eight!”
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask my sister.
“Counting his abs.”
“I thought you were all about Carletto?!” I reproach her. “And you, Mamma, aren’t you a little old for . . . for . . . for . . .” I would like to conclude with “drooling,” but I can’t bring myself to say it.
“I’m old, not blind!”
“Whose abs?” Linda interjects, peeking out of the kitchen window, but fortunately Michael is already too far away to hear her.
“No one’s,” I say, more to myself than to her.
I may be out for revenge, but I start to feel a tinge of annoyance at the thought of Michael out on those romantic dates I’ve arranged.