Chapter 27 Michael
Michael
“What if I told you I kissed Elisa?” I ask Charles, while we indulge in a game of billiards after dinner.
“Are you saying you’ve realized there’s more to her than her personality?”
“Well, I didn’t really get to confirm it . . .” She spared me little mercy, but I admit I keep wishing we’d taken things further.
“So, you like her?”
“I don’t know. It’s all very confusing. One minute she’s a witch who can get on my nerves like no one else; the next minute the only thing that stops me from jumping on her and tearing her clothes off is the violation of at least nine articles of the penal code.”
Charles, with the cue resting on his shoulders, in his typically indolent pose and the expression of someone who is not remotely surprised, shakes his head mockingly. “Is that so?”
“I can’t define the gray area we’re in.” Damn! I just shot at one of Bingley’s balls.
“Did she kiss you back?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course she kissed me back. Who are we talking about here?”
Bingley reaches across the table, aiming for the yellow billiard. “Was she active or passive?”
I retrace those few long and torrid moments in the cellar. “Active.” Damn, she was active. “Just that . . .”
“Just, what?”
“Eh . . . we still had more left to explore,” I say, my thumb and forefinger clutching the blue chalk. “But she stopped, said it was a mistake, and ran out.”
“What the hell did you do to her?” he asks me, amazed.
“Me? Nothing! Not yet, at least. I don’t know what happened.”
“The classic last-second change of heart,” says Charles, with a mock-pained tone.
“Oh, will you stop playing Dr. Strangelove?”
“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here, talking to me, would you?”
“Guess not.”
“Change of heart about what?” a third voice interrupts. It’s Caroline, returning from the spa.
“Nothing. Charles is nervous about turbulence on his flight to New York,” I say. If there’s one person I want to keep out of my business, it’s her. “You know how much he hates flying.”
“I wouldn’t care if I had to fly in cargo,” says Caroline. “Landing in New York after this week in the middle of nowhere will be like coming back to earth.”
“At least one of us is happy about it,” Charles mutters, missing his shot.
“Why do you want to stay here?” she asks, dazed.
“Not why, but for whom,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Is there something I should know?”
“No, but if you really must, I’m seeing someone, and it’s serious,” says Charles.
“Giada,” I point out.
Caroline bursts out laughing. “The words Giada and serious cannot be used in the same sentence. Charles, please, she’s so cheap!”
“You think anyone who doesn’t wear Dior from head to toe like you is cheap,” he dismisses her. “Plus, I’m the one who has to like her, not you.”
Caroline looks at me, annoyed. “Look, Michael, you’ve seen them together, what do you think?”
“I think our Charles has had a nice trip, as usual. You know how he is, right? He floats three feet off the ground, his eyes turn into hearts, he daydreams . . .”
“Just because you’ve never been in love doesn’t give you the right to make fun of me,” he replies. “When it happens to you—when, not if—you’ll be even worse.”
“I doubt it.”
Donatella interrupts us with a light knock and enters with a tray. “Passionflower tea for Miss Bingley, with house honey.”
“Thanks, pour me a cup. No honey,” she replies without even looking at her. “Please, Charles! Think about it—what’s the point of being in a relationship with someone who lives in Chianti?”
“It actually won’t be long distance. We talked about it. She’s not particularly fond of Belvedere either and would love to broaden her horizons; at the end of the year, she’ll come be with me in London.”
“There you have it.” I stop him, after Donatella has left us. “You may be perfectly over the moon, but are you sure she isn’t with you because you’re a walking, all-inclusive one-way ticket to London?”
Okay, maybe I’m coming across as an asshole, but Bingley is soft as they come, and a smart woman could easily eviscerate him. I’m his best friend. It’s my job to warn him about these things.
“He’s right,” Caroline echoes. “For a broke country beautician, you’re practically a diamond mine in South Africa.”
“You two see bad intentions everywhere,” he replies, leaning on the edge of the billiard table. “Saturday night, we’re having a reunion dinner with friends from when we were kids. Watch us together, and you’ll see Giada and I are serious.”
Caroline rolls her eyes. “Sounds like torture, but I’m happy to sacrifice myself for the cause.”
“It won’t be a sacrifice and there is no cause,” he replies.
“Maybe, but someone could make eyes at you over a petrol pump and come away with something. You’re also not bad-looking; I’m sure it wasn’t a stretch for her to indulge herself,” insists Caroline, much more ruthless than I would ever dare to be.
Although, if the rumors are true, Giada has extended her graces to just about everyone, though I won’t say this to Bingley.
“Look”—I intervene to calm things down but still try to keep some leverage—“we may be wrong, but just in case we’re not, why don’t you slow it down a little?
” I suggest. “Now it’s intense, you’re seeing each other all day, every day, maybe it seems bigger than it is.
You have a few trips over the next few weeks.
Put some space and time between you and Giada and see if anything changes.
You always throw yourself into these things from the high dive, holding your breath until you bottom out.
Listen to me: Come to the surface and get some air.
Maybe you’ll realize that what you mistook for an ocean is just a kiddie pool.
” I lean over the table and take aim. “Purple in the corner pocket.”
Bingley, however, puts the cue back in its brass holder with an annoyed huff. “You two can play, I’m done,” he snaps. But first, he stops in the doorway and points his finger at me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be feeling so superior. You have your own problems to solve.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, angrily.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Michael. You’re too smart not to have noticed.”