Birdy
So she used the rhyme, like Henry VIII.
What was it, now? Oh yes.
Divorced, Beheaded, Died. Divorced, Beheaded, Survived.
No, only six. She counted them off on her diamond-clad fingers.
And none were beheaded, though she wouldn’t mind.
Still, instead of cutting off their heads, she’d taken them to the cleaner’s.
Well, that’s what they’d said, according to their lawyers, though the language had a been a bit more .
. . well, one could say fruity, another could say, ‘You Fucking Cunt!’
That had been husband number four. But then he would say that, as she’d caught him in bed with his secretary, which was so much of a cliché, she couldn’t be bothered getting annoyed about it.
She’d simply changed the locks on their Park Avenue apartment, transferred all their stocks and mutual funds from their joint account and into her name (like she didn’t keep a note of all the passwords?
What was she? Some dumb-ass wife?) and called her lawyer.
Much better than cutting off anyone’s head. Less messy.
Much better to cut off their balls instead.
So now here she was: single, on vacation and ready for romance.
Sitting outside a glorious cafe in Rome, surrounded by designer shopping bags and enjoying her second negroni, she was watching the world go by.
Europe in the summer was so much more fun than being back on the East Coast. Everyone she knew decamped from Manhattan to the Hamptons with their families; all beige-knit crews, whitewashed houses and casual elegance.
All those women trying to be Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give, only with fat, balding banker husbands who were nothing like Jack Nicholson.
Now, he was something.
Talk about dull. Not Jack, of course, he was a blast, but the Hamptons.
Everyone was bored out of their fucking minds, but no one would say it.
Casual elegance might look stylish in a magazine shoot, but in real life it was mind-numbing.
Who cared about the size of their new kitchen island?
Or their guest lists? Or that they were featured in Architectural Digest with their driftwood furniture and ocean neutrals?
As for walking barefoot on the beach collecting pebbles, it was totally overrated. The sand got fucking everywhere and she had flat arches.
Plus, frankly, the only rocks she was interested in were the ones on her fingers.
Birdy adjusted her oversized sunglasses and bestowed her gaze upon the piazza, which was teeming with tourists from all walks of life, locals going about their daily business, delivery vans, scooters, workmen.
So much better being here amongst all the chaos of life.
There’s a reason people listened to ocean waves to send them to sleep.
Being in the Hamptons was like being in a coma.
She stirred the ice in her drink; it made that magical clinking sound against the glass, which just had to be one of the most wonderful sounds ever.
She once dated a guy who said one of the best sounds was morning birdsong.
He used to rise at the crack of dawn to stand in one of those wooden huts with his binoculars.
Total opposites. She liked to get up late and her favourite sound was champagne corks popping.
Or live music in a late-night, underground jazz club in Paris.
Or the cabin crew instructing her to ‘Turn left, ma’am’ as she boarded an aeroplane.
No, they were not a match made in heaven.
Which was where he was now, God bless his soul.
He ended up being husband number three, but they were only married a few months before he died.
Apparently the sight of a Kirtland’s warbler, one of the rarest songbirds in North America, got him so excited it caused a massive heart attack.
And they say cigarettes and alcohol kill you. Birdwatching could be deadly.
Think about that when you’re hanging your fat balls in the garden.
Birdy removed her straw and took a sip of her negroni.
Always remember: sip, not suck. At least when it came to drinks.
Straws should be illegal. Everyone went on about the environmental damage they caused, but did you have any idea the damage they do to your lips?
All that puckering up made your mouth look like a cat’s ass.
It would cost you thousands in filler to repair the damage to your cupid’s bow and you needed someone skilled with a needle.
Mouths were tricky. Manhattan was filled with women with bloated, overfilled trout pouts pretending they looked different because they’d just got a new lipstick.
Yeah right. It was like when celebrities shared their beauty secrets and it was always ‘Drink lots water and get eight hours’ sleep’, and never the number of their surgeon.
No, always sip. Much better, much sexier too.
Woah, who was that?
In the middle of sipping her drink, she clocked a young Italian priest walking past. He threw her a smile and she tipped her sunglasses onto her nose, raised an eyebrow and smiled back.
See, that’s why she loved Europe. Growing up in the US, she’d spent her entire teenage years desperate to be twenty-five – then the next fifty being told she had to remain looking twenty-five to be attractive.
It was such bullshit. European men appreciated women of all ages. They found them sexy and sophisticated and desirable. You could be mature and sexy. Even to men of the cloth.
She thought about her girlfriends back home with their brood of grandchildren, enjoying sticky-fingered kisses and finger painting while their husbands played golf and eyed up the twenty-something nanny. No thanks. Give her a hot priest any day.
‘Sorry, excuse me, I mean, scusi, are these seats taken?’
Hearing a British accent, she turned to see a frazzled-looking woman hovering beside her table.
Her face was flushed with the heat and she was wearing a shapeless linen sundress, one of those that completely hide your figure for the sake of being comfortable.
Why did women do that? Since when was looking good about being comfortable?
And she must only be in her forties too, thought Birdy, her gaze sweeping over her and noticing those ugly sandals that all these women wore these days, like something out of Woodstock. No, you needed height. A wedge, preferably, with these cobbles. Hers were from Gucci and added four inches.
Birdy adjusted her own silk wrap dress that clung in all the right places and crossed her legs.
‘Sure, honey, take them, they’re all yours.’ She smiled graciously, and as the woman moved to sit down she spotted the younger woman standing behind her. That must be her daughter, though they looked nothing alike.
‘Oh, thank you so much!’
The frazzled forty-something collapsed in a chair with a loud sigh – and that was another thing, making all those weird noises when you got up or sat down really aged you – while the younger one slipped silently onto the seat beside her.
Now, she was adorable. All flicky black eyeliner, short bangs and charming outfit.
Cute as a button. Something about her reminded her of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.
And the boys liked her, she noted, watching the waiters’ eyes swerving over like boomerangs.
Birdy reapplied her lipstick, showed a bit more cleavage and recrossed her legs.
‘It’s so kind of you to let us share your table, it’s just so busy everywhere, all the cafes and restaurants are full and we couldn’t find anywhere to sit . . . and we’re exhausted!’
The older woman was talking and fanning herself with both hands and now, up close, Birdy noticed she was actually quite attractive.
But those freckles! Had she never heard of SPF and lasers?
Pretty face, though; lovely eyes and good hair, a natural strawberry blonde by the looks of things, though she needed to do something with those roots.
Or maybe she was one of those women she’d been reading about recently, all those magazine articles about women who were embracing going grey.
Embracing! They gave themselves all kinds of names like Silver Warriors or Gunmetal Gals, which were supposed to sound liberating but all she could think was Over my dead body.
Birdy stirred her ice cubes and resisted the urge to give the older woman some advice. She could really do something with herself. Nothing a bit of red lipstick and a good colourist and blow-dry wouldn’t solve.
‘We’ve been sightseeing all day!’
‘Maggie’s been giving me the grand tour!’
Maggie, not Mom. So that wasn’t her daughter, thought Birdy, as the younger woman spoke.
‘We must have walked miles.’
‘In this heat?’ Birdy raised an eyebrow. Well, as best she could. She’d had Botox just before the trip. ‘Is that wise?’
‘We had a lot of places to visit.’
‘The Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain . . .’ The younger woman was ticking them off on her fingers.
‘And did you find what you were looking for?’
It was meant to be tongue in cheek, a gentle tease, so she was surprised when she saw the look that passed between the two women.
As if she’d touched a nerve. She couldn’t place it; they seemed nervous, guilty – but what on earth could these two have to hide?
The older one especially. She looked so unassuming.
‘Um . . . not really.’
‘We saw lots, but there’s so much to see, you can’t do it in one day.’
Birdy waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, I don’t bother with all that, you can see all the sights you want to see sitting right here. Once you’ve seen one fusty old church, you’ve seen them all.’
She smiled broadly and while the older woman looked unsure, the younger girl let out a hoot of laughter.
‘Forgive me. I’m forgetting my manners. My Southern mama would kill me.’ She extended a hand in greeting. ‘I’m Birdy with a “y”.’
There were a couple of blank expressions.
‘As opposed to “ie”,’ she added, in explanation. ‘No one wants “die” at the end of their name, cuts a little close to the bone at my age, don’t you think?’
‘Hi, I’m Flick . . . with a “k”,’ added Flick, smiling.
‘I can see you and me are going to get on just fine.’ She gave a wink.
‘Maggie – nothing so exotic, I’m afraid.’
‘I disagree; doesn’t it have Greek origins meaning pearl?’ Birdy smiled. ‘And next to diamonds, pearls are my weakness. Something I share with the great, late Elizabeth Taylor. La Peregrina, now that was some pearl.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’d always thought Margaret was quite boring, not that anyone ever called me Margaret. I’ve always been Maggie, or Mags . . .’
But Birdy was gesturing to the waiter and not listening.
‘What are you having?’
‘Just sparkling water and maybe a bite to eat—’
‘Another negroni, and two more for the ladies.’
‘Oh, no, we couldn’t possibly—’
‘Relax. You’re in Italy. Embrace la dolce vita.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian,’ confessed Flick with a shrug.
‘It means the sweet life,’ translated Maggie, helpfully.
‘It means exactly what we’re doing right now, sugar,’ smiled Birdy, her eyes twinkling. ‘To pause and appreciate the sweet moments. To not stress. To chat to strangers.’
The waiter brought menus and a breadbasket. Birdy watched with astonishment as both women dived upon it. Carbs hadn’t passed her lips since 1972.
‘You have amazing jewellery.’
She turned back to see the young girl looking at her rings, fascinated.
‘Why, thank you. They’re not real.’
‘They’re not?’
‘Oh no.’ Birdy laughed. ‘In this town? I’d be a fool! What with all the pickpockets. No, the real diamonds are in the safe at home in New York. Trust me, no one can tell the difference.’
‘Wow.’
The waiter came and took their food orders.
‘Would you care to join us for something to eat?’ asked Maggie.
‘Thank you, but I prefer a liquid lunch.’ She raised her almost empty glass as proof.
‘Though it’s a little too late for that,’ she said, noticing the time on her wristwatch, a gift from an old amour, who’d collected expensive watches and taught her to be quite the expert when it came to timepieces.
She’d wanted a Patek Philippe, so had been somewhat disappointed to open the box and discover it was your basic Cartier. Cheap fucker.
‘Ah, and there’s my car, right on time.’ She smiled as a sleek black Mercedes pulled up. ‘Apologies, but I must go.’
Reaching into her Chanel handbag, she drew out a wad of euros and placed them on the table before standing up.
‘Well, my darlings, wonderful to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your trip.’
And waving farewell, she sashayed across the cobbles to where her driver was holding open the door, waiting to take her bags, and slid onto the cool, air-conditioned leather upholstery, where she kicked off her wedges.
They didn’t call them killer heels for nothing.
Her feet were fucking killing her. Well, no one ever said looking this good didn’t come at a price.
But then, didn’t everything?