Flirting in Italian Read Online Free PDF Page B

that you’ll be abandoned. Everyone else seems to know where they’re going: businesspeople are walking off quickly with their briefcases, and Italians are falling into each other’s arms with theatrical exclamations of happiness. I’m pressed forward by the people behind me, and I scan the crowd almost frantically, until with huge relief I see a woman right at the back, by the far doors that keep pulling open onto a bright glorious vista of sunlight, holding up a small white laminated sign reading VILLA BARBIANO .
    As I approach her, I bite my lip. She’s really intimidating: thin as a rake, her pale linen dress hanging off her deeply tanned limbs, big sunglasses holding back her dyed blond hair. She’s wearing no makeup except dark red lipstick, which somehow makes the dark circles under her eyes more noticeable, and she’s dripping in gold—heavy bracelets clanking on her narrow wrists, big gold hoops swinging from her ears. Her fingernails are painted the same dark red as her lipstick. And her expression is deeply, profoundly bored in a way I’ve only seen on Frenchwomen before. Which is
not
a good sign.
    “I’m Violet Routledge,” I say hesitantly. “Am I the first?”
    She nods.
    “Catia Cerboni,” she announces, leaning forward to peck me on either cheek. “
Ciao
. Welcome to Italia.”
    She has no Italian accent whatsoever, I notice, impressed.
    “There are three more of you to come,” she says, looking at her gold bracelet-watch. “I hope they will be here soon. Or I will have to pay for an extra hour in the parking lot.”
    Blimey
, I think.
You’re a friendly one
.
    Crashing and thudding signals the arrival of the second person in our group: it’s the redheaded girl with the broken suitcase. She’s close to tears, one shoulder hunched from lifting her big case while pulling the carry-on with her other hand. I dash forward to help her prop the broken one against the wall; Catia Cerboni looks on with plucked eyebrows raised, not lifting a finger to assist.
    “You must be Kelly,” she drawls at the girl.
    “That’s right.” The girl looks surprised. “How’d you know?”
    Catia smirks.
    “The other girls are American,” she informs us, flicking her gaze up and down first Kelly, then me. “You two are clearly not American.”
    She says this like it’s a bad thing. Kelly and I exchange glances, checking each other out, but also sharing a moment of
She’s a charmer, right?
    Kelly’s fanning herself, pushing her hair back from her forehead.
    “Blimming hot, innit?” she says in a strong Essex accent. “I was freezing on the plane, but it’s all right now, eh?”
    She’s wearing a tight T-shirt, an equally tight denimmini, and flip-flops, revealing a lot of lightly freckled white skin. The T-shirt, a fluorescent green, is much too bright for her coloring, and makes her look bigger than she is; she’s built on a solid scale, with a squarish body that the miniskirt doesn’t flatter. I like her eye makeup, though: long strokes of bright green pencil that matches the T-shirt, layered over equally bright blue shadow. It’s really fun. Her nails, I notice, are stubby short and painted glittery turquoise. I glance down at my own, whose burgundy polish is chipping badly. I should tidy them up at some point.
Mum would nag and nag me about the chipped nail polish
, I think, and I have a quick rush of homesickness before I determinedly push it back into its box and slam down the lid.
    “Oh my God!” comes an exclamation, high and nasal enough to cut through even the constant Italian chatter all around us. “This trolley’s, like,
drunk
!”
    Mad giggling follows this, equally loud, as two girls pushing luggage trolleys come cannoning through the crowd of friends and relatives. People jump aside for them, complaining, but I notice Italian men, young and old, turning to stare after the girls appreciatively. I also notice that all the Italian men—young and old—are wearing their