Bella Figura by Kamin Mohammadi

Author:Kamin Mohammadi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Appetite by Random House
Published: 2018-05-08T04:00:00+00:00

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The next day, I was dressed and waiting for Dino by ten o’clock, looking forward to a day out of the city as promised—my reward for the last-minute cancelation of the night before. Summer was creeping up on us and Florence was heating up, emptying on the weekends as the locals headed out to the beach or to the countryside, leaving their city to red-faced tourists. Dino himself had been away the last few weekends, our relationship, I had noticed with dismay, now relegated to weeknights only.

I was excited about the Italian summer. August: the month that the whole country went to the seaside. Dino, I already knew, would take the whole month off. Never had the summer held such allure or been the subject of so many conversations—I heard them every day around the neighborhood, people planning their August trips, discussing what they would do on the weekend until then. Some of my neighbors had already decamped to il mare, and I was impressed by how vehemently the Italians believed that time by the sea was their birthright. As a Londoner, the notion of a whole season built around fun, leisure, and enjoyment was alien—and deeply seductive too. I thought back to summers past—always working, always alone, always somehow on another deadline even while away. In my mid-thirties it had become harder to find friends to travel with—most were now busy with partners and children, and I had found myself going off on impressively glamorous work trips alone.

That summer with Nader had been the first one in years that had contained some of the lightness and joy that summer should have. I had rushed home from work every day, forgetting about the machinations of the Big Boss, the stresses of work, as soon as I walked into my apartment. Nader would be waiting for me, sitting on that narrow sofa, smiling, relaxed, a drink prepared. For those three months I’d had someone to come home to. We would go out, wander the streets in the light, long evenings, eat dinner on the pavements of Soho, walk and talk so much we ended up miles away, standing on Waterloo Bridge in front of my favorite view of London.

That Sunday morning Dino was late as usual so I went to Rifrullo, where I sat outside with my midmorning cappuccino as I waited, battling my irritation. He finally called just before midday. “Amooorreee,” he drawled. “Disaster. I forgot my mother’s birthday! Can you imagine? Mi dispiace, but I stay home for lunch.”

“Oh, right.” I was deflated.

“Of course you are very welcome to join us,” he said, smooth, fake.

“Oh, Dino, well I would love to!” I exclaimed.

“Ah, amore, how lovely. I would looovvve that. But you know lunch is all prepared, and the guests are all here, I cannot ask them to wait, we are already at the table. And I don’t know how you would get here…”

The excuses rolled off his tongue. So many lies—how could lunch be on the table? It was only midday and Italians never ate so early.

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