Flirting in Italian by Lauren Henderson

Author:Lauren Henderson [Henderson, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780375984525
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2012-06-12T04:00:00+00:00

A Genetic Atavism

“Mi scusi,” the principessa says again, now more composed. “But it is very strange. What is your name?”

“Violet,” I say. “Violet Routledge.”

“I do not know this name,” she says. “Row-ti-laydge.” It takes me a moment to realize that she’s attempting to pronounce my surname, she mangles the word so much. “But you see, Violetta, you resemble very much Monica, the sister of my ’usband, when she was at your age. There are some photographs, and a picture. I show you.”

She walks over to a grand piano on one side of the hall; it’s so big, this space, that I hadn’t even noticed the piano was there. It’s closed, a silver candelabra standing on top of it, and along its ebony lid are arranged a whole raft of family photos, all in silver frames, the way the aristocracy displays its photographs; for some arcane reason, it’s considered common to hang them on the walls. I see one of Luca; he’s a few years younger, scowling at the camera, his black hair hanging in inky strands over his face, his expression somehow so characteristic that it makes me smile, makes me want to reach out and touch the face in the photo.

Oh God. I really do have it bad for him.

The principessa is reaching out for a photograph right at the back of the collection, her thin wrist snaking elegantly between the frames.

“Lascia stare,” Maria snaps at her. “Non lo fare.”

“Zitta, te,” she responds autocratically, and the four of us girls exchange a startled glance; we just heard a princess tell her housekeeper to shut up.

“Ecco!” The principessa lifts up a large photograph in an ornate frame and shows it to me. Everyone else cranes in too. “This is my ’usband”—she has some problem with her h’s—“and ’is sister on ’oliday, so many years ago. In Capri.”

I was expecting the principe to look like his son, but he doesn’t. Luca takes very much after his mother. His father is stocky and dark, strong-featured, with an imposing nose, square shoulders, and a very hairy chest. His hair’s longer than is fashionable now, cut in layers that almost come to his shoulders, and he’s wearing very short terry-cloth swim trunks. He’s sitting on what looks like the back of a yacht, on one of the long padded seats, his arm around his sister, whose hair is tumbling all around her face in frizzy curls. She’s dressed in a white caftan with wide sleeves, trimmed with gold rickrack, and she’s smiling at the camera, one hand lifted to push her hair back, while her brother is staring straight at it challengingly. If Monica’s my age in this photo, I think, she’s really confident, poised, and sure of herself, her legs crossed elegantly. She definitely looks much older than seventeen.

“Their clothes! So seventies!” observes Paige, mistress of the inappropriate comment.

Fortunately the principessa ignores her. She’s looking at me now; I’m very conscious of her eyes on me as I stare at the photograph and at Monica’s face.

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