Mad About You Read online

  “How about testing your theory with a dance?” he says, getting up from the sofa and - horror of horrors - reaching out in my direction. He has nice big hands with long fingers and well-trimmed fingernails. I chew my nails. And it shows.

  My eyes flicker across his admittedly remarkable frame until - thank goodness - they find another weak point: those trousers with the turn-ups that look like he’s been swabbing out the water from a backed-up washing machine. It’s an awful fashion, why don’t they pass a law to prohibit it or something? I mean, they pass laws left right and centre about frivolous stuff like economic stability or labour reform. If trousers with turn-ups look stupid even on someone like Ariberto Castelli, who as far as I can tell seems to be in fairly peak physical condition, what hope is there for the rest of the world?

  Anyway, horrendous turn-ups or not, if he thinks I’m going to touch him, even by mistake, then he needs to think again, and fast, especially because he’s wearing one of those pretentious wristwatches that is just bound to be an eighteenth birthday present from mummy and daddy. The watch itself is tasteful enough, it’s just annoying to see it there on the wrist of this guy who has never had to work for anything in his life. I was already committed to never having anything to do with him but my irritation levels are starting to go into the red.

  Yes, if you’re asking yourselves, I do get annoyed easily. It’s just the way I am: I have a really filthy temper, and if I’m honest, I’m almost proud of it.

  “Why don’t we all go for a dance?” says Giovanni, turning to Lavinia.

  She seizes on the suggestion immediately. “Great idea!” she says, in a voice so hysterical and shrill that both Ale and I turn to stare at her. Either Seb gets a move on getting here and drags her off or Lavinia is going to pop like a balloon from trying to look so happy. I’d never have thought it was possible but apparently you can actually die from laughing too much. Thank goodness I always knew that being stubbornly gloomy was the safest course of action.

  The two blondes walk off to the dance floor, as do Ale and Giovanni’s other two friends. I turn around and raise an eyebrow in surprise when I find Ariberto still standing in the same position as before. On his face there’s an expression that says he wants to challenge me - and a challenge is one of the few things I can’t resist.

  “Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve...” he mutters seductively. He can’t really think that this I’m-so-handsome-women-fall-at-my-feet schtick is going to work with someone like me, can he? I mean, has he seen me?

  I point to my studs. “See these?” I say, giving him a frosty smile. “They’re not just for show - they’re for sticking in dickheads like you.”

  Instead of getting offended or running away, he bursts out laughing. “So you’re not one of those girls who just pretend to live dangerously, then?” he actually has the nerve to ask me.

  “Pretend? Listen, pretty boy,” I fire back immediately to make sure we clear up any possible misunderstandings. “I don’t pretend anything - I live dangerously.”

  “So prove it, then... Ms. Spikes,” he says to me, holding out his hand even closer.

  “What is the matter with you? Is your life so sad and boring that you’re desperate for some kind of risk?” I say patronisingly in an attempt to needle him, whatever the cost. My secret plan – well, it’s not actually that secret - is to make him lose his temper and seen him running like hell for the hills. And, modestly aside, it doesn’t generally take me this long to get rid of people. After all, I’ve had years of experience with guys like him.

  “Nope, sorry, that’s not going to work...” he replies with a laugh that completely wrong-foots me.

  “What isn’t?” I ask grimly.

  “Your little attempt at scaring me off there. Though I will admit that it was a good try,” he smirks.

  He’s actually congratulating me?!

  “Hmmm,” is my only comment. I take a moment to try and come up with a brilliant riposte that will cut this absurd discussion off at the root once and for all but my mind, which is usually so fast, is in trouble. It must be because the atmosphere in here is so stale. In every sense.

  “So Giada, do you want to waste even more time sparring or shall we just get this little challenge out of the way?” he asks, looking extremely amused. “By the way, don’t you have a nickname like Vinny? I mean, apart from ‘Mis. Spikes’...?”

  I honestly don’t understand what’s going on: how is it possible that this guy is free to roam the streets instead of being locked up in a lunatic asylum somewhere? Because it’s increasingly obvious to me that he is completely out of his mind.

  Finally noticing my murderous expression, he pulls out what I imagine his addled brain must think is a reassuring smile. Sure, of course... He must think that I was born yesterday - this guy is about as reassuring as finding out your bed’s made of asbestos. I’ve been around long enough to recognize guys who are quite clearly epic pains in the ass at first sight, and this one is of biblical proportions.

  “I do actually. It’s the-girl-who’s-going-to-break your-bones-one-by-one-unless-you-cut-out-all-this-sweet-talking. Because it’s getting on my nerves.”

  We both know that it would be a difficult threat for me to actually carry out: I’m not quite five feet three and the mountain standing in front of me is the best part of a foot taller, but where height doesn’t reach, conviction will through, believe me. I feel a bit like one of those neurotic Chihuahuas that are so fashionable nowadays: the woe-betide-anyone-who-even-tries-to-stroke-me ones.

  “That’s the only reason I’m doing it,” he confirms, and smiles at me again. God, his perfect pearly teeth are so annoying.

  “Careful - you’ll get lockjaw smiling like that.”

  “I don’t think so. I have years of practice,” he comments with satisfaction. “Just like you do with that fake sneer.”

  Oh, this is just incredible – this guy seriously thinks he gets me.

  My eyes widen with outrage. “Believe me, with you standing in front of me there is absolutely nothing fake about it.”

  “For some strange reason, I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh heaven help us,” I exclaim with a show of fake worry, “you must be one of those deluded types who’s convinced that women should all fall at their feet just because by complete chance they happen to have a handsome face...”

  “Ah, so you think that I’m handsome, do you?”.

  I knew it: he completely missed the point of what I was saying. When exactly did sarcasm go out of fashion? Better yet, why was I born in a historical period when an ability to be sarcastic isn’t considered the only reliable method of assessing a person’s intelligence?

  “Let’s clear up one thing right now: your physical appearance has about the same effect on me that a rare steak would have on a vegan,” I say, trying to clarify the concept. “Have we understood each other?” And as if that weren’t enough, I give him an evil glare that ‘belligerent’ would be way too soft a word for. But in fairness, I have tried all the other methods at my disposal - is it my fault if Ariberto Castelli-Whatever-His-Other-Names-Are has forced me to bring out the big guns?

  For the first time since we started bickering, his smile almost imperceptibly droops a millimetre. The boy with the perfect ringlets wasn’t expecting me to take such a drastic stance, apparently. How naïve of him – I’m much more than drastic. I don’t think they’ve even invented the word for how far past drastic women like me can get when we’re provoked.

  He tries to pretend I haven’t delivered a mortal blow to his ego, but it’s obvious that my words have done at least some damage.

  “This is going to take all night...” he moans, rolling his eyes and changing approach.

  “Much as I hate having to respond to such banalities, it’s already night and it has been for quite a long time now,” I answer, in an intolerable know-it-all tone.

  “How did I not notice that...”

  “So anyway, now that we’ve cleared
up that I’m not at all the way you initially imagined I was, what do you reckon to naffing off and leaving me in peace?” I’m a very blunt girl, there’s no getting around it.

  Ariberto seems to be meditating on my proposal – my rather eloquent proposal, if you don’t mind me saying - and just when I’m sure he is finally about to spin around on the heels of his expensive shoes and piss off, he suddenly grows a weirdly determined expression on his face.

  “You know what? I’d say no!”.

  I stare at him as if he were completely mad. It’s getting increasingly clear that this isn’t my lucky night. Feeling annoyed and defeated - a sensation I’m not used to at all - I opt for the most mature answer I can muster: I stick my tongue out at him, waggling the piercing in the middle of it. It is a distinguishing feature as well as a symbol of power: I might not have height on my side, but at least I’m not as mediocre as Mister-Shoulders with his perfectly ironed shirts and artfully embroidered initials.

  For some reason, I suddenly find myself trying with all my might to resist the temptation to let my eyes rest on his forearms, which are on display thanks to his perfectly rolled up shirt sleeves. It’s weird - I’ve never found anything particularly interesting about male forearms before. I mean, they’re just pieces of arms, there’s nothing special about them...

  Taking advantage of my little moment of distraction, Ariberto grabs me with the same hand that he had been holding out and drags me off in the direction of the dance floor. For a man of his size, he certainly moves very quickly. I dig in my heels and try to fight back, but the grip on my wrist is firm. To my great annoyance, he succeeds in his intent without even skewering himself on my wristband.

  And as if his presence were not a sufficiently awful punishment, the music changes and a remix of Love Me Like You Do starts pumping out of the speakers loud enough to give everyone present premature deafness. I grunt with annoyance and in answer, Ariberto bursts out laughing.

  “Wow, you really don’t like that!” he laughs at the sight of my complete lack of enthusiasm for the song.

  No, I don’t like sickly-sweet stuff like that, in life or in music - is that a crime?

  “I doubt you’re that much of a fan of this kind of stuff either...” I say. Despite the stupid way he’s behaving this evening, I am pretty certain that it’s more because of boredom than anything else. I’ve met a lot of guys like him. Ok, maybe a little less attractive than him, but that doesn’t change anything: they’re all self-satisfied mummy’s boys who are convinced they’re a cut above everyone else for reasons that, quite frankly, remain a mystery to me. But just so as not to leave him in any doubt, I decide to clarify a little something.

  “I have a boyfriend,” I declare threateningly, as he grabs my hip and pulls me closer to him, starting to sway in time with the rhythm of music. And he’s good at it, of course – morons like him are always perfect dancers.

  “You’re not married, though,” is his quick reply. “And I can’t see any engagement ring on your hand, unless that skull is meant to be an eternal a pledge of love.”

  I stare at him, much more astonished than I would like.

  “No,” I grunt, “it isn’t.”

  “Good. Or maybe bad, because you’d wish it was...” he says, continuing to provoke me.

  “No thanks. Not even I go that far.”

  “You know, what with all the piercings, studs and skulls, it’s hard to tell. But you don’t look like this when you’re at university,” he says, putting his hand on my back and drawing me still closer to him. I would love to be able to say that my reaction is one of profound horror, but this mountain of a man who keeps pulling me against him, actually smells pretty nice. Though with what someone as flash as him doubtless spends on cologne, he flipping well ought to...

  “My motto at university is ‘don’t get noticed’,” I tell him, surprising myself. I don’t usually give explanations to people I don’t know. I don’t need to justify myself.

  After that, I remain silent, with my arms hanging motionless at my sides, undecided as to whether to touch him or not. Part of me absolutely doesn’t want to, but I also have this weird strange itching feeling in my hands that seems to urge me to do it. I’m waiting for him to come back with something provocative and obvious to give me an opportunity to walk off and leave him standing there in the middle of the dancefloor, but for a few seconds Ariberto remains strangely silence.

  Then he puts his lips near my ear and tells me in a quiet voice, “I noticed you.”

  Inside my head a code red emergency siren starts flashing: not only is he trying to mess with my head - judging by my reaction to being so close to him, he’s also succeeding.

  Since I always need to be in control of any situation, I decide to take advantage of the fact that his large hand is pressing relentlessly against the lower part of my back. I’ve heard it said that there’s a close correlation between the size of the hands, and of the feet and of... well, of that other thing. Even though I’m well aware that it’s a load of childish nonsense, I look down and see that he is not wearing shoes but what look like suede boats. Both of my size fours could fit inside one of his loafers. Hmmmm, things are starting to get interesting...

  With a slow and very intentional movement, I start to rub my body against his lower areas. Okay, it’s a bit cruel of me, but me being evil shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who knows me. Anyway, judging by his reaction, it seems that there is life on Mars after all.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, suddenly raising his head, his eyes finally looking worried.

  I bat my eyelashes with total Bambi-like innocence.

  “I’m dancing?” I say, pretending not to understand his questioning look. “I mean, isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

  Ariberto is about to say something but then changes his mind and just shakes his head, carefully moving back closer to me. Without wasting any time, I grind against him with my hips again, and this time I hear him moan. Unbelievable but true, this evening is turning out to be more fun than I ever suspected.

  “Giada...” he groans, pronouncing my name in a rather hoarse voice.

  I know it’s not politically correct, but being wicked is so much fun.

  “Yes?” I ask with a laugh.

  “Look, I know you’re doing it on purpose,” he says, sinking his head into my neck and giving me a run of nasty goose bumps up my spine. I’m afraid the side effects of all this fun are starting to show.

  “Really! Awww, did your neuron manage to create a little synapse in that beautiful noggin of yours? “I say with feigned surprised.

  “Do you really think it’s beautiful?” he asks with a laugh. He can’t help himself, I’m afraid, vain creature that he is.

  “On a scale of one to ten, a twelve, bighead. You are almost annoyingly handsome. Ergo, personally I find you repellent.”

  “Your reasoning is flawless,” he comments sardonically.

  “I like complex, suffering types – the ones who wonder about the meaning of life. In short, artists. You’re so boring that I can hardly stand it.”

  “Me, boring?” he asks, pricked by my words.

  “Deadly boring. And then, that nose...”

  Ariberto straightens up and stares at me like I’m crazy. Has he only just realised?! What the hell kind of person has he been thinking I was for the last half hour?

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is wrong with my nose?”

  “It’s annoyingly perfect. Mine is much more interesting, see?” And so saying, I point to it: my nose is quite normal, and even pretty straight until I decide to smile. Meaning it’s a good job that smiling isn’t one of my natural inclinations. “And anyway, in my humble opinion, a man ought to have a large nose, something that characterizes him, not just something that just sits there on his face being perfectly symmetrical.”

  “Come on then, have a go at my lips too and then we’re done,” he invites me. He leans back a little, just so I can get a
good look at his mouth. Predictably, it doesn’t have a single defect, unless you happen to think that there’s something horrible about lips which are fleshy and well defined. Which for some strange reason, I don’t. They actually make his face look a bit less severe and much more tempting. Not that he needs it, if truth be told...

  He is staring at me so intensely that it almost shakes my resolve. A powerful energy that we both feel is flowing between us. Ariberto wasn’t born yesterday and he’s perfectly capable of correctly interpreting my body’s reaction to his embrace. Having this sort of chemistry with the totally wrong person is not a problem that I’ve ever had to deal with before. I had vaguely heard of it, but I’d thought it was an urban legend or something. I get so agitated just at the idea of being attracted in some mysterious way to a person like him that I decide I’ve had more than enough of his excellent company. The place is packed with dollybirds in tiny miniskirts who aren’t covered in dangerous spikes. They’re much more his type, and there are plenty of them to choose from.

  I know that running away isn’t exactly a great show of strength, but frankly, who cares? Smart people know that discretion is the greater part of valour, and I consider myself nothing if not smart.

  I take a half step backwards, but Ariberto grabs my hand to stop me. I frown in surprise and I am about to ask him what the hell is going through his head, when he catches my waist with his other hand and pulls me closer to him. The movement is so rapid that I don’t even have time to think about it. A second later, his mouth - that same mouth that I had approved of in my head – is clamped against mine.

  I’m so surprised that at first I almost can’t react. I was actually convinced that it was all just silly teasing between us. Just for the fun of it, you know? A way to spice up a pretty monotonous evening.

  But the pressure of his lips suddenly feels very much like something real and his breathing is way too fast for all this nonsense to be the impulsive act of someone who’s had a bit too much to drink.

  And just when I’m starting to think that, all in all, things at least can’t get any worse, Ariberto - taking advantage of his height - gently lifts me off the ground and tries to put his tongue between my lips. It accurately traces the outline of my mouth, which opens up as though I were no longer in control of it. I’m horrified that I’m not in a position to decide what my own body does.