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“No, no,” I say, bending to put my head between my knees. “Rosa brought me stuff.”
Not that I could bring myself to eat any of it.
“Hold on,” she says. I hear her heels tapping as she moves away from me. From Elio’s room, I hear her calling into the hallway. “Hey! Robbie! Tell Rosa we need snacks, would ya?”
Her voice gets louder, aimed back at me.
“You’re not a vegan or something, are you? Gluten free?”
I weakly shake my head, bumping my own knees as I do so.
“OK. Good. Because if you were, you really would starve in this house. There’s no escaping the meat, cheese, bread, and pasta.”
Normally, those are all things I like eating. But this is not normal. Not for me.
Just as I’m getting the strength to lift my head back up without feeling like I’m going to fall off the chair, Valentina’s returning with a cart like the one Rosa uses, a tray perched on top. Actually, it isn’t a tray, but a charcuterie board, laden with thinly sliced meat, olives, sliced mozzarella, tomatoes drizzled with balsamic vinegar, and fresh bread. There’s more olive oil and balsamic in a small dish for dipping the bread, and my mouth waters. Beside the charcuterie board is a large glass pitcher of ice water with lemons and some sort of leaves floating around in it, along with two glasses. Valentina pours a glass full, then thrusts it at me.
“Here. Drink this, then have some food.”
She may be smaller than me, and I’m sure she’s younger, but there’s an undeniable edge of authority in her voice. But I guess that comes with the territory when you’re the only daughter of a mob boss. I take the glass and have a sip. While I’m drinking the water, Valentina busies herself loading up a small plate with all kinds of stuff from the charcuterie board. When it’s done, she holds it out to me.
“Come on. You don’t want to attend one of my and Mamma’s events on an empty stomach. The booze flows like fucking water.”
I can’t imagine I’ll be drinking at the event, but then again, I didn’t imagine I’d be attending on Elio Titone’s arm, either. Just what am I to him? What does he want me to be?
She’s right, though. I need to keep my wits about me and maintain my strength here. I can’t waste away and starve.
I start with the bread, because I feel like that will go down easy on my roiling stomach. I dip it into the olive oil and balsamic and take a bite. It’s possibly the best bread I’ve ever had, slightly warm and fluffy, with a crunchy crust softened by the oil and vinegar.
That bite seems to have awakened my appetite, and I quickly scarf down the bread, then move onto the tomato and mozzarella salad, then the prosciutto and salami and olives. The entire time, Valentina watches me with a satisfied smirk. Even though she’s so young, she’s giving me total Italian grandma vibes. She clearly enjoys feeding people.
After clearing my plate, I chug some water, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “I didn’t realize how much better I would feel after some food.”
“Carbs solve everything,” she says with a nod.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. My stomach may be full now, but I’m still stuck in this goddamn house, and now I’m apparently going to an event with Elio, which makes no sense. So, I would say that things are very much not solved.
“OK, you’re right. But they help a little,” she says. Her gaze falls to the giant pink diamond ring on her finger and lingers there for a moment before she jerks her head back up to look at me. In a voice that feels falsely cheery, she says, “Alright! You’re fed! Now it’s makeover time.”
I should have known based on how perfect Valentina’s hair and makeup look that makeover time is serious business for her. I’m completely unprepared for the thoroughness of her onslaught. And it does feel like an onslaught – my hair pulled tightly into rollers, eyebrows plucked, my skin smudged and sponged and powdered. She even makes me shave my legs and armpits to eliminate the one-day stubble there, instructing me firmly not to tell Elio before taking the razor away again after.
We do all the makeup and hair stuff in the bathroom. It takes a long time – Valentina is a total perfectionist. But after a few hours, she seems satisfied with the state of me.
“Now, the dresses,” she says, marching back into the bedroom. I stand from where I was seated on the toilet and move to follow her. Before I leave the room, I catch sight of my own face in the mirror and halt.
A shimmering, polished woman stares back. I don’t look like myself. Even my freckles are gone, hidden under foundation and bronzer. My cheekbones look sharper, my nose narrower, my lips darker and fuller, my lashes longer. I like makeup and I do wear it, but not to this extent. I’ve never seen myself like this.
The big curlers are still in my hair, giving my head a weird, bubbly look, but even that can’t take away from the stunning effect of the makeup.
Looking so different is jarring. But strangely, it’s also comforting. I can pretend it’s not me, Deirdre O’Malley, but somebody else in this bathroom, in this life. This new look is like armour, a mask between Elio and me, a barrier like his leather gloves.
Feeling just a little bit stronger, I turn and catch up with Valentina.
She’s standing by the bed, staring downwards. The three garment bags are open on the bed, each one containing a dress of a different colour.
“That one’s mine. I have to change, too,” Valentina says, pointing to a pink sequined dress. “You can try those other two on and we’ll see which one is better.”
