AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Olivia
IthoughtIwasgoing to die of embarrassment when Gianni kissed me. Okay, so it wasn’t a proper kiss. I understand it’s an Italian thing. Muah. Muah. There’s nothing to it but that. But he doesn’t know who I am. He still doesn’t remember me. Part of me hopes he never will. But I can’t just go on like this. The anxiety of trying to fly under the radar is making me crazy. And what if he does remember? The more time we spend together the more awkward it is going to be when his memory does finally click on. I should be the one to say something. But what exactly? I don’t know.
Jet lag is beginning to creep into my brain, clouding my thoughts, and travel fatigue infects my joints and muscles. I check-in, and the concierge shows me upstairs to my room overlooking the Arno. Alone, I watch the flowing water of the river for a moment which soothes my aching head. I run a deep bath and soak until I’m almost asleep, then I climb into bed without noticing how pretty my room is.
In the morning I’m awake and feeling fully refreshed, even when I calculate the time in New York to be the middle of the night. Sunlight streams in and I get up to pull open the windows. Suddenly I’m excited to be here in Florence again.
There’s a message from Gianni. The painting for Mrs Peabody is still with the conservator. It needs more work than originally thought. He has notified Mrs Peabody of the delay. Would I be available for dinner later? He will pick me up from the hotel. Enjoy the day. Ciao.
A whole day in Florence. I get a whole day to wander around the city that I know and love. It’s a dream come true. My mind races as I plan to go to all the places that I discovered when I was on my school trip. It was a long time ago but being here again bridges the time gap, and I even feel as if I am that young girl who wants to be an artist with a sole purpose to draw and paint.
In a crazy moment, I want to cut my hair short and dye it blond again. All buoyed up with nostalgia, I pause to look at my reflection in my hotel room mirror. Not a good idea, as it turns out. I ignore the frumpy woman in the reflection, grab my bag, and head out.
Leaving the hotel, I turn away from the river, making my way into the old town. The medieval streets still hold their magic causing my feet to find their own direction. I know this town so well. It feels like an old friend. At every corner, I recognize a familiar view; a sculptural detail on the side of a building; the soft earthy color of the stone; a café that hasn’t changed in ten years. I am transported back in time, affected by everything that surrounds me.
I pass a window selling art materials. I stop to look in the window. Tubes of paint, sketchbooks, charcoal, and pencils: all the things I used to never be without. My eyes meet themselves in the reflection behind my heavy-framed glasses. I want to draw. I want to make a mark on an empty piece of paper. I want to record this blissful moment.
A joyous bubble rises up and without conscious thought I go into the shop. It is crammed, floor to ceiling, with shelves stacked with everything an artist could wish for. My heart is beating with wild excitement. My hand runs along the spines of hardback sketchbooks, each one a bright candy color. I choose orange and, holding its pages open, I smile at the promise of a drawing on each one of the blank leaves.
“Ah, you are an artist.” A voice interrupts my reverie.
“No. No, I’m not,” I reply despite myself.
“You will need a pencil. Or perhaps some pastels?”
The owner of the voice is an older lady. Her grey hair is piled into a casual bun on top of her head. A few tendrils have escaped and hang down in pretty spirals. She wears brightly colored earrings: ceramic beads threaded on a gold wire. They swing to and fro as she speaks. The red colors match her knitwear wrap which is held in place by a large brooch in the shape of a sleeping cat.
“A pencil and an eraser,” I hear myself say. “Yes.”
“Let’s keep things simple then.”
The store lady moves down one of the aisles and reaches for a slim box, which she slides open. She removes a graphite pencil and hands it to me.
“Thanks!”
Back when I wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by artist materials, so I could reach out to whatever I needed to make a picture, this shop would have been heaven. My only issue back then was a very limited budget. But then, I didn’t care. I would justify the purchase of yet another tube of vermillion because I just couldn’t resist. A visit to a store like this one, where the items would be parceled up in paper and string and handed across the counter like the most precious gift in the world, was almost a religious experience. Those days were long gone. And yet I still feel the tingle at the base of my skull as I handle the perfectly packaged watercolors, brushes, and acid-free sheets of roughly textured paper.
“Is this your first time in Firenze?” asks the sales assistant who is at the counter packaging my new things.
“No. I was here years ago… on a school trip.”
“Oh, how wonderful.”
I comment on her excellent English and the sales assistant tells me she is from a small town near Richmond, Virginia. She came to Florence on an exchange program, met an Italian boy, and fell in love. With the place and with the boy. She laughs.
“Well. The same happened to me, really.” I don’t know why I’m choosing to share my tragic life with a complete stranger. I suppose that’s what a confession is all about. Off-loading so you don’t have to carry the burden all to yourself.
“So, what happened? Where is the gorgeous Italian soccer player now?”
“Right now. He is probably driving around in his red Ferrari buying up artwork left and right to sell in his New York gallery.”
“Oh yeah? And how come you know this?”
“Because he’s my boss.”
“Well, well. This is an interesting story. Give me a minute.”
The sales assistant strides purposefully to the door and turns the ‘Open’ sign over to read ‘Closed’.
