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Authors: Lauren Henderson
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other one’s chestnut—and is slightly shorter, but that’s the only difference I can see.
The boys are almost below us now, striding toward the house. Kelly leans out so far to get a last glimpse of them I put my hand on her arm, worried that she actually will fall: when she eventually hauls herself back into the room, she’s lit up, beaming from ear to ear.
“Oh,”
she breathes in enchantment. “They’re so
beautiful
!”
And then her face falls, so completely that it would be comic if it weren’t poignant.
“Ugh,”
she moans in misery. “What am I going to
wear?
”
By the time we gather in the antechamber to go down for dinner together, just before eight-thirty, it’s clear that Kelly wasn’t the only one of us who was spurred on by the snotty Italian girls and the handsome Italian boys to make a huge effort with her outfit. We have a lot less to work with than the American girls and their two suitcases each, which, judging by the deafening noise that came from across the anteroom an hour ago, were stuffed full of every electrical beauty product in existence. Their hair looks as if they brought a hairstylist along in one of their gigantic suitcases; Paige’s is caught back with a silk scarf and tonged into curls that fall past her shoulders, and Kendra’s is slicked to her scalp and wound into a chignon. They’re in bright little linen-print dresses that show off their smooth limbs, accessorized with pearl earrings for Paige and diamonds for Kendra.
“Hey,” I mutter to Kelly, “we’re the trendy ones. Remember that.”
We may not have the invisibly natural makeup skills of the Americans, but I think we look a lot cooler, with the sooty black eyeliner and artfully messy hair that’s the fashion in London. I’m in a little dress with a square neck and puff sleeves, sort of deliberately old-fashioned, with a huge multistrand fake-pearl necklace a million miles from Paige’s ladylike studs. I’ve painted a beauty spot on my cheekbone, cherry-glossed my lips, and added some fake lashes; I love to dress up, and I’m determined not to be overshadowed. Lily-Rose and Milly and I experimented for years till we foundlooks that suited us, and we’re proud of our individuality, our personal style.
But Kelly, I’m realizing, is not that confident about her looks. She hates her legs, and insisted on wearing jeans. At least her black top slims her torso, and she’s done that blue and green eyeliner again, which I think really suits her. Plus, we’ve both redone our nails—and our toenails. All considered, I’m proud of the English contingent.
Until we enter the dining room, where the Italians are already gathered, and Kelly goes bright red at the sight of the boys lounging against the polished drinks table, and can’t say a word for a good twenty minutes.
“It’s nice that you dressed up for dinner,” Catia Cerboni says approvingly, coming forward to greet us, razor-thin in a slubbed silk sheath dress and matching short-sleeved jacket. She looks at the two boys, and sighs. “I wish they would put on jackets, but they say it is too hot.
Moh
.”
“Dai. Mamma, non rompere,”
the taller boy says, straightening up at the sight of us. “
Ciao!
Hello!” He smiles charmingly. “I am Leonardo, and this”—he nods at the lighter-haired boy—“is my friend Andrea. It is lovely to meet you.”
Beside me, Kelly makes a choking sound. I don’t dare look at her. Not only do the boys push off the table and come toward us, they take our hands, one by one, and duck their heads, kissing us on each cheek, saying
“Piacere,”
which, from my
Easy Italian for Beginners
book, I know means “It’s a pleasure.” They smell much cleaner than the average English boy, of soap and shampoo and conditioner and aftershave, a waft of pine and citrus and green ferns, delicious and fresh. Leonardo is sexier, in my opinion, darker, withmore stubble and deep brown eyes; Andrea is fairer, with pale blue
The boys are almost below us now, striding toward the house. Kelly leans out so far to get a last glimpse of them I put my hand on her arm, worried that she actually will fall: when she eventually hauls herself back into the room, she’s lit up, beaming from ear to ear.
“Oh,”
she breathes in enchantment. “They’re so
beautiful
!”
And then her face falls, so completely that it would be comic if it weren’t poignant.
“Ugh,”
she moans in misery. “What am I going to
wear?
”
By the time we gather in the antechamber to go down for dinner together, just before eight-thirty, it’s clear that Kelly wasn’t the only one of us who was spurred on by the snotty Italian girls and the handsome Italian boys to make a huge effort with her outfit. We have a lot less to work with than the American girls and their two suitcases each, which, judging by the deafening noise that came from across the anteroom an hour ago, were stuffed full of every electrical beauty product in existence. Their hair looks as if they brought a hairstylist along in one of their gigantic suitcases; Paige’s is caught back with a silk scarf and tonged into curls that fall past her shoulders, and Kendra’s is slicked to her scalp and wound into a chignon. They’re in bright little linen-print dresses that show off their smooth limbs, accessorized with pearl earrings for Paige and diamonds for Kendra.
“Hey,” I mutter to Kelly, “we’re the trendy ones. Remember that.”
We may not have the invisibly natural makeup skills of the Americans, but I think we look a lot cooler, with the sooty black eyeliner and artfully messy hair that’s the fashion in London. I’m in a little dress with a square neck and puff sleeves, sort of deliberately old-fashioned, with a huge multistrand fake-pearl necklace a million miles from Paige’s ladylike studs. I’ve painted a beauty spot on my cheekbone, cherry-glossed my lips, and added some fake lashes; I love to dress up, and I’m determined not to be overshadowed. Lily-Rose and Milly and I experimented for years till we foundlooks that suited us, and we’re proud of our individuality, our personal style.
But Kelly, I’m realizing, is not that confident about her looks. She hates her legs, and insisted on wearing jeans. At least her black top slims her torso, and she’s done that blue and green eyeliner again, which I think really suits her. Plus, we’ve both redone our nails—and our toenails. All considered, I’m proud of the English contingent.
Until we enter the dining room, where the Italians are already gathered, and Kelly goes bright red at the sight of the boys lounging against the polished drinks table, and can’t say a word for a good twenty minutes.
“It’s nice that you dressed up for dinner,” Catia Cerboni says approvingly, coming forward to greet us, razor-thin in a slubbed silk sheath dress and matching short-sleeved jacket. She looks at the two boys, and sighs. “I wish they would put on jackets, but they say it is too hot.
Moh
.”
“Dai. Mamma, non rompere,”
the taller boy says, straightening up at the sight of us. “
Ciao!
Hello!” He smiles charmingly. “I am Leonardo, and this”—he nods at the lighter-haired boy—“is my friend Andrea. It is lovely to meet you.”
Beside me, Kelly makes a choking sound. I don’t dare look at her. Not only do the boys push off the table and come toward us, they take our hands, one by one, and duck their heads, kissing us on each cheek, saying
“Piacere,”
which, from my
Easy Italian for Beginners
book, I know means “It’s a pleasure.” They smell much cleaner than the average English boy, of soap and shampoo and conditioner and aftershave, a waft of pine and citrus and green ferns, delicious and fresh. Leonardo is sexier, in my opinion, darker, withmore stubble and deep brown eyes; Andrea is fairer, with pale blue
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