“It’s fine,” I say. “And, Leo, you know how we’re not talking about the restaurant or the book today?”
“Dad too?” he says, picking up the name card and shoving it in his pocket.
“Yes, please,” I say. “I want to get wedding drunk and wedding dance, happy in the knowledge that I can embarrass myself and never have to see these people again.”
Leo laughs, just as a quartet of violins begins a beautiful song, Vivaldi perhaps, designed to usher the guests to their seats.
“I don’t want to know what Chiara said to you, do I?” he says, as he pulls out the chair for me.
Leo and I find ourselves placed between couples around our age, and I playguess the cousinquietly to myself as we make our introductions. Everyone speaks excellent English except for the Polish partner of the girl to my right, and the pretty Tyrolian who has only just moved to Rome. The conversation is lively and switches between Italian and English with ease.
We eat plates of milky cheese with peppery oils and salty olive tapenades. The wine is a light Pinot Grigio with our antipasto; an odd choice, I think, in a region known for its Sangiovese grapes and its squat-bottled Chianti in straw baskets.
“This is a fresh pairing,” says Andrea diplomatically, and I raise my eyebrows in agreement.She introduces herself as a wine merchant from Sienna, and her partner, Luna, owns a small stud farm in the valley.
I notice with a degree of amusement that the couple directly opposite Leo and me are alsofreshly paired, unable to keep their hands off each other. Stopping to kiss in that unashamed way new lovers do, cheeks flushed, bare skin stroked. Leo watches me watching them, and I look away, thinking thoughts of Leo that I’d kept at bay for most of the day.
“Third-cousin love,” whispers Leo to me, and I shove him, laughing.
The Chianti comes out with the next course, a mushroom tagliatelle with truffle oil, and then some kind of slow-cooked beef cheek in red wine. I’m surprised there are no speeches, but Leo tells me that will probably happen during the cutting of the three-tiered wedding cake.
By the time the meal is finished, I’m feeling tipsy and pleasantly full, and many people are already milling over onto the stone patio area for dancing. Children hold hands in circles, and a drunk grandfather lifts his little girl up high into the sky while she squeals with delight.
The wind has picked up considerably, meaning the music from the band becomes muted, and then explosively loud as the sound carries with the gusts. Hats fly, and the tablecloth billows.
“What a day to have a storm roll in,” I say, trying to tuck my hair behind my ears as Leo slides his grappa onto the table and motions to the dance floor.
“How about it?”
“You want todance?” I say, clocking the slight sway in his stance. He’s a little drunk.
“Can you resist this jaunty accordion version of an Ed Sheeran song?” he says.
“Nobody can,” I say, nodding to the guests filing onto the floor.
“Come on!”
Leo grabs my hands and pulls me toward the dance floor, passing a far-too-pleased-looking Chiara as we go. The wind blows the lights overhead, which swing dramatically, giving the effect of disco lights flashing, and I pick up the skirt of my dress and dance awkwardly opposite Leo, pumping my fist unenthusiastically in the air as he shuffles from side to side with alarmingly bad rhythm.
“You don’t like dancing?” he calls out across the noise.
“I’m shit at dancing,” I say, which isn’t exactly true, but I feel awkward in this moment. “You know there’s going to suddenly be a slow song and we’re going to need an escape plan.”
“What if I don’t want one?” he says, thrusting his hips to the left and right before it slowly dawns on me that he’s trying to embarrass me.
“I’m not slow dancing with you. You’re a mess,” I say, pointing to his outstretched palms, making a weird horse-riding motion in the famous Gangnam Style.
He laughs, snapping himself back into a more dignified groove, his eyes on me as lightning cracks in the distance and thunder follows with a roll so loud, a few people around us flinch.
I move increasingly awkwardly as the man next to me starts to do the Macarena, and I shout, “Wrong song!”
“Let the guy Macarena,” Leo says, laughing. “Let him live, for fuck’s sake.”
I can’t help but laugh at myself. I realize I’m being ridiculously uptight.
I hold my finger up to him, make my way quickly to the drinks table, down a grappa, and return to the dance floor, just as the lights dim and a dreamy Italian ballad begins.
“See, I told you this would happen. I swear they plan it that way,” I say, hands on my hips. “Shall we back out awkwardly, Macarena back to our seats like it was our plan all along? Two-person conga?”
