That propels me off the rug and over to the rotary phone, a phone I just had to have, so cute, but a pain in the ass when I’m calling anyone other than the direct line to the kitchen.
I call Nonna.
But it rings for a moment too long, and just as I’m about to hang up, there’s a click, silence, then a servant picks up.
Mila.
I can tell by her mousy voice.
“It’s Olivia,” I say, and stare out the window.
There’s a beat of silence on the other side, that way she hesitates under the slightest bit of pressure. Maybe that’s why Mother doesn’t like Mila, she’s too… mousy.
But Nonna likes her, treats her more like family than a servant. I saw them out the window once, sharing tea together on the patio that overlooks the vineyard. Just sitting there at the little blue metal table, like equals.
It threw me for a minute.
Not a sight seen around Elcott Abbey or Craven Cottage or Thornbury Park.
But I suppose since Nonna lives alone, and she’s gentry, not like Ethel who would choose her grave over the table where servants and krums sat, so it’s different for her.
Mila tells me Nonna is in town with my Uncle Aldo, and I make a face at the sound of his name.
As far as estranged family members go, I have a special dislike for him, and I hate that Nonna is with him right now when I need her to be on the phone, telling me she loves me.
I abandon my quest for reassurance and call the kitchen instead.
Draping myself over the window seat, I wait for my dinner to be delivered.
The view is a grey mist and a brewing storm.
It reminds me of Dray.
It reminds me of Rugby Sunday, the drizzle on his face, the dirt streaks and mud drops sprinkled over him, the scrapes on his unblemished complexion.
I’m thrown back to the library, his mouth hot on mine, my kisses unwilling, but his hungry and devouring, his hand gliding up my side, the warmth of his touch, the affection and urgency in it.
Two dances and a kiss.
I knew there was torment in his agenda. A new way to torture me, makemereact tohimin a way that floods me with self-loathing and shame.
But I never looked at it any deeper than that.
He was having fun in his torment of me, knowing my future is with him—but with me in the dark it’s entertaining for him.
I feel like a cat whose owner is darting a laser light all over the floor and ceiling,look over here, look over here, and the cat never wins.
How the owner laughs at that suffering.
I know because I have done it.
I’m wicked, too.
He’s just much, much better at it than I am.
Because in all that torment, in all the malice and entertainment he finds in my ignorance, he’s been preparing me, too.
Grooming me.
