“But it doesn’t match my right hand.”
“Asymmetrical nails are the latest trend in Soho.”
Donatella looks horrified. “Among the lunatics of Soho, you mean.”
Giada rolls her eyes. “Can’t you ever just humor me?” she says, and points to me. “You’re neglecting yourself. And you,” she says, now turning to Donatella, “have always been a downer. I’m going to fix you both. I’m setting up profiles for both of you on MatchMe,” she exclaims, waving her cell phone in the air. “Just let me find a spot in this fortress where I can get a signal.” She wanders around the kitchen with her phone in the air.
Giada is obsessed with MatchMe, a dating app. She spends her weekends going from Lunigiana to Maremma to meet her matches. She’s on the hunt, not for just any ring but for a true, great love.
The problem is, she’s looking for love but only finding duds, perhaps because her sole criteria is no men from Belvedere.
“There we go! Behind the fridge you get another bar. Hey, I have three matches!” she gloats, scrolling through her notifications. “Lorenzo from Cecina ... Jacopo from Pisa ...”
“For the love of God!” exclaims Mamma.
“Oh, this one seems nice: Simone from Viareggio. Too bad his photo’s a bit blurry. I’ll ask him for a better one in the chat. I’m not going to Viareggio in the dark.”
“Remember what happened with that guy from San Macario in Piano,” I remind her. The guy in question had given her a photo of a model downloaded from Google, and since then Giada’s been harder to fool.
“Ugh, Gherardo. Bastard,” she grumbles. “Oh! He just answered!”
“Let’s see!” orders Donatella, whose opinions on the male universe are quite radical: No one is up to her standards.
Giada clears her throat, feigning embarrassment. “It’s not exactly a photo of his face.”
“Show us!” Donatella, Mamma, and I exclaim in chorus.
We all huddle around Giada, stunned and incredulous.
“What is that? An obelisk?” says Donatella.
“They put that thing in with anesthesia, right?” I add.
“That’s not a man,” says Mamma. “That’s a horse.”
“What’s not a man?” asks Linda, looking up from her books.
“Nothing,” the four of us reply, in unison.
“Can I see too?” she insists.
“Um, it’s getting late!” I exclaim. “Linda, it’s time for bed.”
“But it’s only nine o’clock,” she objects.
“Yeah, but somewhere in the world it’s late,” I say.
But she doesn’t give up. “I’m on summer break.”
“You have to get used to your new school schedule.” I approach her and give her a kiss on the head. “I’ll be up in a little while to say good night, okay, Little Cub?”
“Such a drag, Mom,” she mutters. “And don’t call me Little Cub! It’s a child’s nickname!”
Yes, I’m “Mom.” Little Cub is what I’ve always called her because of a tattered stuffed bear she’s had since she was little.
Linda grumbles, collects her books, and heads toward the annex. I can tell our conversation is about to get spicy, and even though she’s thirteen, I’d like to protect her innocence for as long as I can.
“Come on, Elisa, you could have let her stay,” Giada scolds me. “She’s going to see one sooner or later.”
