Elsa
On Friday afternoon, I get into my car and drive to town. I call Rita, reporting in.
“Perfect timing! We’re going shopping. I need a new pair of shoes,” she says. “Give me an hour to dress up and I will come to pick you up.
“No, I’ll come for you. I have something to do on the way.”
When I arrive at Rita’s, I see her closing the entrance door and stopping, dumbstruck, in front of my car. She points a finger at it, circling the index finger of her other hand above her temple, wide-eyed. As soon as she gets in, she cries,
“Is this a new ride?”
“It surely is,” I respond with equal enthusiasm.
“Damn! Who got it for you?”
“Zio,” I respond as if it is the most obvious answer.
“Well, I can see him pampering his little princess who just returned from the dead,” she responds, sarcastically. I roll my eyes at her.
“He should. He has no daughter to pamper so I seem to be his only target, ” I respond. Lorenzo has only two boys. At least those are the only kids from Diana. Italian men are not known for their monogamy. I trust my father’s faithfulness but sometimes I am convinced to believe there are kids somewhere, even if outside the country.
The rest of the way our conversation focused entirely on Rita’s rich sexual life.
Shopping never fails to improve my mood. We ran from boutique to boutique, buying shoes we don’t need. After a couple of hours of this crazy marathon, we are sated. Back in the multilevel parking lot, we have to find our car. It takes a while, but finally we find it and start packing our stuff into the trunk.
We drive back to her apartment, after me asking if I can stay the night. I don’t feel like going back home tonight. The house is starting to feel like some empty shell.
She giggles, sitting in one of the comfy chairs. We cover ourselves with blankets and watch the flickering lights of downtown skyscrapers. Having people I love around me is nothing to stop me from thinking about Marcello. Several times I even called Gabrielle, but he doesn’t answer any of my questions, instead asking his own, wanting to know if I am okay. I likes listening to his voice. It reminds me of Marcello.
When we wake up the next morning and get ourselves more or less in order, I feel surprisingly good. Standing in front of the mirror, I try telling myself that I simply have to live my life-get all my matters in order and start forgetting about the weeks I spent at the estate. We have breakfast, rummage through the closet and the stuff we bought yesterday, looking for something to wear in the evening, and headed to the spa.
“You know what? I think I want to have some real fun today,” I say as we leave. “Do we have a hairdresser set for today?”
Rita gives me a lordly look.
“Do you think I know how to do my hair on my own? Sure we have,” she says with a laugh as she locks the door.
Our visit to the spa is s something of a ritual we indulged in every so often. Peels, massages, facials, nails, hairdresser, and finally makeup. When the time comes for the penultimate point on our list, I sit down in the chair, my stylist, rubs a strand of my hair between her fingers.
“What do you want me to do, Elsa?”
“A bob with the back shorter and the front a bit longer.”
“What?” Rita cries out so loud that all the other women turn their heads to look at us. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ve gone crazy!”
My stylist laughs, running her hand through my hair. “It’s not damaged, so the hair should be fine.”
“You sure about that?”
I nod and Rita collapse back to the chair, shaking her head with disbelief.
Meanwhile, to make up for the delay caused by my whims, the makeup artists arrives and immediately goes to work.
“Ready,” my stylist says after two hours, looking satisfied with her work.
The effect is s breathtaking. I look young, fresh, and tasty. Rita stands behind me, ogling me with one brow raised.
“All right, I was wrong. You look fucking awesome. Now come on. We have a party to go to.”
She grabs me by the arm and pulls me to the car.
We parked in the apartment’s underground garage and took the elevator upstairs. She pushes the key into the lock and turns it. After having a bottle of wine and changing into something less comfortable than our joggers, but at the same time infinitely better looking, we look at ourselves in the mirror. We are ready.
“I am thinking about getting my own apartment soon,” I say, something that has been on my mind since I came back home.
Rita looks at me in disbelief.
“You can’t be serious right now. Why?”
“I want to be independent, Rita. I am twenty four now. I am not a child anymore. I don’t want to live with my stepmother anymore. We are not even that close together. I want to get an apartment, preferably next to yours so that we can easily hang out. I want to start working and get my life started,” I say.
“I understand what you are talking about, but you have just returned from exile. I don’t think your family is going to accept that idea of you living alone when there is literally no one living in that huge castle other than lonely Rosa,” she says.
She’s right. Zio would highly disagree to that, but I am not a child any more. I am a grown woman now who can make her own decisions. I will find a way of convincing them.
For the night I pick a sexy black set: a high-waist pencil skirt and a tightly fitting long-sleeve short top. I leave a two-inch gap between the top and the skirt, subtly exhibiting my stomach muscles. The outfit is s topped off with black short-nosed stilettos and a studded clutch bag of the same color. Rita decides to emphasize her natural assets-large breasts and beautiful, full hips-by putting on a snug nude dress. She also wears high heels and grabs a clutch bag, after throwing on some gold accessories.
“This night is ours,” she says. “Just keep an eye on me. I’d like to return home with you.”
I chuckle and push her outside, following in her wake. The biggest advantage of the life Rita is leading is that she knows most bouncers, managers, and owners of the local clubs. Though I am capable of affording expensive clubs and all that, I prefer being where we can both be comfortable and be happy