‘You first,’ he suggests, rubbing his head.
I nod and give myself a mental slap for being so ridiculous before climbing down the three steps to the ground and bringing out my best Italian for the garage worker.
‘Buongiorno.’
I ask if the man speaks English and… no, he doesn’t.
‘It’ll be fine. I did Italian GCSE,’ Callum says. ‘And Google Translate is our friend.’
He speaks some Italian to the man, who surprisingly does understand. And then speaks very fast to us and we do not understand.
Fortunately, it’s very easy to point and mime when it comes to broken windscreen wipers and back lights, so we do that instead, and soon we’ve agreed (I think) that he has the parts (thank goodness) and he’ll have finished by lunchtime, and will call us when it’s done, and it won’t cost anywhere near as much as it would in London.
As we wander out of the garage (we’ve agreed that going for a walk or sitting reading in the sun would be a lot nicer than staying), Callum says, ‘I’m paying, end of.’
‘No, no, it’s my van,’ I say, horrified.
‘But I really do owe you, plus I’ll be getting a refund from the airline and I have to travel back somehow so it’ll just be on my expenses. And I would pay anyway. Because, as I say, I owe you.’
‘You don’t owe me. You’re already paying for half the fuel. And you didn’t want to stay in a monastery and you don’t want to visit Florence or do any of the rest of the trip.’
‘From my side I’dfarrather be on this trip with you than sitting working in a hotel room for a few days.’ He totally fails to hide a wistful expression, which makes me laugh. Clearly right now he’dadoreto be in a hotel room by himself for a few days rather than here with me. Although… actually… whywashe so extremely desperate to get a lift back to London?
Who knows. Maybe he has some important in-person meetings lined up.
I decide it’s nothing to do with me, and say, ‘Yes, anyone would bin a luxury five-star hotel for Miranda, a monastery and several more two-star overnight stays.’
‘Exactly. And therefore I am paying.’
Eventually, I give in, because Callum’s very insistent and if I’m honest I hadn’t totally budgeted for repairs and an extra night on the road.
If he were anyone else, I’d laugh and say that he could pay on condition that he lets me cook him a three-course dinner when we get back to London.
Since it’s Callum, I just say, ‘Okay, well thank you very much and in return I will kindly teach you the rules of backgammon.’
‘Now?’ He actually looks quite keen.
‘That’s a very good idea.’ I put the box into my tote and off we go.
We amble around the village, commenting vaguely on the pretty stone buildings and vibrant flowers, until we come to a bench under a tree.
‘Sit down?’ Callum suggests, and I nod.
We set the board up again and I begin to explain the rules.
Callum catches on fast and soon we’re playing a very competitive game.
It’s good that we’re playing, I reflect between goes, because I don’t really want to have too much time to think right now.
Yesterday morning, when I saw Callum, I was just furious with fate for throwing us back together like this, and I was determined to avoid chatting to him too much. I thought we’d travel together but otherwise do our own thing. Now, though, I’m enjoying his company. A lot.
And that is bad.
So maybe, when we’ve finished the backgammon and picked Miranda up, I’ll revert to being more distant.
Otherwise I’m going to miss him when we say goodbye at the end of the trip, and I’ve missed Callum once and it was horrible. I don’t want to do it again.
We just keep on playing backgammon until Antonio, the garage man, calls.
