I look at Emma’s feet, clad in well-worn Adidas Stan Smiths, and raise my eyebrows.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Obviously I didn’t want to have to wear these today because clearly I don’t want to pander to your OTT don’t-wear-flip-flops-while-driving thing but at the same time theyarebetter for sightseeing.’ She looks at my feet and does an exaggerated double take. ‘You’re wearing Birkenstockflip-flops.’
‘I have good reason. I’ve run out of socks. Also, I’m not driving. And these are nice and sturdy and hold your foot in place much better than plastic flip-flops.’
‘Hmm, would it also be anything to do with the fact that it’s quite hot today?’
‘Possibly,’ I admit.
She grins at me. ‘Hypocrite. So are we sock shopping this morning?’
I nod, not sure whether I love the idea of us clothes shopping together or am absolutely terrified; it’s so domestic andcouply.
The B&B owner interrupts my near-panic to suggest that we go and serve ourselves from the generously spread buffet table lining the opposite wall of the room.
When we sit back down again with our loaded plates, Emma says, ‘I can’t believe you haven’t grown out of your full English obsession.’ She’s gone down the fruit and yoghurt plus rye bread and honey route.
‘I actually never eat like this. I usually go full anal-healthy-lawyer with my food.’ I pile oily, fried items onto my fork. ‘I have to say, though, that I’m feeling good about this.’
‘Because thirty-eight-degree blazing sun in Florence screams lardy English-style breakfast required?’
‘Exactly.’ I chomp. ‘That isgood.’ I chomp more. ‘I’m going to be burning calories sightseeing. And today feels like it’s going to be an unhealthy day.’
What? What do I mean by that? Do I mean anything by that?
I’m going mad.
Emma looks into my eyes and smiles at me and then bites into an apple, her eyes still on mine. I don’t know why, but I’m lost. I can’t do anything except look at her.
If I were any of our fellow guests I think I’d be vomiting at the sight of us. We’re behaving like the very definition of love-sick.
Breakfast is very nice. The food is good and Ilovesharing meals with Emma. When we aren’t (stupidly soppily) gazing at each other, we talk: about Florence, about breakfast foods, about clothes shopping. (It turns out that I’m not terrified and am genuinely looking forward to it this morning, because: Emma.) None of it’s earth-shattering; all of it shatters my heart, though. Because Iloveit, Ilovebeing with Emma. And after this trip, we won’t be together any more.
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
And I don’t think I’m going to tell her about Thea because I think it would just make her miserable.
I love her. And I wish I didn’t.
We can’t be together and I need to be clear about that with her. I need to make it very obvious that we won’t be kissing again. Not touch her, not be couply, just be friendly.
And I’m going to make the most of this time with her because it might be the last time I ever see her.
That’s where I’ve got to with my thoughts by the end of breakfast.
‘What time shall I book for the gallery?’ Emma’s swiping on her phone as we leave the breakfast room. ‘Gallery first, then clothes shopping, then lunch, then back on the road?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say. She could actually suggest anything and I’d think it sounded good.
We put our cases into the van after breakfast, before we set off for the Uffizi, me trying hard not to touch any part of Emma by mistake, which is made more difficult by the fact that I don’t think she minds whether or not we bump hands or limbs.
God. I hope…
I really, really hope she doesn’t think that perhaps we’re going to get back together now.
It would be a huge mistake. You can’t go back in time and, even more importantly, I haven’t changed, have I? I’m still the same person who fucked up before. Why would things be different this time? Plus, there’s Thea.
‘Ready?’ Emma fishes a big straw hat off the top shelf in her van, and places it on her head with a flourish. ‘Sunstroke preventer.’
