Of course, my mind had to turn that into a whole thing. Maybe the pots that fell off the shelf truly did hit me, because that would explain what happened next. In the gloom of that cramped room, with Simo’s arms around my chest and his lips an inch away from mine, I nearly let myself believe that he would . . . kiss me. That was stupid of me, because now that the thought has formed, it’s impossible to erase it from my mind. I broke my own rules and let myself believe something that couldn’t be further from reality.
I return with a fresh bag of cinnamon and, naturally, a splinter in my thumb, so I make a stop by the first aid box in the hall. It takes a minute, but with a hiss I pull the splinter from the flesh. As I look at the nasty little thing, I resolve that this is where it stops. No more thoughts about kissing in the cupboard. Simo is upstairs in my room, innocently reading a book, while I’ve turned him into a dirty fantasy.Not only am I hurting myself, I’m also risking my friendship. And nothing is worth that, least of all a fantasy with zero chance of ever coming to pass.
In the cafe, the bell above the door announces a new customer. Dad’s humming stops, replaced by silence.
‘Matthew,’ a woman’s voice says, which is strange. No one ever calls him Matthew. He’s Maz, or Mr Dean if he dislikes you, but never Matthew. A mug crashes to the floor. The sound splits my eardrums, and I jump on the spot. I rush towards the noise, but Dad’s next words stop me in my tracks.
‘Mother,’ he says, and I barely recognise his voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
Dad doesn’t have a mother. Not any more. He told me his parents passed away soon after he left home with me and Mum. I always assumed they died of old age, which, now that I think about it, makes no sense. They’d only be in their fifties. Still, Dad wouldn’t lie to me. Especially not about having dead grandparents.
My feet carry me into the cafe of their own accord. In the afternoon light streaming through the large shop windows stands the most elegant woman I have ever seen. I’m blinded by her appearance, all in whites and creams, with a sharp blazer casually thrown over her shoulders. An immaculate blonde fringe falls into a pair of deep-set, strikingly blue eyes. She looks effortless and expensive. And Dad – Dad is the picture of shock. The front of his shirt is soaked, and coffee is dripping into a puddle on the floor where the mug lies shattered.
‘And you must be Luca.’
The woman tilts her head by a fraction, and I get the sense that I’m being scrutinised. If she’s surprised to see me, she knows how to hide it. The look she gives me is, at best, one of mild curiosity, like we’re nothing but strangers standing in the same cafe, which, I guess, we are. She turns back to Dad, but he only stares at her. ‘Fine, I’ll introduce myself. Luca, I’m Anna, your grandmother. It’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time.’
I’m unable to form a coherent response, but Dad snaps out of his daze. ‘What,’ he forces through gritted teeth, ‘are you doing here?’
The lift of her eyebrow is as good as imperceptible, but the effect is one of refrained disdain at Dad’s rudeness.
‘Your father and I have moved here.’
‘You moved to Lombard?’
‘We’ve bought a house in the area.’
‘What kind of house?’ Dad asks with narrowed eyes.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I know you didn’t buy ahouse. You’ve never lived in a house! You’ve lived in villas and mansions and – Jesus, don’t tell me you bought the manor!’
‘Hidden House?’ I blurt out, because I can’t help myself.
‘I believe that’s what it’s called,’ she says with a hint of disapproval. ‘We might change the name.’
‘You cannot change the name. You can’t rock up here and go around changing things,’ Dad insists. It sounds pretty pointed.
‘I didn’t come here to argue,’ she responds, brushing away the sideswipe with ease. ‘I’ve had enough of that fora lifetime. I am here to extend an invitation. Or an olive branch, if you wish.’
‘I’ll tell you what I wish. I wish for you to—’
But she doesn’t let him finish. ‘Your father and I are having a barbecue, in two weeks on Sunday. That ought to be enough time to recover from the surprise. We’d like you to come.’
‘No, thank you,’ Dad replies without missing a beat.
‘Another time, then?’ she suggests with a shrug.
‘We won’t be free at another time, sadly. In the near or distant future.’
I have never seen Dad throw a tantrum before. His temper, usually mild, is boiling over. In her shoes, I would have fled the room, but she faces him with aloofness.
‘We’re not going anywhere, Matthew. This is our home now, and it would be silly to avoid one’s own family when we live in the same town. But –’ she lifts her hands in a gesture of acceptance, and I spot a vintage designer bag dangling from her wrist – the kind that you’d need a mortgage for – ‘it’s up to you. There will be enough food for four, and we’ll eat whether or not you decide to grace us with your presence.’
Then, for the second time, she turns to me. ‘Luca?’
It’s odd to hear her say my name, so odd that I’m still scrambling for an answer. A yes feels far too plain for her. I want to add a formal title, but she’s my grandmother, not the Queen, though there is a resemblance. In spirit, more than in actual appearance. I settle for a nod instead.
