‘Does that mean I get to see their house?’ I could live with meeting them if I get a tour of the manor in return.
‘They’re coming for lunch at the cafe on Sunday. It’ll be more relaxed that way, if we’re on home turf. As long as Dad keeps his head screwed on.’
I raise an eyebrow at him. ‘More relaxed? It’ll be a spectacle. Half the town will “drop by” for a coffee to ogle the rich couple who bought Hidden House.’ Luca suddenly looks worried. ‘I’m kidding – it won’t be that bad.’
He groans and sinks on to the bench, his theatrics prompting a yap from Orlando. ‘You’re not – it’ll be the event of the year. They’ll watch us from the street like zoo animals. Or a Broadway show starring Meryl Streep.’
‘Is it too late to rearrange things?’
Luca sits up with an expression like he’s nursing a toothache. ‘I could barely get Dad to agree in the first place. I mean, he’d be so happy to cancel, he’d likely throw a party to celebrate getting out of it. He’s so weird around them, always snapping and lashing out.’
‘And how do they react?’
‘They snap right back. Where Dad’s aggressive, they’re passive aggressive.’
‘Sounds like there’s a lot of baggage,’ I say, and am reminded of my own parents. Though we might handle conflict differently, it’s always there, simmering. I feel for Maz. From what Luca has said, he didn’t have the easiest childhood, and being confronted with his past must bring back its demons.
‘Too much baggage to unpack,’ Luca says, ‘but I guess them reaching out is their way of making up for it. So, I want lunch to go ahead. Please come? Maybe they’ll behave if you’re around.’
It’s not like I’d refuse him. ‘I’ll come.’
Overcome with relief, he falls back on to the bench and places his head on my thighs. ‘Thank ya,’ he says, and grins up at me. I don’t even mind that the rain clinging to his hair is sinking into the fabric of my jeans.
‘You can pay me back in muffins,’ I reply.
‘As many as you can eat and then some,’ he promises.
‘And you can show me pictures of the manor,’ I say.
‘I don’t have any. I didn’t even see inside.’
‘You didn’t find an excuse to sneak in? Not even to go to the bathroom?’
‘I was too nervous to pee. Besides, I couldn’t leavethem alone with Dad. Any interaction between Maz and his parents requires a referee. Or a bodyguard. Or three bodyguards.’
I can’t hold back a snort. ‘Yeah, I know the feeling.’
Luca’s face grows serious. I feel too exposed to hold his gaze, so now it’s my turn to fidget with his pendant. My parents are being odd – odder than usual. They’ve been whispering, scheming, and not knowing what they’re up to makes me nervous.
‘You can stay at mine if you want, you know that,’ Luca says.
I want to accept. It’s almost impossible not to, with him gazing up at me, true sympathy in his cornflower eyes. But this – us, cosying up in a public space – won’t help quash the rumours.
I pretend to have an itch on my calf, forcing him up and away from me. How is it that girls can be as close as they like without anyone thinking they’re together, but when two boys show a semblance of care for each other they end up being shipped by an entire town?
‘I think I’d better go home.’ If I sit in the lounge and read or write in my notebook it at least makes it impossible for my parents to continue their plotting.
‘Who knew family could be so complicated?’ Luca says, and stares across the gallery.
I knew, I want to say. I don’t remember a time when my family wasn’t complicated, even before the chasm left in Hamza’s wake. Mum cut her parents out of her life long before I was born, something to do with her falling pregnant before there was a ring on her hand, and – to addinsult to injury – marrying a (lapsed) Catholic. Dad has lived far away from his siblings for too long to maintain true closeness. That unease, the feeling of being incomplete, has always had a seat at our dinner table.
Luca grew up in a bubble. Though the circumstances might have been unusual, his parents sheltered him from harm for a solid seventeen years. His mum might be far away, but all he has to do is say the word, and Poppy would be back in a heartbeat. It’s only now that he’s being forced to navigate the waters of fraught family dynamics. There’s an ugly part of me that feels a grim satisfaction at the bursting of the bubble, though it makes me dislike myself more.
‘I have to ask Joni for those English books,’ says Luca, thankfully interrupting my moment of self-loathing.
‘I thought you weren’t going to “invest in hard copies”.’
We’re five weeks into the term and not once has Luca made the effort to bring his own copy ofTwelfth Night. Instead he shares mine, which I don’t mind, so long as he doesn’t moan about not being able to read my notes in the margins.
