Lombard might not have a cinema or more than one place with good coffee, but it does have a train station. Granted, the train to the city stops here a total of three times a day, if it bothers to show up at all, but the journey is gorgeous; rolling hills and golden wildflowers on volcanic rock. It’s giving Hobbiton, but with shitter weather. You’d be able to see the sea if it wasn’t for grey clouds above the hidden valleys.
After half an hour of me pointing out landmarks to Jacob – ‘The pasture where Sheila keeps the lambs in the spring! The willow that Princess Diana once sneezed on, allegedly!’ – I eventually run out of unremarkable things to show him, and we end up sitting in silence, smiling awkwardly at each other.
When we finally get off the train, we find ourselves surrounded by the towers and church spires of a medieval city, now a modern hub of activity. I’m glad that I brought a scarf because the cold of the city feels more vicious, catching you when you least expect it. Sea wind is more direct that way.
Braced against these unpredictable gusts, I follow Jacobup a busy street that leads deeper into the old town. I try to look like I’m enjoying this, but my face is all scrunched up, shoulders raised to prevent the cold from sneaking beneath the folds of my scarf. Jacob seems amused rather than concerned.
Just when I’m about to ask how much longer this walk will be, like the inner toddler I’ve not yet left behind, Jacob opens a nondescript-looking door and I follow him inside, keen to escape the elements.
I’m welcomed by low ceilings and brightly coloured drapes, upholstered benches with more cushions than anyone needs and the scents of cinnamon and other spices.
‘This is an Indian restaurant,’ I state.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Always,’ I confirm.
‘And I remember you telling me that you don’t like coffee. The reviews say that their chai is amazing.’
I’m already in love. With this place, I mean.
We peel off our jackets and huddle in a corner. Once the steaming mugs arrive and I’ve taken a sip of the chai, smooth and glorious, I’m ready to stay forever.
‘You approve?’ Jacob asks.
‘Wholeheartedly. I’ve always thought that chai spices would make the perfect ingredients for a Christmas cookie.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never made Christmas cookies before.’
‘Well, let’s fix that. I’ll turn you into a baker in no time.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he laughs.
We fall quiet, and because I don’t know what to say, I drink too fast and burn my tongue. This doesn’t happenwith Simo, whose presence I’m so used to. It’s just lately that the silence between us has grown more demanding.
‘How is the portrait project going?’ I ask, remembering how to make conversation.
‘Better than you’d expect,’ Jacob says with a smile. I notice that he has dimples.
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he continues, ‘would your dad be up for taking part in it?’
I feel my eyebrows travel upwards at the idea of Dad participating in a portrait series of queer Lombard.
‘You don’t look so sure,’ Jacob observes.
‘I’m not.’
‘Dare I ask?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘You don’t have to talk about it. But I’ll listen, if you want to.’
‘I want to,’ I say and set down my mug. ‘I’m not used to discussing my dad’s sexuality with anyone but him. Or my own, actually.’
‘I find your dad fascinating.’ His French accent slips through, and his eyes kind of glow. ‘I’ve not met a gay father before.’
