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‘Not really, no. But then again, I don’t know what questions I’m supposed to have.’
‘Right. Well, obviously I’ll review this properly and go through it with you before you sign anything. You can’t sign anyway until your details are complete. You have your Italian tax code?’
‘I only got here yesterday,’ I say.
A lopsided grin. He’s attractive when he grins. ‘You’re working fast.’
‘I don’t see any sense in hanging around.’
‘Quite right. Italian bureaucracy is slow enough without adding on more delays. Well, the tax code is the easiest thing, but you’ll need it for absolutely everything: bank account, rental contract, phone, residency, healthcare – tax as well, of course. Do you have a work contract here?’
‘I’m a writer. Freelance.’
‘Okay, so you’ll need an accountant,’ Marco says. ‘If you don’t have one yet, I’m happy to recommend a few. Anyway, the tax code. I can apply for that on your behalf, but you could easily pick it up yourself. All you have to do is go to the tax office with your passport, probably wait around for a while, and fill out a basic form. They’ll issue the code on the spot.’
The very idea is tiring. ‘But you can get it for me?’
‘If you like. But you might not want to pay me to do something you can do on your own.’
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘My grandmother left me an inheritance, and she loved Florence. She’d have liked me to use it to make moving here a bit easier.’
‘A smart woman, your grandmother.’ Marco takes out his phone. ‘Do you have your passport with you? I can make a copy now, get the process started.’
My passport is in the inner pocket of my bag. I take it out and pass it over.
‘Victoria Catherine Anne Desirée MacNair,’ he says. ‘Four names and a surname. That’s going to mess with people.’
‘Why? Don’t you have middle names in Italy?’
‘We do, but not like that.’ Marco flattens out the passport and takes a series of pictures. ‘But in your case the tax code will be based on just your first and last names, so that will be straightforward.’
A horrible thought occurs to me. ‘My first name and last name? But if my last name changes…’
He grimaces. ‘Are you planning to change it?’
‘No. Well, yes, I mean… I’m getting divorced,’ I say, and I think: that’s the first time I’ve said it. Oh, God.
Marco leans back in his chair. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is it… look, I have to ask. Is it nearly over? Just beginning?’
‘I haven’t really…’ I swallow, hard. ‘Just beginning.’
‘So it’s going to be a while before it’s final.’ He pushes a hand through his hair. ‘I guess you don’t want to wait?’
I think of my friends who’ve divorced, how it dragged on and on even when both parties were in agreement to start with. How it’s still dragging on for some of them. ‘There’s a real risk that Brexit will happen before this does,’ I say. ‘And then…’
‘…it would be far, far harder for you to move here. Yes. How easy is it to change your name in the UK? Can you do it before your divorce is actually final?’
I rack my brain. ‘I think so. I mean, you can fill out a deed poll, apply for a new passport, and so on. It’s probably a pain, but not difficult as such. Is it really so much worse here?’
‘You have no idea,’ Marco says. ‘The Italian system assumes you keep the same name from cradle to grave. Youcanchange, if you’re really determined, but…’
‘It’s a bastard?’
He laughs. ‘Accurate. If you’re set on it, go home for a few weeks and do everything there. Then you can come back and start your life in Florence with the right name. So long as your paperwork’s consistent, it won’t be a problem.’
Home. Where is home, anyway? I can’t go back to Duncan, and staying with Charlie – or, worse, Mummy – is out of the question. I could book a flight, find somewhere to rent for a short while, keep my head down. But I don’t want to, I realise. I came to Florence to start again, and even though I’m tired and sad and far, far more nervous than I used to be, I don’t want to go back on my decision even for a moment. I don’t want to bend.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Let’s go ahead. If I do want to change my name further down the line… well, then I’ll call you and we’ll figure it out. It’s just more bureaucracy, right?’
