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‘That’s the spirit,’ Marco says, and gives me an encouraging smile. I smile back, but my heart is hammering. ‘Out of interest, what was your name before you married?’
‘Fanshawe-Carew.’
Marco looks at me for a moment. ‘As your lawyer,’ he says at last, ‘I feel obliged to give you a very serious piece of advice.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
He pushes my passport back across the table. ‘Stick with MacNair.’
*
By the time our meeting is over, my head’s spinning with the details of everything I need to do. ‘Try not to feel overwhelmed,’ Marco reassures me. ‘I’ll call you when I have your tax code and we’ll fix a time to go to the bank and set up your account. Once we have those things, you can sign your lease, and once that’s done and you’re settled in… look, there’s going to be a lot of paperwork in your life for the next few weeks. That’s the price you pay for living in Italy. But it’s worth it, I promise.’
‘I believe you,’ I say, and he smiles and pushes back his chair, ready to stand up. ‘Wait,’ I blurt out. ‘Can I ask you something?’
Marco pulls his chair back in. ‘Of course.’
‘I think I told you that I have an inheritance from my grandmother.’ I’m sweating even talking about it – it feels crass somehow, but I have to ask. ‘I know you’re not a divorce lawyer, but I was wondering… under Italian law, does that money belong to me? I mean, would my husband be able to…’
I trail off and stare at my empty cup. I’m sure Marco’s judging me for bringing this up, for wanting to keep Duncan’s hands off my money. But when he speaks, his voice is kind.
‘No, I’m not a divorce lawyer, so I can’t give you any advice on this. For what it’s worth, though – and again, I’m not speaking as your lawyer here – I seem to recall that Italian law would treat your inheritance as your own separate property. So in that case, your husband wouldn’t get any of it. But you won’t be divorcing under Italian law, will you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say miserably. ‘I’m here and Duncan’s in Scotland, so I don’t know how it works.’
Marco touches my wrist, just the briefest friendly touch. ‘Look, don’t worry about this now. If you like, I can have a look through my address book and see if I know someone who can actually advise you. Would that help?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say. I’m blushing.
‘All right, then,’ he says. He stands, and I stand, and we shake hands. ‘I’ll leave you to finish your work. I’ll get in touch soon, but call me if you think of anything in the meantime.Ciao, Tori.’ He slings his bag over his shoulder – rather a smart attaché case thing, very Italian – and goes out.
When I emerge onto via de’ Neri, I pull out my sunglasses and put them on, muting Florence into shades of sepia like an old photograph. I could do anything this afternoon. I could go to a museum, or see a film, or buy some clothes that don’t smell of damp and never will. I could just wander around, take a few pictures, stop for the occasional spritz and think about where to go for dinner. Ishouldsend that email to Richenda. But what I want to do is sleep. It’s dragging at me again, that sudden bone-deep tiredness, and I don’t even have the strength to wonder at it.
5
When I get back to the hotel, the sun is streaming through the window, painting a broad, bright stripe across the white bedcover. I close the shutters, kick off my shoes – the cold tiles feel wonderful against my overheated feet – and think about doing this properly, undressing and taking a shower and getting into bed. But even the thought is too much effort, so I lie down as I am and wait for sleep.
But it doesn’t come. Once my head actually hits the pillow, I’m wide awake. All I can think about is the book, and what Richenda will say, and whether I’ll have to pay back the first half of my advance if I can’t deliver. And that’s long spent. That £5,000 instalment had no sooner hit the marital bank account than the roof sprung a leak, and once that was fixed there were the sheep pens to repair, and then there was a bit left so Duncan bought a set of vintage golf clubs ‘for the house’, so that the visiting stockbrokers would have something to admire. And, just like that, it was gone.
It’s not that I can’t pay it back. If I have to, I can take it out of Granny’s gift. But the thing about £30,000 is that it seems like a huge amount of money – and, of course, it is. It’s far more than I’ve ever had in my bank account all at once. At the same time, I don’t know yet how much it actually costs to live in Florence, except that it’s already more than I thought. I don’t know how much work I’ll have over the next year, or when it will come in, or if I’ll be in a fit state to take it. I don’t have a pension, or savings, or life insurance, or any of the stuff I’m supposed to have by now. I don’t even know how much I’ll have left after the divorce. What if the inheritance isn’t even mine under Scots law? What if I’m doing something wrong by trying to keep it all for myself?
I should have thought of all this before I came here and started throwing money around on flats and lawyers. I should have realised that I couldn’t just run off and get away with it. Oh God, I feel sick.
I try to banish the thoughts, to bargain with them. There’s no sense in looking for trouble. I’ll write to Richenda when I’m absolutely certain that I’m definitely not going back. When I’ve moved into the flat, maybe. When my residency comes through. When I’ve talked to a divorce lawyer and found out how muchthat’sgoing to cost me. But the thoughts nag and nag, and eventually I sit up and pull my tablet out of my bag and write the first thing that comes into my head.
Dear Richenda, I’m sorry but things have gone a bit wrong withThe Laird’s Lady’s Guide. I’ve split up with Duncan and moved to Florence to start again, and I’m not sure if I can finish the book as it is. I’m really sorry and I hope we can find some kind of solution. T xxx
I press send before I can think about it, and I lie back again and shut my eyes tight. Surely Richenda won’t get back to me before tomorrow at the very earliest. Monday, more likely. Tuesday, even, if she’s taking one of her long weekends. I have lots of time to think about what to say next.
The tablet bursts into life. Trr-trr-trr, it goes, and a notification pops up:
Richenda Haughton is calling you.
Shit. I haul myself up again, switch on the bedside light and answer the call. There’s a momentary delay, and then Richenda’s face blinks into view. She’s in her office, with the bookshelf behind her full of colourful paperbacks, and she looks… worried, actually. I thought she’d be hopping.
‘Tori,’ she cries, ‘what on earth is going on? Oh, darling, you look simplyawful.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out.
