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‘Certo,’ the man says, and extends an arm to show me a little table tucked away by the door. I hadn’t even seen it. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you the menu. Water?’
‘Still, please.’
‘Right away.’
I’ve scarcely settled in when he returns with my bottle of water and a menu that’s no more than a short list of dishes, handwritten, on one side of an A4 sheet. I order bruschetta, spaghetti carbonara and a glass of house red, and then whip out my tablet and start typing. I’ve been making myself do this since Richenda’s call: write down a full account of everything that happens to me, as soon as possible after it happens. What I should have been doing all along, in other words. It’s dross. But I already have almost four thousand words of dross and, the more I can write, the more material I have to edit into something worth sending her. That’s my logic, anyway.
I’ve managed to write about a page when the bruschetta arrives, two pieces on a plate drizzled with translucent greenish oil. It looks amazing: chunks of slick, bright-red tomato on a thin crisp base that’s almost more holes than bread. I pick up a piece and try to bite into it, but the bread breaks and bits of tomato fall off and go everywhere. I cram the rest in my mouth, knowing how undignified it is but not caring – because the tomato is fresh and the oil is peppery and I’m in Florence, on a beautiful sunny day, being a writer. I take a sip of rough, tannin-y wine and devour the other piece of bruschetta whole.
Via dei Serragli is filling up now with the lunchtime crowd. I watch them pass, singly or hand in hand: young hipster couples with matching sleeve tattoos, corporate people in suits, fashionable tourists in cream linen and wide, cropped trousers, this season’s statement red lip and huge sunglasses much in evidence. And then, just as the carbonara is put in front of me, I spot him on the other side of the street. Marco in the dark blue suit, his jacket slung over his shoulder – and, next to him, Chiara. She’s holding his arm and looking up at him as they walk along, obviously deep into some very intense conversation.
I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? They’ve probably known each other for years, they’re close, she clearly adores him. Why wouldn’t they be together? It’s none of my business anyway. I’m a client, and soon enough I won’t even be that any more. What Marco gets up to in his free time has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with me.
‘Signora?’
I must have zoned out. The carbonara is cooling in its bowl, and the restaurant owner is standing by my table looking concerned.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks. ‘Don’t you like it? Is there something wrong? I can make you a different dish, if you prefer.’
‘No, no.’ My Italian has scattered to the four winds. ‘I’m just… I don’t feel, I’m not feeling very…’
His eyes widen in alarm. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, I’m not ill and don’t worry, the pasta is very good and I want to eat it but…’ Oh God, I’m babbling. ‘I saw something,’ I say, and feel foolish – because I didn’t see anything worth being upset about and yet here I am, upset. ‘Someone. I have… troubles. I’m sorry.’
He nods and puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s such a kind gesture that I mist up a little, although I haven’t cried for, oh, a couple of days now. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Take your time. I’ll bring you something else when you’re ready. Carbonara isn’t good when it’s cold.’
He gives my shoulder a little squeeze, picks up the untouched bowl and walks away. I take a few deep breaths and drain my glass of wine, then open my laptop. If I’m going to have irrational feelings, I might as well get a bit of literary mileage out of them. As I start to type, a waitress appears and tops up my wineglass.
God, I love Italy.
9
Duncan’s Calvinist forebears had it right: workisgood for the soul. Just as well, because it’s all I’ve been doing. With three days to go before Richenda’s deadline, I’ve managed to write very nearly nine thousand words. It needs a lot of editing, but it isn’t complete bollocks. In fact, I’m starting to get excited about it. I’ve decided to write about Granny: about our connection, our trips to Florence and the experience of coming back here, without her, to try and start again. After all, Richenda said that what I have to offer is my story – and this, right now, is it.
I’ve taken to crossing the river and spending the afternoon at the other branch of Ditta Artigianale, the one on via dello Sprone. Apart from the tea – which is a major plus, because I can only drink so much coffee – it has an immense window looking out onto the narrow little street, with bar stools and a counter so you can people-watch while you work. Today I’ve been here since half past two. It’s now five o’clock, and I’ve written… oh, three hundred words. Not my best day. I’ve spent most of the time trying to remember that bar on via dei Serragli, the one Granny used to visit without me. Maybe because of that, it feels more important than any of the other places I associate with her. But my memories are fuzzy and jumbled with time. I can’t make sense of them.
My phone buzzes. It’s Charlie, sending a photo of her little old dog, Chomsky. He’s lying upside down in an armchair, wearing a tiny T-shirt that saysMADE IN DOGGENHAM.Gorgeous! I write back, and snap a picture of my teapot framed against the view of the street. The moment I send it, my phone buzzes again. Marco.
Ciao, come va?Did you get in touch with the accountant?
Yes, thanks, I reply. We met yesterday. He’s very serious! I was there for hours.
Good. You want your accountant to be serious, believe me. How’s it going otherwise?
On an impulse, I send him the photo of the teapot. Working hard, as you can see.
He starts typing, then stops, then starts again. This goes on for what feels like ages, and my stomach starts to feel a bit fluttery, a bit nervous in a way I don’t like at all. Just as I pick up my phone to put it safely away in my bag, the message comes through.
Hey, you’re at Ditta Artigianale! I’m just round the corner. Fancy a break from writing? I’ll buy the drinks.
I’m still staring at the screen when a second one comes in. I’ve got some information for you, too.
Oh, well, if it’s official business.
OK, great.
I’ll come to you. A prestissimo??????
