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I really should. I’ve been in Florence for weeks now and I’ve spent most of it staring at my laptop. But I want to keep going, that’s the thing. I’m excited about this project, far more than I ever was aboutThe Laird’s Lady’s Guideor writing articles about the best tweed jackets under £150 or creating website copy for nickel-alloy suppliers. I’m excited in a way I haven’t been since I was an undergraduate, churning out tutorial essays by day and sitting up at night to write features forCherwell. God, I hope Richenda gets back quickly so I can forge on with it.
I know, though, that there’s no real point in continuing work until I have the official okay. Also, I’m exhausted. I mean, I arrived here exhausted, and what’s keeping me upright is mostly adrenaline. If I actually sit down for a moment, if I close my eyes and try to disregard all that productive whirring in my brain, I can feel the tiredness pulling at me, and the grief. Part of me wants to go to bed and not get up for days, and that’s something I can’t afford to do. There’s nobody for me to lean on here; nobody who’ll make supper if I don’t, or comfort me if I’m too upset to function. I know instinctively that I need to keep moving.
What would Granny do? Or, rather, what would I do if I were here with Granny? Easy: I’ll go to a museum. That should keep me occupied, get me a bit of exerciseandstave off the vague guilt I feel about living in one of the world’s most cultured cities without actually doing any, you know, culture. I can’t be arsed with the Uffizi, though, or the Duomo, or anywhere that might involve standing in a queue. Fortunately, Florence has dozens of museums that are (inexplicably) left off the standard artsy-linen-clad tourist itinerary.
A quick phone search shows me that the closest one to me is the Bargello, which to my recollection is delightful, insofar as any medieval prison can be delightful. But it has nice bronzes, and I remember being really taken with a group of sculptures – I think they were by Giambologna, or someone else with a name like a brand of cold meat – showing all kinds of birds, from sparrows to owls to one massive peacock. Yes, the Bargello it is.
I’m gathering up my things when the phone buzzes with a message from Charlie.
Mummy has Granny’s papers. Do you need me to go through them? Only I can’t, really, with so much else on. She attaches a photo showing a stack of archival boxes. My heart leaps. I hoped there might be something, but I didn’t realise there would be so much.
Quickly I tap out a reply. Wow, thanks so much for finding these! Would it be all right just to send them all on? I know it’s a pain in the arse, and obviously I’ll pay you back. I’d be so grateful.
Charlie’s reply is lightning fast. Fine, but there’s loads. Seems Granny was a bit of a hoarder. It’s going to cost an arm and a leg to send them all.
No problem, I reply. I mean, if you’re happy to do it. Honestly, it would be so useful to have them.
Charlie types for what seems like an age, and I brace myself for one of her screeds. But the reply, when it comes, is short and snappy. What’s your address?
Oh, thank God. My hands are actually shaking a bit. Via Dianora 43, 50122 Firenze, Italy. Thanks so much, C. I’m seriously grateful. xxxxxxx
OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you! I hope you have enough space in that tiny flat of yours! x
Typical dramatic Charlie. I’ll surely have room for a few boxes if I shove my sofa back a bit. Easy.
My mood now definitely lifted, I saunter downstairs and out in the direction of the Bargello. But just as its grim stone tower comes into view, I’m distracted by one of those shops – the touristy sort you find all over town, crammed with handbags of all shapes and sizes, each one stamped with the Florentine fleur-de-lis. This one has a rack of big leather tote bags in summery pastel colours, pink and yellow and blue and lilac and pistachio green, with a sign saying 50€ in red marker pen. They certainly aren’t worth even that. But they look substantial, they’re capacious enough to hold a laptop and, above all, they’re pretty. I draw closer to take a look and, as I do, the shop owner pops out of the doorway and grins at me.
‘Can I help?’ he says – in English, of course. I’ve resigned myself to never, ever passing for Italian, even if the locals did buy from these places, which I’m sure they don’t.
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’m just looking at these.’
‘Oh, those are new.’ He switches instantly into Italian, and I feel a rush of gratitude, as I always do when someone takes my efforts seriously. ‘They’re nice, very useful. Do you want to see?’
I hesitate. I’m not sure I can justify a frivolous purchase while everything’s still up in the air. But the shop owner’s already unhooking the chain. He takes down the nearest one, in delicate yellow, and holds it open to show me. It’s basic: the inner isn’t lined and the seams are a bit uneven, but the stitching is good and strong. There’s a zippered pocket big enough to hold my purse and another for my phone. The whole thing ties at the top with a thin piece of leather in the same colour.
‘Try it,’ he commands, and pushes it into my hands. It might be cheaply made but the leather is soft as butter. I hook the bag over my free shoulder, the one Granny’s Fendi isn’t on. The straps are long and sturdy and it certainly feels robust enough. Mummy would call it shoddy, of course, and as for Duncan…
‘Forty-five,’ the shop owner says. He’s mistaken my hesitation for some kind of canny bargaining tactic. ‘Eighty for two.’
I pull the bag off my shoulder and look at it. I like the cheerful yellow, and the pink, too, and the pistachio. They remind me of sugared almonds or Easter eggs.
‘How much for three?’ I say.
*
‘Look,’ Chiara says, ‘I get that it’s hard to end a marriage. But I don’t really understand why you married Duncan in the first place. Didn’t you know what he was like?’
We’re sitting outside Procacci on via de’ Tornabuoni. Chiara’s drunk about half of her spritz and nibbled on one of their famous truffle finger-roll things, while I’m on my second and have put away four truffle rolls and a couple of anchovy ones. I’ve been enjoying this time, being frivolous for a change. I don’t want to talk about Duncan, and I don’t want to have to defend myself, but Chiara’s wide-eyed not-understanding is getting on my nerves.
‘He wasn’t always like that,’ I try to explain. ‘When we were going out… oh, he was charming. And it wasn’t superficial charm. We had this amazing, intense bond – I thought he really got me, that nobody else would ever get me like he did. And he was gorgeous, of course,’ I admit. ‘I suppose he still is.’
Chiara perks up. ‘Really? Have you got a picture?’
‘Actually, I have.’ I scroll through my phone to find the one, the only photo of Duncan and I that I couldn’t bring myself to delete. It’s from our wedding at the local kirk. We’re wrapped up in each other’s arms, him sturdily handsome in a kilt, me flushed and happy in my delicate lace wedding dress. And there, off to one side, is Granny: a lock of silver hair detaching itself from her elegant updo, holding her third glass of champagne and waving her free hand around as she chats animatedly with the pink-faced minister. Inconveniently, it’s my favourite picture of her.
‘Oh my God, that’s him?’ Chiara fans herself. ‘He’s like something out ofOutlander. I’d marry him – well, if he weren’t a dick,’ she adds.
‘In fairness, he wasn’t one then,’ I say. ‘Or he didn’t seem to be. It all changed after the wedding, though.’
