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‘Oh.’ Chiara shoves the papers aside and plonks down in their place. ‘Well, it’s silly really, but I got this idea in my head that you’d be perfect for Marco. Clearly you’ve got way too much to deal with even to be thinking about guys, but… look, I don’t know. The way he talks about you and the way you talk about him, I guess I thought there was something there.’
‘What?’ I blurt out.
Chiara holds her hands up. ‘I know, I know. So interfering. I’m as bad as my mother.’
‘No, I mean… you and Marco. Aren’t you together?’
‘Me and Marco?’ Chiara bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, God, no! He isn’t my type at all. I like men who are…’ She waves her hands around to signalbrick shithouse. ‘You know, macho. Not that he isn’t… I’m sure he can be very… Oh, God,’ she squeaks, and is off in another paroxysm of laughter. I’m beginning to feel faintly insulted.
‘Oddio,’ she says again, and pulls out a tissue to dab at her eyes. ‘Shit, my mascara. Look, Tori, it’s like this. I’ve known Marco literally forever. Our mothers were friends long before we were born. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and I had an older half-sister who was way too cool to hang out with a baby like me. So Marco and I played together, we went to school together, we went to university together. I love him, but he’s like family. I can’t imagine him in a romantic way at all.’ She gives me a sharp sort of look. ‘But I think maybe you can.’
I grin at her. I can’t not grin. I can’t stop grinning, in fact.
‘Okay,’ she says, and grins back. ‘Tori, I don’t want to interfere any more than I have already. I’m very happy to look at these papers like you asked. Or…’
‘Or what?’
‘Or you can keep the sandwiches I brought, open a bottle of wine and call the person I think you really wanted to ask in the first place. I won’t be offended. If he says no, then of course I’ll stay and help you. But I have a feeling he won’t say no and, let’s face it, I’ve already been right once today. Surely you won’t deny me the chance to be right again?’
*
Marco doesn’t say no. In fact, when I tell him that I’ve got hold of Granny’s papers – a lot of them – he immediately asks if I need any help.
‘Can you come round this evening?’ I ask.
‘Of course. I’ll be with you right away.’
‘Right away,’ I repeat, and Chiara, hovering by the door, punches the air and does a little victory dance. ‘That’s amazing – thanks so much.’
I’m going, Chiara mouths.Good luck. She slips out through the door before I can thank her, closing it silently behind her.
‘Do you want me to bring anything?’ Marco asks.
‘No. You’re doing me such a favour just by coming, honestly. I’m afraid it’s all a bit pressured. I’ve got to speak to my agent on Monday and… look, I’ll explain it when you get here, but it might be a long session. I’ve got wine and sandwiches, though, and I’ll order some pizza or whatever you want to keep you going.’
‘Paperwork, fast food and a looming deadline. You’re taking me right back to law school.’ He laughs. ‘Okay, see you shortly.’
I just have time to brush my hair, swap out my sweaty dust-covered T-shirt for a fresh one, open the wine and put Chiara’s sandwiches on a plate before Marco arrives. I’d half-expected him to be wearing his usual sharp suit, or some kind ofGQ-level business-casual weekend outfit, but he’s in a plain dark T-shirt and a pair of jeans and the effect is… well, it’s pretty breathtaking. I’ve never actually seen his arms before, not properly. They’re pleasantly muscular and have just the right amount of dark hair and, oh my God, he has a tattoo. A stark geometric pattern on his right bicep.
‘Shall we eat first?’ he says, brandishing a paper bag.
‘First?’ I echo, a bit dazed.
‘Probably best. I know I concentrate better on a full stomach and anyway, we should have these while they’re hot.’ He drops a kiss on my cheek and heads straight for the kitchen corner, where he plonks the bag on the counter and starts lifting out small containers, followed by a wad of paper napkins. ‘I stopped by my favourite Sicilian place. I’ve got some arancini, various croquettes, all stuff we can eat with our fingers.’ He lifts the lids off the containers, releasing a delicious warm fragrance.
‘Oh wow,’ I say, coming closer. ‘These look amazing.’
‘They are. But we’d better have some wine to keep our arteries from clogging. Oh, there it is,’ he says, spotting the bottle with the two glasses I’ve set out next to the sandwiches. ‘And you’ve opened it already. Very organised of you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling rather disappointed in myself. I’d really have liked to see him open a bottle of wine.
Marco pours a glass and hands it to me. I take down a couple of plates and we fill them with a selection of sandwiches and Sicilian fried things before picking our way past the boxes to the sofa.
‘So tell me all about it,’ he says, just as I bite into one of the arancini. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘Sorry,’ I mumble through a mouthful of rice, meat and cheese. It’s delicious and hotter than the sun. I have to take a swig of wine to cool my mouth. Once I can speak again, I quickly outline the whole business with the old book, and the new book, and so on.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Yeah. That explains why you’ve been quiet.’
