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‘My Italian’s pretty decent, really. And I may have found a research assistant,’ I add, with my best innocent face. I daren’t look at Marco.
‘You are a fast mover. Can you send me a document with all this information?’
‘I have it ready to go,’ I say. ‘Just a moment.’ I open a new message and attach the file Marco and I put together in the course of our work, then press send. There’s a muffled ping at Richenda’s end. ‘Got it?’
‘Got it. Well, I’ll send this all on to Tim and make my case, and if he’s on board then I’ll try to buy you as much time as possible to get it written. Who knows what he’ll say, but personally I think it’s brilliant. Oh, one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘When was your mother born? This guy died in 1955, right?’
‘Achille died in 1954,’ I say. ‘And Mummy was born in 1958.’
‘So no illegitimacy scandal,’ Richenda says. ‘Oh well, can’t have it all. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from Tim. Okay, darling?’
‘Okay. Thanks,’ I add, but she’s already ended the call. I close the laptop and turn to Marco.
He’s looking at me. Just looking at me, with an odd sort of expression on his face. For a moment I think he’s horrified, that I’ve completely cocked up the presentation or that I’ve got something in my teeth or a bogey hanging out of my nose. But then he clears his throat and says: ‘Wow.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t heard you talk like that before. You seemed so…’ he waves a hand ‘…alive.’
His eyes are fixed on mine. I can’t quite stand it – I have to look away. ‘Don’t I usually seem alive?’
‘Honestly? No. No, you don’t. You’re always speaking softly, staying calm, looking away. Like you are now. It’s almost like you’re editing yourself.’ He pauses, and I can sense that he’s choosing his words. ‘The girl I saw just now – the one who told Achille’s story with so much feeling, who was nearly crying when he died – I think maybe that’s actually you, unedited. And I like you, Tori. I’ve liked you from the start and I’ll like you whatever you do, however much of yourself you want to show me. But to see that side of you… wow.’
I look at him now, and he breaks into a grin, that same crooked grin that made my stomach turn over the first time I saw him.
‘There you are,’ he says.
I’m shaky and my heart’s pounding and my mind is swirling with doubts, but I want him so badly that, for once, I don’t care. I move along the sofa towards him and he takes me in his arms, and then either I kiss him or he kisses me, but it doesn’t matter because it makes sense. It makes sense in a way nothing’s made sense in years. Marco’s kissing me and I can smell soap and warm skin and the scent of limes, and it’s just like I imagined, only infinitely better. And then it’s like something snaps tight, and all my nerves come surging back.
‘Sorry,’ I gasp, pulling away from him.
‘Are you all right?’ Marco’s eyes search my face. His concern is painful to me – I feel hemmed in, under scrutiny. I get to my feet, smoothing down my top.
‘I’m fine. It’s just a bit… much. Right now, anyway.’
‘Okay.’ He nods, like he’s making a note. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ I’m aware I sound brusque, and I hate myself for it. I try to smile. ‘Really, it isn’t. It’s been a stressful few days and I’m on edge. Look, don’t you have somewhere to be? I mean, I’m sure you mentioned a lunch meeting.’
‘Oh.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Yeah, I do. I should get going.’ He stands and picks up his jacket, which is neatly folded over the arm of the sofa. ‘You’ll let me know what Richenda says?’
‘Of course. Though Swithins might not go for it.’
‘They’d be crazy not to.’ The hint of a smile. ‘And look, if by some weird chance they don’t, your grandmother got letters of condolence from Alberto Ascari, Juan Manuel Fangio, Peter Collins, Stirling Moss… You can just sell them all and pay off the publisher. But I don’t think it’s going to come to that.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Let me know,’ he says again. He kisses me on the cheek, not once but twice – a social kiss, a respectable Italian kiss – and goes out.
17
‘So how long do you have to finish the book?’ Chiara asks.
We’re sailing along in her little Fiat, heading south towards Siena. Hills rise up on either side of the road, scattered with houses and churches and vineyards and olive groves. ‘Eighteen months,’ I say. ‘It’s going to be tight. Thanks again for the lift, by the way.’
