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The room at the Pandolfo Petrucci is simple and beautiful. In fact, it’s perfect, with a terracotta floor, beamed wooden ceiling, plain white walls and, at the centre of it all, the bed: a plush, white-sheeted double bed, big and comfortable-looking. In the far corner of the room, a half-open door shows a glimpse of blue-and-white majolica tiles.
‘All right, I’ll admit it,’ Marco says. ‘The system works.’
‘Told you.’
He takes me by the shoulders and kisses me. ‘I’m going to go and bring the car round,’ he says, ‘and I’ll stop and get some toiletries and toothpaste and, uh, other things. If I get back and you tell me that you’ve changed your mind and want to go home, I’ll take you home, no questions asked. You can say that at any time, and we’ll just get in the car and go. Understood?’
He’s so serious, so worried, that I feel a powerful rush of affection for him. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his cheek. ‘Understood,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
He goes out, and I sit down on the bed and marvel. I can’t believe I actually did that. I can’t believe that I just propositioned this gorgeous man and he said yes. I’ve never done anything so bold in my life; not that I’ve had much opportunity. I had some good times as a fresher, but that was all snogging in the college bar and trying not to fall out of rickety single beds. Not much chance for a dirty overnight in Siena there. And then in my second year I met Duncan, and that was it. Andthatwas all the way back in… 2006.
Two thousand and fuckingsix.
That’s thirteen years ago. I can hardly remember what it’s like to have sex with someone for the first time. I can’t even remember the last time I actually had sex with Duncan, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t any good. What if I’ve forgotten how to do it? What if I make a weird noise, or fart at a crucial moment, or accidentally knee poor Marco in the balls? What if I just freeze up from nerves and then he has to drive me back to Florence, which must beat leastan hour’s drive, and then the whole thing’s just horribly awkward and I have to decide whether I can ever look him in the eye again? I feel sick at the very idea.
I take a long deep breath and then another, trying to steady myself. I’ve got to find some distraction before I have a panic attack. I rummage through my bag and pull out my phone. Maybe I can find some silly cat videos or a funny news story to occupy my mind until Marco comes back, and then everything will be fine again.
But I don’t even have the chance to look, because I’ve got five new messages. All sent within the last hour, and all from Charlie.
Call me when you can x
I assume you’re wrapped up in your new project, but you should know that there are some issues. Call me x
Just had Mummy on the phone again. She’s NOT happy with your new book idea. Call me NOW.
Tori, this is serious. You need to sort this out. I refuse to do your dirty work any more.
CALL ME.
My nerves turn to irritation. I call Charlie and she picks up on the first ring.
‘Tori,’ she says. ‘It’s about time.’
‘Charlie, what’s going on? I’m out of touch for, what, a whole day – and you’ve gone and told Mummy about the book? You know it’s sensitive. I thought you understood that when I asked you to get hold of the papers.’
Charlie sniffs. I can practically see her hoiking her bosom. ‘Well, that was when I thought it was some kind of harmless wanky travelogue thing. I didn’t realise you were going to be hauling all Granny’s skeletons out of the closet.’
‘Achille isn’t a skeleton,’ I say. ‘Well, technically I suppose he is, but not in that sense. He was a good man and Granny loved him. It’s a beautiful story and it all happened well before Mummy was even thought of, so what’s the problem?’
‘She still has the right to know that you’re writing about our family. About her mother.’
‘Of course she has the right to know,’ I say, exasperated. ‘And I would have told her, as diplomatically as I could, at the best possible moment. I’d even have let her read the manuscript, not that she has any right of veto. I know she doesn’t, by the way, because she isn’t even in the bloody thing – and besides, I checked with Richenda and she checked with Tim and he checked with his lawyers. But now I can’t even decide when to do that, because you just went ahead and did it for me.’
‘You shouldn’t have told me,’ Charlie says sententiously, ‘if you didn’t want me to do anything about it.’
‘I agree. I shouldn’t have told you. But then again, if I don’t speak to you every single day, you start getting in a froth. Of the two of us, I don’t think I’m the one who needs her life sorted out.’
There’s silence at the other end of the line. And then Charlie says, in a cold, hostile tone I haven’t heard since we were both teenagers: ‘Well, I’m sure there was no need to tell Mummy. You’ll never finish the book. Duncan thinks so and I agree.’
‘You told Duncan about it?’
‘Of course I did. He deserves to be kept informed about what you get up to.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’ I speak as calmly as I can, but my mouth is trembling. ‘We’re not together any more. What I “get up to”, as you put it, isn’t any of his business. The marriage is over.’
‘Well, maybe that’s how you see it, but he—’
‘No, Charlie, it’s over. I left him. In fact, I didn’t just leave him, I emigrated. It’s not like I’m sleeping in the spare room while we work things out. I bought a one-way plane ticket and I left the country.’ Despite the awfulness of it all, the situation’s beginning to strike me as oddly hilarious. ‘I think that’s pretty definitive,’ I say, and let out an unladylike snort.
