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‘Friend of yours?’ Marco asks.
‘We met yesterday.’ I fill him in on Totò’s dad and how he met Achille at the Targa Florio. ‘If I come back one afternoon, I can hear the story for myself. I wonder if he’ll let me record it and use it in the book.’
‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.’
‘That’s pretty much what Totò said. Apparently his dad’s friends all have stories of their own, too.’
Marco laughs. ‘Well, that seals it. Once word gets around that an attractive young woman author is in town and actually wants to hear a bunch of tall tales about famous racing drivers, you’re going to have enough material for a five-volume critical study.’ In the distance, the clocktower of St Catherine’s church begins striking the hour. ‘What time is that? Eleven?’
‘On the dot,’ I say.
‘Damn, we’re going to have to head for the motorway. I’ve got a meeting at half past one, and God only knows what the traffic in Florence is going to be like. What a shame, though. There are some great roads between here and there.’
I open my mouth to say that there will be another time, another opportunity, but then I close it again. Last night was so good – so unbelievably, effortlessly good – that I’m suddenly scared of ruining it. And besides, who’s to say that it has to be anything more? It can just be a fling, I tell myself, watching Marco’s beautiful hands on the wheel. No pressure. We’ll always have Siena.
By the time we reach the Siena-Florence motorway, we’re both quiet. Marco seems to be concentrating.Maybe he’s thinking about how to manage the situation,whispers the chilly little voice in my mind. He’s probably wondering how we can go back to being friends without it being awkward, without my clinging on and making a whole drama. Who would want to get involved with me anyway? I’m nervous, damaged, baggage-laden. It’s amazing he took the risk of going to bed with me in the first place. I sink into my thoughts, feeling colder and gloomier by the second.
When the big South Florence toll gate comes into view fifteen or so minutes later, Marco breaks the silence. ‘Can you get my wallet? It’s in there.’ He gestures to the glove compartment.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll have to use my bank card for this, if you wouldn’t mind taking it out for me. You know, keeping my expenses separate. Thanks,’ he says as I hand it to him. His eyes are fixed on the car ahead and he seems tense. Maybe he’s just preparing to face the city traffic. Or maybe he’s got a thing about toll gates, like some perfectly confident drivers have a thing about parallel parking or three-point turns.
As we approach the toll booth, he clears his throat. ‘Tori?’
Shit, here it comes. He’s so desperate to make sure I don’t get the wrong idea, he can’t even wait until we get to Florence. ‘Yes?’
‘Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?’
Oh wow. Ohwow. ‘Yes. That would be nice.’
‘Great,’ Marco says, and his whole body suddenly seems to relax. He slots his card into the reader and the machine beeps, then gives us a cheeryArrivederci. We pass the roundabout and head down a narrow road, and I lean back casually in my seat and do a tiny victory dance in my head.
‘Look left,’ Marco says.
I look and see a massive, ornate monastery in pale stone, looming down on us from the top of a wooded hill. ‘Oh,’ I say for want of anything better. ‘Beautiful.’
‘That’s the Carthusian monastery. It’s even better inside. We can go and see it sometime, if you like.’
‘I’d like that,’ I say, and watch his smile spread. ‘I’d like that a lot.’
22
‘Look, there’s Achille,’ Totò’s father Carmelo says, pushing the open photo album across the table towards me. ‘And that’s me.’ His finger taps the face of the child in the picture.
‘That’s amazing,’ I say, but it’s more than that. It’s haunting. Achille kneeling down, his goggles pushed up on his head, smiling warmly at this little boy who’s staring up at him, obviously transfixed. ‘Can I…?’
‘Prego.’ Carmelo beams at me. I pick up my phone and snap a couple of pictures. ‘Do you think you’ll put it in the book?’
‘I’d love to, if it’s okay with you. We probably have to do some paperwork.’ I’ve been reading up on this kind of thing, image permissions and contracts and copyright, but I don’t know how I’d begin to explain it in Italian. ‘I’ll talk to my publisher and find out,’ I say.
‘Whatever you need,’ Carmelo says. ‘You just let me know.’
Cecco, who’s nursing a beer at the next table, leans over. ‘Let me see that,’ he says, and I suppress a smile. Cecco’s the oldest member of the group and by far the most cantankerous. ‘My God, Carmelo!’ In his strong Tuscan accent,Carmelosounds likeH’armelo. ‘You were such a beautiful child. What happened to you?’
‘Cuinnutu,’ Carmelo mutters.
‘Language, Dad,’ Totò says, appearing with a tray. He removes my empty water glass and puts a spritz down in front of me. ‘I hope these bastards aren’t giving you a hard time.’
