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‘You’ve got to use the pasta water in the right way.’ He hands me a fork. ‘Buon appetito.’
We eat the pici in companionable silence. Finally, Marco says: ‘Are you going to use Cecco’s story, do you think?’
I wipe the sauce from my plate with a piece of bread. (It’s good manners in Italy, really.) ‘He said I could. Well, what he actually said was that he didn’t give a shit whether I did or not, but he wouldn’t mind “letting a bit of air out of the overblown cult of personality”.’
‘He actually said that?’
‘Yes. I recorded it and everything. If I’m honest, though, I didn’t totally understand until I listened to it a couple of times.’
‘He’s got a fine turn of phrase, this Cecco,’ Marco says. ‘I suppose it might not hurt to have a view from the other side.’
‘I’m starting to feel like that. I mean, look at this.’ I pull my tablet towards me and open the photo gallery. ‘I photographed every potentially useful document we found. I’ve got letters from Achille, letters about Achille, obituaries, race reports, newspaper clippings. This is the first time I’ve come across something that isn’t pure unadulterated heroism. I don’t know – it makes him seem more human, somehow, that someone out there thinks he was a bit of a prick.’
‘What did you do with the rest of it?’ Marco asks, eyeing the two archive boxes stacked neatly next to the sofa.
‘Oh, I sent all the other boxes back to Charlie. She can bloody well deal with them.’
He whistles. ‘Harsh.’
‘Not really.’ I haven’t told him the worst of Charlie’s behaviour – haven’t told him much about it at all, in fact. And I’ve told Charlie absolutely nothing about him. Whatever Marco and I have, it’s too new, too fragile and far too enjoyable to subject to that kind of pressure. ‘You know the most frustrating thing? The whole point of this, originally, was to tell Granny’s story. Achille was supposed to be part of that. A really important part, but not the whole thing. But now he’s taking over, because I have all this stuff about him and nothing about her at all. She never even told me about him. She had this huge, earth-shattering love affair and I just never knew.’
‘And you can’t reconstruct her side of it,’ Marco says, ‘because you don’t have anything about her experience. So, really, it’s turning into a book about Achille Infuriati that just happens to involve your grandmother.’
‘Yes, that’s it! That’s exactly it. If I could only find Maria or Giuseppe or someone, anyone, she might have confided in. Because there must be someone, mustn’t there? It doesn’t matter how stiff-upper-lipped you are – you can’t go through a thing like that without talking about it, can you? She was so young when she lost him. She must have been in so much pain.’
‘I’m sure she had people to support her.’ Marco gives my arm a reassuring rub. ‘Look, you’ve only been at this for a short time and you’ve already done a lot of networking. Maybe it will take a bit longer, but eventually you’ll run across someone who knows someone who knows someone who can tell you something useful. Like Cecco did.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. I’ll just have to keep putting the word out. No, no, I’ll deal with those,’ I say as Marco picks up the plates and takes them to the sink. ‘You already cooked – I can wash up later.’
He shakes his head. ‘This stuff gets disgusting if you leave it. Besides, it’s kind of therapeutic.’
‘Tough day at work?’
‘Tough week, tough month, tough year.’ He raises his voice above the sound of the running water. ‘Most of my clients are great. But you’d be amazed how many of your fellow citizens have been living here for years without changing their tax residence or even bothering to register as resident – which is, of course, breaking the law – and it’s only dawning on them now that Brexit is actually happening and they’re about to lose all their rights. So they call me up in a panic saying it’s urgent, which it is, and I spend most of the first meeting calming them down so we can try to sort out whatever mess they’re in.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m sorry. That sounds awful.’
‘It’s okay,’ Marco says, angling the pan under the tap to blast off the last of the pecorino sauce. ‘I wouldn’t do the job if I didn’t enjoy it. And I only want to strangle my clients about ten per cent of the time, or maybe it’s ten per cent of my clients I want to strangle. Either way, I think that’s as good as it gets in the legal profession.’ He stacks the dishes in the drainer above the sink and dries off his hands. Impulsively, I go to him and slip my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his back.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
He turns around and pulls me close. ‘I’d say you’re welcome,’ he says, ‘but I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.’
‘It’s just… you have so much stress, so much worry, so much work. And you’re still always there to listen. I don’t know how you put up with me when you spend all day helping other people.’
‘I don’t put up with you,’ Marco says, as if it’s perfectly obvious. ‘I spend time with you because I want to.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course I do. Your project is exciting – your new life is exciting. You’re exciting. I want to be involved in all of it.’ His eyes search mine. ‘Tori, where’s this coming from? Have I done something to make you feel bad?’
I almost tell him, then. I almost tell him about the calls and messages and emails from Charlie, the pleas and the imprecations and the guilt. I almost tell him about the times I’ve woken in a cold sweat with Duncan’s voice ringing in my ears, telling me harsh judgemental things I can’t bring myself to repeat even in my mind.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not at all. I’m just feeling a bit of pressure about the book. There’s so much to do in a year and a half and, well, you know.’
‘I know.’ He smiles. ‘But you’ll do a wonderful job – I know you will.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
