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‘The landlady is happy to rent it for longer,’ she says, phone still to ear. ‘It would be 1100 a month and the bills in your name. That means some paperwork, but I can help you with that. Does that work?’
‘Great.’
‘Four plus four or three plus two?’
Oh God, not maths again. ‘Sorry?’
‘The contract,’ she says, and I can see that she’s wondering if I did any research at all before I turned up in Florence looking for a flat. And the answer is no, not really. ‘There are two kinds of long-term contract in Italy. Four years renewable for another four, and three years renewable for another two. There’s a shorter contract too, thetransitorio, but I’m not sure whether you can get residency with one of those.’
‘Whichever works,’ I say.
‘And when do you want to move in?’
‘Whenever I can. I’ve got a hotel for now, but…’
‘Right,’ she says, and resumes speaking into the phone in Italian. I look out of the window again and wait for her to address me.
‘Okay,’ Chiara says after a while. ‘If you decide you want to go ahead, then I can draft the contract and we can fix an appointment with Federica – that’s the landlady – to meet here in a few days’ time for the handover. Do you have a lawyer?’
‘No. Do I need one?’
‘I can explain the contract to you, but you might want someone to look it over. And then there’s the residency stuff, and the bank, and…’ She waves a vague hand. ‘There’s a lot of bureaucracy – put it that way.’
‘I’ll be honest,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to do more than I absolutely have to do.’
‘Then you definitely want a lawyer. I can send you some names if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Chiara says. ‘Do you want to ask anything else about the apartment?’
I look around again. It’s clean and anonymous, furnished in white and slate-grey and plum like the holiday rental it is. There’s a moka pot sitting on the hob and a selection of glossy travel magazines is fanned out on the low glass coffee table. I can’t remember and I can’t be bothered to look, but I’m half-sure there are fat rolled towels tied in ribbon at the end of the bed. I think of the house I’ve left behind, the sprawling perma-damp pile with the moth-eaten stags’ heads and the green carpet and the portraits of MacNair ancestors, row upon row, stern and reproachful.
‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s perfect.’
Chiara hesitates. She picks up the keys from the occasional table where she dropped them when we came in and dangles them from her finger. ‘You’re sure? You definitely want to do this?’
‘Definitely,’ I say. And somewhere deep down, under the layers of grief and pain and cotton-woolly exhaustion, I know it’s true.
*
When Chiara has waved goodbye and dashed off down the street in her sparkly designer trainers, I turn the other way and wander towards piazza del Duomo, the huge irregular-shaped square around the cathedral, in search of a drink. It’s only half past three, but the pavement seats are already filling with people cradling big round glasses of luminous-orange Aperol spritz. Granny would think it irredeemably touristy. She knew all the places, the hidden little angular piazzas and the chic bars in the courtyards of apparently private houses, but I want to be touristy today. I want to be in the sun and around people.
I sit down at a table outside a bar facing the side entrance of the cathedral and order a negroni, which arrives in a heavy etched-glass tumbler with a little ramekin of peanuts and some olives and a bowl of crisps. I stretch out my legs, feeling the sun warm them, and take a long sip of my drink. It’s pure alcohol, gin and vermouth and Campari, orangey-bitter and ferocious. I take a long sip and stuff a handful of crisps in my mouth and think about ordering a second one.
‘Enjoying your trip?’
I turn my head. The man at the next table is watching me. He looks to be in his forties, with a friendly, rather lived-in face and dark hair scattered with silver. He smiles, his eyes crinkling, and for just a moment I want to tell him everything.
This isn’t a holiday. I’ve left my husband. I’ve left my husband and fucked off to Italy because I couldn’t stand it any more.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say and almost add: ‘You?’ But then I think, no, he’s Italian, isn’t he? He’s probably a local – though surely locals don’t come and sit here. But then a group of people arrive, three men and a woman – all beautifully dressed – and descend on him, hugging and kissing and exclaiming. He gives me a rueful look, and I pick up my drink and stare at the green-striped marble of the cathedral. I’m relieved, I think.
I don’t have the second negroni. The first one almost does for me. I didn’t sleep last night, didn’t sleep the night before; I don’t remember the last time I really felt like I slept. I get to my feet, a little bit unsteady, and walk down via del Proconsolo towards the embankment and my hotel. By the time I get to my room, exhaustion is pulling at me. I’ll just have a nap, I think, before I go for dinner. Just an hour or so and then I’ll shower and change and wander across the river, try and find one of those little places Granny liked so much and have a bowl of pasta. I curl up on the bed and fall instantly asleep.
4
My phone wakes me up. I peer at the screen. It’s almost seven in the morning and my sister Charlie is calling. I’m groggy and parched and I don’t want to talk to her, but I know I’ll have to eventually, so why not now? I accept the call and put the phone to my ear, roll onto my back and stare at the painted wooden ceiling.
