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‘Okay. And you remember where everything is? Keys, Wi-Fi password, instruction manuals…’
‘It’s all fine, honestly. What I don’t know I’ll figure out, and if I can’t figure it out, I’ll call you.’ He’s looking at me so tenderly that I have to fight the urge to say yes actually, please take me with you. ‘You’d better go.’
Marco looks at his watch. ‘Ah. Yes.’ Kissing me hastily, he gets up and grabs his suitcase. ‘Take care, Tori, will you? I’ll see you soon.’
Don’t leave me. The words rise so suddenly, so fiercely that I have to bite them back. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I say.
A smile and a kiss and he’s gone. I curl up and press my face into the pillowcase, hoping for just a little of his scent. But all I can smell is fresh air and washing powder, because he changed the sheets especially for me. He told me that when I came round. It’s silly of me to be disappointed.
I lie there until I start to feel that horrible drag of impending sadness, and then I make myself roll off the bed and onto my feet. It’s lunchtime, technically, but I’m not hungry. The city outside is like a furnace; the shutters in the living room are all closed, casting it into an odd sort of faux-twilight gloom. My laptop’s sitting on the table, and I think about finding the Wi-Fi password – which I’m almost sure Marco said was somewhere in the second bedroom he uses as a study – but decide against it. I’ll feel better if I get something written. No distractions, no Netflix, no messing around online. I pick up my phone, connect my headphones and start to transcribe the recording of my conversation with Rosa.
It’s long, fiddly work. I haven’t done much transcription since myCherwelldays – back when I thought I’d get to be a proper journalist – so by the time I’ve got most of it down, the heat of the day has passed. I open the shutters and see the street already filling up with people. Part of me wants to close the shutters again and get into bed, but that won’t do me any good. If I lie down now, all I’ll do is think about how I should have gone to Rome. I pick up my bag and head downstairs.
*
Santa Croce basilica is a huge, pointy, flat-faced edifice in that green-and-white striped marble the Florentines apparently really loved at some stage. The steps in front are populated with students and tourists and schoolkids sitting in clusters, chatting or scrolling through their phones or indulging in the usual PDA. To one side, a colossal statue of Dante looks scornfully down, snatching his cloak away as if he doesn’t want to be associated with such frivolity. The square and the streets around it are lined with bars and cafés and funky little restaurants, but somehow I find it hard to settle on one. They all seem a little too crowded, a little too public – not that I usually mind that. I’m just not in the mood for other people’s hilarity.
In a side street a couple of blocks from the basilica I find a small bar with a handful of people sitting outside, on their own or talking quietly in pairs. This I can deal with. I sit down at a spare table in the shade and order a negroni. This arrives with a huge plate of snacks: crisps, nuts, olives, those ring-shaped crackerbread things – taralli, that’s it – rice crackers and a little pile of cut-up sandwiches stacked with thin-sliced ham and cheese. I have to remember this place. I sit back and sip my drink, steadily working through the food while I stare out at the street, and fall into a sort of meditative state.
My negroni’s almost gone when I become aware that there are people at the table next to mine. And they’re clearly on a date. I can never resist earwigging on a date. I take my shades out and put them on, picking up my phone as if checking for messages, and take a surreptitious look. He’s sitting closest to me: a stocky, bearded man in a tight-fitting T-shirt, his body angled outwards towards the street, legs casually open. She’s sitting across the table, nursing a spritz, and her focus is entirely on him – well, on his right ear.
‘It’s nice, isn’t it, this place,’ she says in a soft Irish accent. ‘I’m glad we picked it.’ I can practically hear the plea in her voice.
‘Oh yeah,’ he says. He might be American or Canadian, I can’t tell. ‘Oh yeah. It’s a great spot for people-watching.’ He leans back, spreads his legs even further and turns his head away from her, surveying. ‘That’s what I feel like doing this evening,’ he says. ‘Just people-watching. Don’t take it personally, okay?’
‘Okay.’ Her gaze is fixed on the side of his face. ‘No, I get it. It’s totally fine.’
The two of them fall into silence. She picks up a rice cracker and toys with it, taps it absently on the edge of the plate and sets it back down again. She’s clearly working up to saying something, some witty sally she hopes will pull his attention back to her. My phone buzzes in my hand.
I open the message and almost burst out laughing. It’s Marco, and he’s taken a selfie in front of what I guess is the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. He never takes selfies. He’s winking and blowing me a kiss, and just over his shoulder an elderly priest in a cassock is turning to look at him, one eyebrow disapprovingly raised. City of love, the caption reads. Wish you were here.
I’m trying to think of a witty comeback when there’s movement in the corner of my eye. The woman has risen to her feet and is hoisting her bag onto her shoulder.
‘Actually, no,’ she says. ‘No, it’s not okay. I’m going.’
The man leans back further, contemplating her. ‘You all right?’
She shakes her head. ‘I liked you,’ she says. ‘I liked you, and I thought… Never mind. Have a good evening.’
‘Uh… okay. Whatever.’ There’s something in the man’s voice, a note of contempt that’s horribly familiar. It makes my skin creep.
‘Bye,’ the woman says, and she turns and walks away fast, head down and shoulders stiff. I wonder whether to go after her, but she’s already pulling her phone out of her bag. I hope there’s some sympathetic friend waiting to listen.
‘Crazy bitch,’ the man says. He looks around as if touting for witnesses and, turning, catches my eye. He gives me a broad, warm smile and nods towards my negroni glass. ‘Hey, can I get you another one of those?’
‘No,’ I say, perhaps a little more sharply than I meant to, and he shrugs.
‘Suit yourself.’
I turn back to my phone, try to think of something to send to Marco. But I can’t concentrate, so I pay my bill and start walking back towards the flat. I tell myself I’ll take it easy, make some pasta and watch something ridiculous on Netflix. I’ve worked so hard today – I deserve a break. But once I’m back in Marco’s flat, with Marco’s things everywhere and no Marco, I find I can’t settle. I sit on the couch with a glass of wine in front of me and fiddle with my phone, switching restlessly from message to browser to app until somehow, inevitably, I’m looking up trains from Florence to Rome.
They leave pretty often. Twice an hour, in fact, and the last one’s at quarter past ten. If I wanted to, I’d have time to pack, have something to eat, call Marco and let him know I’m coming. I could be in Rome before midnight, if I wanted to.
I really want to.
My finger hovers over the ‘buy’ button. But something’s holding me back – multiple things. I should really talk to Ambra again. I should transcribe more letters. I should start hammering out an outline for the book, something I can send to Richenda. I should call Richenda, for that matter, and make sure everything’s all right with the contract. What’s the point in doing all that from some random hotel room when I’m perfectly well set up here? What’s the point in sitting around all day waiting for Marco to be free when he’ll be back in a week’s time anyway? Am I really so needy, am I really so lacking in backbone that I can’t bear being away from him for even a few days?Pathetic,whispers Duncan’s voice in my mind.Just pathetic.
I close the app. Just as I do, my phone starts to ring. Marco, the display says. I quickly end the call.
