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‘That isn’t enough. Stella, they can’t keep treating you like this. They just can’t. I won’t let them.’
Achille’s face was flushed. He had that determined look about him, the look that said:I’m going to do this stupid thing, and you can’t stop me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t antagonise them.’
‘I won’tantagonisethem. I’ll just—’
‘Anything you do or say will antagonise them.’ There was a knot in my chest and I was choosing each word, struggling to keep my voice level. I knew that if I broke down, Achille would want to protect me, and then he’d storm off to confront Mamma and Papà and all hell would break loose. ‘They’re punishing me because they’re hurt that I lied to them for so long. That’s bad enough, but it’s understandable. Maybe they’ll even get over it in a while. But if you start arguing with them on my behalf – you, of all people – then they’ll punish me even more.’
‘But—’
‘Please believe me,’ I said. ‘If you fall out with them because of me, then it will be my fault. That’s how they’ll see it. And they’ll take it out on me, not you. So please, Achille, don’t talk to Mamma and Papà about this. Don’t make it worse. Please.’
29
Tori
The sadness creeps up on me. It comes on so quietly, so easily, that I don’t notice for a while. I work and eat and force myself out periodically for a coffee or a drink, and every time I do that the effort required is just a little bit harder until I find myself, on the fifth day, slouched on the sofa at seven in the evening wondering whether I can just go to bed now or whether I really ought to put in another hour of writing first.
I pick up my phone. I put it on silent a while ago, worn down by the bzz-bzz of new messages I couldn’t be bothered to answer, and now I see that Marco has been in touch. Two hours ago, I realise with a pang of guilt. He’s sent a snapshot of a young priest in cassock and sunglasses straddling a Vespa and smoking what looks like a cheroot, with the caption Achille’s clerical cousin. He’s sent me so many pictures like this – a cheeky pigeon on the statue of Marcus Aurelius, two elderly ladies chatting up a pair of strapping carabinieri, a Swiss Guard ignoring a curious dog – and I’ve loved them all, and hated myself for not being able to summon up the energy for a proper reply.
Impressive! I type back. Are all the priests like that? I have this urge to visit the Vatican. ;)
Marco starts typing right away. Maybe he’s been waiting for my message. Maybe he’s been feeling neglected and oh God, I’ve gone and sent him a stupid joke about hot priests. I’m such a dick.
Only the Jesuits, I suspect. How are you doing? Is work OK? Nuvolari behaving himself?
I want to hear his voice. On impulse I tap his number and the phone starts to ring. He picks up before I can think twice.
‘Tori!’ There’s so much noise I can hardly hear him. Music, voices, what sounds like a dog yapping. ‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Hang on, I’ll just… hey, guys.’ He’s switched into Italian. ‘I have to take this call. It’s my girlfriend.’
There’s a wave of noise from the other end, the sound of good-natured male derision. ‘Fuck you guys,’ Marco says. ‘Hang on…’
The noise dies down. ‘Sorry,’ Marco says, his voice suddenly perfectly loud and very clear. ‘Some old friends of mine… we always go for a drink when I’m here. I’d have suggested somewhere quieter if I knew you were going to call. How are you? Is everything all right?’
‘You called me yourfidanzata,’ I say.
‘Oh. Yeah. I mean… is that, uh…’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, though my heart’s speeding up and I feel a bit clammy. It could be excitement or panic – I don’t know which, and I don’t want to think about it now. ‘Really.’
‘Good.’ He sounds happy. ‘How’s it going? There isn’t anything wrong, is there? You haven’t heard from…’
‘No. No, it’s all very peaceful here. Maybe a little too much,’ I admit. ‘I miss you.’
‘I miss you, too. Not long until I’m back, though. Just two more days.’
‘Two more days,’ I echo.
‘Two more days.’ His voice is soft. Somewhere in the background, a siren wails. I imagine him standing in some winding, cobbled side street, maybe leaning against the wall while people stroll past him in chic 1950s clothing, because I mostly know Rome from the old films Granny used to love. ‘So what are you up to?’ he asks.
‘Not much,’ I say honestly. ‘I’ve been working a lot. I… I’m sorry I wasn’t good at being in touch.’
‘It’s fine. I know how it is when you’re in Achille mode. Are you feeling all right? Is everything okay with the flat?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine.’ It’s definitely panic I’m feeling. I want to get off the phone. ‘You should get back to your friends.’
‘I don’t have to. I can stay here if you want to talk.’
