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‘That’s lovely of you,’ I say. ‘But you should go and have fun, honestly.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Really. We’ll see each other soon.’
‘You know it.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Okay, but you’ll call me if there’s anything, won’t you? Promise?’
‘Promise.Buonanotte.’
‘Notte, tesoro.’
I end the call and look around me. It seems ridiculous that I’ve been sitting around here feeling sorry for myself when everything’s so… well, I don’t know what it is, but it definitely doesn’t call for sitting around.
‘Right,’ I say out loud. ‘No more.’
The next couple of hours are a whirlwind. I gather up the empty pizza boxes from the coffee table, stack and run the dishwasher, make the bed, run the hoover and collect up all the dirty laundry that’s draped all over the bedroom. I hadn’t realised how horribly messy the place was; hadn’t seen the unwashed mugs and glasses, the hair in the shower drain, the toothpaste clumps in the sink. Isn’t that what happens to people with depression? They stop seeing their surroundings. Thank God I called Marco when I did.
By the time I’ve finished, glowing with sweat and a sense of righteousness, it’s just past nine and I’m starving. I could go out and get something to eat. Or I could stay in, actually cook something for myself and put a load of washing on – I should just about manage a rapid cycle before the night-time noise curfew. Or…
Or I could go home.
I mean, Icouldgo home. There’s no really good reason for me to stay here, is there? If Duncan hasn’t been in touch by now, he’s hardly likely to show up in the next couple of days. And hanging around here, waiting for Marco to come back… well, it clearly isn’t doing my mood any good.
I don’t give myself time to think. I throw my stuff into my overnight bag, pack up my laptop and tablet and check that everything’s switched off. Then I head out and down the stairs before I can change my mind.
*
My flat is warm and stuffy. I dump my bag on the floor and march over to throw the windows open and let the night air in, damning the mosquitos that will inevitably come in with it. That’s something I really like about Marco’s flat, actually: all the windows have bug screens, which ought to be absolutely bog standard in Florence and yet, somehow, isn’t. Maybe I could have screens fitted here. I probably have to clear it with Federica – I’m sure there’s something about alterations in my contract – but she wouldn’t mind, would she? I’d only be adding to the value of the place. I should ask Chiara about it. After all, I don’t plan to move any time soon.
Unless I move in with Marco.
Not that it’s likely in the near future. Or the mid-future. Or maybe any time. I like living alone, I remind myself as I shove my clothes in the washing machine and measure out detergent. I came here to live alone, to have my own space, to put my work first. To put myself first. I don’t need to throw all that over for Marco, even if he did call me hisfidanzata. Which is actually quite a major thing to call someone. I mean, it’s not ‘fiancée’ – well, it technically can be – but it’s mostly used in a pretty vague way to mean someone you’re serious about. Someone you might actually want to live with. Someone you love. It’s a big word, especially this early in a… well, relationship, evidently. It’s a really big word.
I pour out a glass of wine and sink onto the sofa. For a long while I just sit there, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. I’m a bit taken aback, to be honest. I didn’t plan to get into anything serious – certainly not now, maybe not ever. In the abstract, the thing terrifies me. Actually, it terrifies me in the concrete sense, too. But it’s Marco. It’s Marco, and while part of me wants to run away and never come back, another part keeps thinking about whether we’d live here or I’d move into his place or maybe we’d look for something else, something a bit bigger where each of us can have a study. Maybe in Santa Croce, or maybe south of the river… yes, somewhere near the Boboli Gardens. Or even further south, just outside the city gates where there’s that lovely green avenue. Via Machiavelli, that’s it. Still in the city, of course, but it would be so easy just to hop in the car and drive south, to Siena or Arezzo or really anywhere…
A church bell shakes me from my reverie. Shit, it’s almost half past ten and I still haven’t eaten. I pick up the phone and order a pizza from my usual late-night place, then open up Achille’s letters. I can’t just sit here daydreaming. I need to get at least a few more pages done before I can let myself sleep. My mind’s whirling and I keep reading the same sentence over and over again, but I’m finally getting into the rhythm of it when my doorbell buzzes. I press the button to open the main door and quickly head to the kitchen corner to top up my wine and get a couple of napkins from the drawer.
I’m just struggling to shove the cork back in the bottle when there’s a knock at the door. ‘It’s open,’ I call, because I’ve ordered from that place so many times that we’re all long since on familiar terms. But whoever’s on duty tonight must be new, because a second later there’s another, louder knock.
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ I finally wedge the cork into the neck of the bottle and hurry to open the door. ‘Sorry about that—’ I begin, and then the words die in my throat because it isn’t the pizza guy at all. It’s Duncan.
30
It’s Duncan. He’s taller than I remember, and broader – he’s taking up the whole of the doorway, and he doesn’t have any luggage with him, only the shabby old shooting bag his grandfather owned. He’s let his beard grow in; there are dark patches under his eyes, and he smells of sweat and aeroplane. And he’s looking at me with something in his expression, something I don’t like.
‘Well?’ he says. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
I step back reflexively and he pushes past me into the flat. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ I say.
‘But you were expecting someone,’ he says. ‘You let me in. You didn’t ask who it was.’
‘A pizza. I ordered a pizza.’ He looks at me, face stony, as if I’ve lied to him. As if he wants me to account for myself here, in my own flat, months after I left him. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘you can’t just show up like this. This is my home.’
He dumps his bag on the sofa and looks around. It’s as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Nice place. I suppose a hotel was too basic for you?’
‘This is my home,’ I say again.
‘Fascinating what you’ll waste your money on. Or your gran’s money, I should say. Charlie told me all about that, by the way, so don’t bother lying to me.’
