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‘Pronto.’
At the other end, someone clears their throat. ‘Buongiorno,’ says a voice – a hesitant, older female voice. ‘Am I speaking with Victoria MacNair?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Good.’ The speaker clears her throat again. ‘Victoria, my name is Maria Furlan and I was a friend of Rita… of your grandmother. I don’t suppose you remember me?’
Furlan. The unfamiliar surname throws me, and it takes a moment before I remember that I do know a Maria. A Maria, married to a Giuseppe, who ran an anonymous little bar in the Oltrarno quarter.
‘I remember you,’ Maria says, before I can speak. ‘And I believe you’ve been looking for me. You’re writing a book, is that right? About your grandmother and Achille Infuriati?’
‘Yes, that’s right. But how did you—’
‘You were at the cemetery when I brought my roses. I had such a shock when I saw you,’ she adds with something between a laugh and a gasp. ‘I thought it was Rita back from the dead. I told Rosa Legni all about it the last time I saw her, and she gave me your number. I’m sorry if she was rude to you and tried to put you off. Her father used to look out for me, you see, and now that’s her job. But I’ve been thinking about it and I believe I’d like to talk to you. There isn’t really any reason to hide away and stay quiet, not any more. I’m just so used to it. I’ve had a lifetime of it.’
She sounds so nervous that my stomach twists in sympathy. ‘Maria,’ I say, ‘I’m so glad you got in touch, and that you want to speak to me. But I don’t quite understand. You say you’ve been hiding away?’
‘Yes. Because of my old life, you see.’
I sit up. Gradually, inexorably, the loose ends are starting to come together.
‘In your old life,’ I say, ‘did you have another name?’
‘Yes,’ Maria says, and takes a shaky breath. ‘My name was Stella. Stella Infuriati.’
31
Now I definitely have to call Marco. I tap his number and listen to it ring as I pace from window to door to kitchen to sofa to window.
‘Hey, Tori! Everything okay?’
‘I just heard from Stella,’ I say.
For a moment he doesn’t answer. He must be walking somewhere – I can hear the tap-tap of footsteps on pavement. ‘Stella,’ he says. ‘Stella. Wait, you mean…’
‘Yes. Stella Infuriati. And you know the most amazing thing? She’s the lady with the flowers. And she’s also Maria.’
The footsteps stop. ‘Hang on, what? I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t really understand either,’ I say. ‘I’ll find out more, but you remember Granny’s friend Maria, who ran the bar?’
‘With the Bugatti and the hot grandson.’
‘Right. Well, she’s actually Stella. And apparently the Legni family had been hiding her, somehow, but now she doesn’t want to hide any more and she wants to talk to me. For the book,’ I add, completely unnecessarily. ‘We’re meeting tomorrow.’
‘Wow,’ Marco says. ‘This is… wow. Incredible. You found her.’
‘Well, not really. She found me.’
‘It’s still incredible. We’ve got to celebrate,’ he says. ‘I’m taking you out as soon as I get back this evening. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
‘Great. I can’t wait to see you,’ he adds, in a low voice that brings the blood to my cheeks. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too.’ But that cold, creeping feeling is filtering back in; making me feel guilty, though I’ve nothing to be guilty about. ‘Uh… I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Chiara?’
‘Chiara? No, why? Is there a problem?’
