Chapter 12
The following morning, after a night of mad dreams about giant cakes, I wake in a hot sweat, only to remember where I am and why I’m here. It’s my only chance to get family life on an even keel and back to something like it was.
I push back the damp covers, cursing the heat of the Tuscan summer, and open the windows wider to let in the early morning sunshine. I’m determined to get the house cleared today, start working out what needs fixing and get on with painting it.
It’s hot and humid. I pull on an old T-shirt and long shorts, then head to the kitchen.
Marco is sitting there, waiting for me, arms crossed, espresso in front of him.
I move to the old cooker and the cafetière, which is cold. I wish it was still warm from him having made coffee. But it isn’t. He isn’t real. But it doesn’t stop me imagining him there.
I consider my plans for the house. ‘I’m going to keep it plain and simple. I just need to sell it and get home. And make sure I hit the deadline you never told me about.’
He planned for us to do up the house and spend our retirement in the sun.
I smile at the thought of him here, with me, in the kitchen, mornings with his coffee, lunches, siestas and evenings, singing, as he often did, while prepping in the kitchen, sipping red wine and cooking up a storm, his big build filling the space.
I wish he was here now. I wish we’d done it sooner instead of trying to make the restaurant work against the odds.
I’m sure that’s why he had the heart attack.
It was all too much, trying to do it all ourselves, like King Canute trying to hold back the tide.
I pick up Marco’s iPad from the table, pour my coffee, open the back door, letting in a shaft of light, and take the mug to the table.
I tap in his password – he was predictable with such things – and open it to his photographs, many of this place, and his messages, which I still haven’t been able to face going through yet.
I look at them, I know I should see if there’s anything important in there, anyone I need to still contact, but no, I still can’t face doing it. I’ll do it another time.
I put down the iPad. I have a house to clear out. I wonder where to start. Not the kitchen. I’m not ready to erase the image of Marco I’ve created in my head.
I head upstairs to where the children are in bed, awake now. I pop my head around the door and am struck, again, by the tired, dated paper peeling off the walls. The children seem unaware of their surroundings. They are lying on their backs, staring at the stained ceiling.
‘Mr Fluffy says let’s play guess the animal,’ says Aimee.
‘Okay, but I go first,’ says Luca, from under his rumpled sheet, where usually he would be staring at his phone, but now, without the internet, it’s a different landscape.
‘Mr Fluffy says you always go first,’ replies Aimee, grumpily.
‘I’m not playing unless I go first.’
I wonder whether I should intervene.
Aimee sighs. ‘Okay. Mr Fluffy says you can go first.’
I step back from the doorway and into the shadows on the dark landing.
‘Okay. I’ll make the sound and you have to guess it,’ says Luca.
I turn away, walk into the room where I’ve been sleeping and throw open the wardrobe doors to reveal the contents. It seems like as good a place as any to start.
I pull out coats and jackets, and put them on the wrought-iron-framed bed.
Part of me is wondering what Marco did when he came alone to check out the house.
Had it occurred to him to start making a home for us?
There certainly hasn’t been any work done on the place.
But I knew that. When he signed for the house, he paid with all of the money he had from his mother.
All that was left was the big black hole of our business bank account to pay wages, rates and rent.
And a lot of hope that one day it would all come good, that the business would get back into profit and we could sell up in Cardiff with some money behind us.
I pick up, fold each item and put it into the black bag I’ve brought upstairs with me.
These clothes were clearly kept for best: a neat woollen jacket, a dark knee-length coat.
Everything smells of mothballs and a floral scent.
This was someone’s life, someone’s home.
I work steadily throughout the morning as the day gets hotter and muggier.
The children entertain themselves with just a few reminders to play nicely.
‘Mum, can we go back to La Tavola?’ asks Luca.
‘Yes, can we, Mum?’
‘Giovanni said it would be fine. They’ll be starting to prep for tomorrow’s Sunday lunch,’ says Luca.
‘Please, Mum! Mr Fluffy really wants to go back and see Isabella again.’
‘Er … we don’t know she’ll be there,’ I say, playing for time. The one thing I said I wouldn’t do was encourage the children into the world of hospitality. ‘Don’t you want to help me here? We can make it fun!’ I say, jerking a thumb at the black sacks I’ve already filled.
‘It’s not fun!’ says Luca, deadpan, folding his arms, just like his father. ‘You said it was okay to have fun. This isn’t it. Going to see Pietro and La Tavola is fun!’
‘No, you’re right.’ Of course it’s not fun here, but hanging out with Pietro and Isabella yesterday was. It’s not like he’ll suddenly announce he wants to be a Corden Bleu chef. He’s eleven, I remind myself. ‘Of course you can go, if it’s okay with Giovanni.’
‘ Yessss !’
I could cry to see Luca so excited, even if it is about going into a kitchen.
When Marco was training to be a chef, it was hard, with long hours in dark kitchens, never seeing the light of day.
He came from Le Marche to London to try to make it.
It was a hard slog, living up to the chef’s standards but also avoiding the knives aimed at your back by someone equally keen to earn the chef’s approval.
It was brutal. A bit like the world of finance.
But I stood my ground, survived it, met Marco and got what I thought I’d always wanted: our own business.
It was just as brutal, navigating difficult customers who threatened bad online reviews, and being responsible for others’ welfare, income and security.
All Marco ever wanted to do was cook. He loved it, and every night was a performance.
I loved to make everything happen seamlessly, like a theatre’s stage manager.
Until the final curtain came down abruptly. I shake away the memory.
‘ Muuum! ’
‘Sorry, Luca. Yes?’
‘Can we go, then? I said I’d meet Pietro.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Have fun, and look out for your sister. Come home when Giovanni or Pietro’s mum tells you to. Make sure you wear hats and sun cream. Wash your hands. Have you got your phone? Is it on? Oh, no Wi-Fi. I remember. Does La Tavola have Wi-Fi?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Luca sighs and takes Aimee’s hand.
I watch them go up the lane from the front door, carrying water bottles and Mr Fluffy.
We’ve come a long way from where we were: summer was for organized sports camps, and an au pair, the last of whom seemed to spend most of her time on her phone, leaving them to make their own lunch and calling it ‘an activity’ for them.
They’re growing up. I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad.
But time is moving on whether I like it or not.
The summer is at its peak, autumn just behind it, and tomorrow will be another day without Marco. I need to hurry up with the house.
I turn away, locking the front door, then push up the sleeves of my thin shirt and go back upstairs.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve packed nearly all of the clothes from the bedrooms and put the tied bin bags at the top of the stairs.
I carry them down and put them by the front door, ready to take down to the car.
I’ll find a charity shop or a clothes bank, whatever they have here.
I take a breather by the back door, tilting my face upwards, hoping for a hint of breeze to bring relief from the intense heat that’s been rising all day.
Suddenly a gust whips the treetops and the shutters bang, making me jump, and I run upstairs to close them.
Outside, raindrops start to fall, turning quickly to a downpour.
Should run up and get the children? They’re probably in as safe a place as any at La Tavola.
I don’t want them trying to get back here in the rain.
I text Giovanni and ask him to keep the children with him until the cloudburst passes.
He replies: Of course.
The rain against the windows is loud. But I can hear something else: drip, drip, drip. And this time it doesn’t sound as if it’s outside. I follow the sound onto the landing.
Drip, drip, drip.
I look up at the ceiling above the stairwell and see a bulge. I wonder what to do about it. The drip isn’t new. Another job to add to the list. But now I know it’s there, I can patch up the leak.
Suddenly, there’s a clap of thunder, and a flash. I find myself crouching. The rain intensifies, slapping against the window panes, and I hope there aren’t any other leaks.
I go into my bedroom, sit on the bed and watch shards of lightning shooting across the sky.
There’s a crash and another flash, but as quickly as the rain arrived it seems to pass, grumbling and rumbling off into the distance.
Soon calm is restored. I watch the storm roll away and the return of the sunshine, with fresher air.
I open the windows again and drops of rain fall from the frame, quickly drying in the sun’s rays.
The clouds are scurrying away, leaving a brighter, bluer sky. I imagine Marco saying, ‘Blue skies after rain.’
‘I hope you’re right, Marco, I really do.
’ I push the shutters wider and turn back to the now empty bedroom, a blank canvas we can put our mark on.
I glance from the bed to the brightening fields below, with the scent of wet soil in my nostrils.
The rain has given the soil what it needs to nourish the plants, to allow seeds to germinate and grow into tomorrow’s blooms.
I turn to the last of the bags by the bedroom door and go over to tie them up and take them to the top of the stairs.
I’m hot, sweating, ready for a beer and a wash in the basic bathroom.
I straighten my aching back and suddenly there’s a shout from outside.
Is it one of the children? Are they in trouble?
‘Luca? Aimee?’ I call, and drop the bags I’m carrying to navigate the stairs without them.
There’s banging on the door. My heart is thundering.
‘Open up!’
‘I’m coming!’ There’s more banging, and my eyes are burning with tears from the panic rising in me. ‘Coming,’ I shout.
I take the stairs two at a time, avoiding the fourth, which needs repairing. ‘I’m coming,’ I call again.
But then I hear something that doesn’t make sense and I freeze.
‘Hey, Marco! Marco! Marco!’ Am I imagining it, just like I’ve imagined him in the kitchen? I freeze.
‘Marco! Where are you?’ The door rattles. I’m being visited by a ghost from the past.