Chapter 15
I’m not sure how long I’ve been crouched here.
I seem unable to move so I stay there because I can’t see a way forward.
Not even to standing. The only thing I had left has crumbled to dust. The house is ruined.
And my mind is as messed up as the house.
Who was that young woman? How did she know Marco?
Was it an affair? Was he leaving me? Was any of this true, or was it just a fantasy?
Well after the dust has stopped falling, I’m still sitting, leaning with my back to the front door among the rubble. I feel as if my whole world has come crashing down. I’m in a daze. Suddenly I hear footsteps and shouts coming down the road. There’s a bang on the door, jolting me out of trance.
‘Mum! Mum!’ It’s Luca. I try to pull myself together. ‘Giuseppe says the roof has fallen in! Mum!’ He bangs on the door again.
I scrabble to my feet. ‘Yes, yes, coming. I’m okay!’ I hang onto the door handle to help me to my feet, then try to turn it. It’s temperamental at the best of times, but try as I may to open the door, I can’t. There’s plaster everywhere.
‘Stand back from the door.’ Giovanni is clearly with them. I do as I’m told without question. He clearly takes a run at the door and shoves it open with his shoulder, pushing back with sheer force the lumps of plaster that were jamming it shut.
The children stare at me as if they’ve seen a ghost.
‘It’s all right, I’m fine,’ I say, and they rush forward to hug me.
‘Mum!’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Giovanni asks, concern all over his face.
‘Giuseppe came to find us. He was walking the goats! He saw it happening through the windows.’ Aimee starts to cry.
‘I’m fine.’ I crouch down to her. As I run my fingers through my hair, lumps of plaster fall from it.
I realize I must look dreadful. I stand and peer into the dust-covered mirror by the door.
I look like a ghost of the woman I was for all those years when life was great and Marco and I planned our life together.
Our plans for coming here to live. All of my hopes and dreams in ruins.
I can’t do this any more! I can’t keep going! My knees buckle.
‘Whoa,’ says Giovanni, and I feel myself caught round my waist. ‘Let’s get you to bed. You’ve had quite a shock,’ he says. ‘It’s just the plaster that’s come down, so the floor upstairs will still be fine.’
A shock. That’s exactly right.
He and Luca guide me upstairs, over the rubble. ‘Watch the fourth step down,’ I tell them despite my haze. ‘It needs fixing.’
‘That’s the least of your worries right now,’ I hear Giovanni say softly.
I flop onto the bed, and although the ceiling is still intact in here, dust particles fly up in little clouds as I land on the covers.
I stare upwards, feeling as if I’m in a parallel universe: I’m in Italy without my husband, and a young woman I’ve never met has just come to the door looking for him, as if he’s still here, no time has passed, and as if she’s known him all her life.
Maybe she has. What do I know? None of this seems very real any more.
I turn my head towards the window, which Luca is pushing open, and then at the empty pillow with the indentation in it and feel wetness on my pillow. It’s tears.
‘Luca, get some water for your mum. It’s just shock. She’ll be all right.’ I hear Giovanni reassuring Luca and wish I could too, but I feel as if I’ve been hit by a bus. I can’t move. ‘She just needs a rest. She’s taken on a lot to get you all here.’
Suddenly it’s all there, rolling around like an Instagram video, the last few years of my life.
Marco just back from Italy having signed for the house.
The celebrations and plans. ‘You will love it, cara , as much as I love you!’ And then, the very next day, Marco having the heart attack, the ambulance, having to tell the children before social-media gossips spread the news and the children found out from someone else.
Trying to keep the restaurant going, remortgaging the house and, finally, losing them both.
And now, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the ceiling has collapsed and I don’t think I am fine any more.
‘Don’t worry, the children will stay with Caterina tonight.
If that’s okay with you. A sleepover. They’ll be fine.
Get some rest,’ I hear Giovanni saying, but his voice is in the distance, just like when I had to call time on the restaurant.
My mind couldn’t take any more. It was on overload, like a too-full washing-machine, stuck, whirring, just like now.
‘I …’ is all I manage to say. I need to get up, sort out the children. But my body feels like a collection of lead weights.
‘It’s okay not to be fine, Thea. The children are safe. Get some rest. It’s absolutely okay not to be fine,’ he repeats.
‘Thank you,’ I croak.
Later … I’m wide wake and staring at the ceiling.
The one that is still intact, not like the hall and downstairs.
My pillow is sodden with tears I didn’t even know I’d been shedding.
I turn my head to the pillow next to mine.
There’s no indentation in it. Marco isn’t here.
He never was. He’s gone. I turn my head away from it to see Mr Fluffy tucked in beside me. The tears come fast and furious now.
The following morning, when dawn arrives, I haul myself out of bed, carrying Mr Fluffy. I have a quick wash and get dressed, barely brushing my hair. Nothing matters right now.
I make my way downstairs, turn the corner and look at the mess. The plaster is still everywhere, but I notice a pathway to the front door that someone has cleared for me.
I follow it, carrying Mr Fluffy, go outside and stop to stroke the cat lying in the sun.
I close the door and start to walk, no idea where, because that’s all my brain will manage.
I walk away from the house, away from the images of Marco and the arrival of the young woman last night.
I walk up the hill, feeling the sun on my face, the dust in my hair and eyes despite the wash.
I shake it out. And then I walk around the village.
I don’t know where I’m walking to. I just keep going until dawn turns to morning, the day starts to warm, and I’m outside La Tavola.
I stand and look at the gate, ajar as always, letting people know they’re welcome. I push it open, step into the shady garden and move towards the open door. I feel the rush of familiarity as voices from the kitchen travel across the big dining room to greet me.
‘Mum!’ The children appear from the kitchen, run over and hug me hard.
‘We had such fun!’ Luca tells me excitedly. ‘We stayed up and had a firepit in the garden and drank hot chocolate and watched the stars.’ He sounds like the boy he should be. ‘There was a shooting star. I said it was Dad, bombing around Heaven, making everyone smile.’
‘We’ve had such fun,’ Aimee joins in. ‘We made a tent out of a sheet in the bedroom and slept in it!’
‘Can we stay again tonight? Can we, Mum?’
I look up at Caterina, who is beside me, smiling. ‘Thank you so much for having them.’ My voice is weak. I don’t sound like me at all.
‘Really, the pleasure was all ours. We loved having them. Such a change for the children to be themselves without all the other stuff they have to worry about.’
Someone hands me a coffee, I’m not sure who. It’s hot and deliciously sweet.
‘It’s fine for them to stay again tonight,’ she carries on. ‘Really no bother. I imagine your house is going to take a bit of sorting.’
‘Yes,’ I say, not knowing where to begin. Where do I start to unravel all this mess?
In the kitchen, there are people, some of whom I may or may not have met before.
They greet me, and are busy laying the big table.
Giuseppe is the only one I recognize. A few others I don’t know.
One woman is in a wheelchair, with a bowl of peas she’s shelling slowly.
It’s Sunday. They’re preparing today’s lunch.
I don’t move. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to or can’t.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. But being in the kitchen feels like where I need to be. Like the home I left a long time ago.
There’s a shout from outside and everyone puts down what they’re doing and dashes to the front door.
A delivery has arrived from Alfonso. I put Mr Fluffy on the table, and go out to where everyone is taking things from Alfonso to carry them into the kitchen.
He greets me with a smile and hands me a box of tomatoes.
Their ripe scent is amazing, keeping me in the here and now, not letting my mind wander.
In the kitchen, the boxes are unpacked to the delight of Giovanni and the others.
‘Pasta carbonara!’ someone calls out.
‘Pasta Norma!’ says another.
A pile of onions and other vegetables sits on the kitchen island.
I can feel Giovanni next to me, but he’s not watching me.
He slides a knife towards me on the work surface.
I pick it up and begin to peel, then chop the onions.
Not in a cheffy way, because I was never a chef.
Marco was the chef. I just liked helping him when we were in the kitchen as a family.
Organization and front-of-house were my areas but I loved being backstage, in the kitchen, the excitement before service, then relaxing at the end of a successful or stressful shift.
I say nothing. I’m on autopilot. I just keep chopping.
And when I’ve finished chopping the onions, my eyes stinging, tears falling, he pushes something else towards me, courgettes, and I chop some more. Until …
‘I think that’s enough.’ He rests a hand on my arm. And I look at the pile of onions and other vegetables in front of me.