Chapter 23 – Luca
Simo has beautiful hands, wide palms with strong fingers.
He pulls at one end of the croissant, and it comes apart, buttery sweetness rising into the air.
I never thought I’d envy a croissant, but I’d give a lot to switch places right now.
His fingertips glisten with grease. He catches me looking just as a piece of flaky pastry disappears between his lips.
As if he can hear my thoughts, his eyes flash golden in the ceiling lights of the bakery.
I’d look away, but it’s physically impossible.
‘And? What say you?’ Anna leans in. She’s in one of her trademark suits, azure-coloured, that says business as well as extravagance.
She clashes with the clean but tiny kitchen that Simo, Graham, Anna and I have squashed ourselves into.
This is the place where my great-grandfather made and sold his loaves in the sixties. This is the first Brandenburg bakery.
‘It’s stunning,’ I say, half a croissant in my own hands. It’s still warm, but I can’t say much about its taste because Simo is far too distracting.
Graham nods proudly. ‘Our chefs are excellent. Much better than I was when I worked here, before we expanded.’
I look at him now, crisp and elegant, and can’t imagine him as a young man, arms covered in flour, baking bread to support his family.
When we arrived late last night after a six-hour train journey, we spent the evening settling into our rooms at my grandparents’ townhouse.
That is, they gave us a room each, but we dropped our things in the first one without even checking the second.
The bed alone is twice as big as mine back home.
It would have been weird to sleep in separate beds when we’ve been sharing since we were seven.
This morning Anna and Graham are taking us around the capital.
I’ve never been in a place so busy and so loud.
Sure, at home you always hear the ocean, but being here feels like you’re being shouted at from all sides.
Everything flashes and screams for your attention.
Following a visit of the culinary school that my grandparents founded, and a twelve-course lunch on the thirty-ninth floor of a skyscraper, we stopped by the humble kitchen where it all began.
‘So, what do you want to do next? We could board Graham’s sailing boat and go on a river cruise, or get a private tour of the Portrait Museum,’ Anna offers.
I don’t want to sound spoilt and ungrateful, but—
‘Would it be OK if Simo and I checked out some bookstores? I know he has a whole route mapped out.’
Simo’s cheeks flush. He looks angelic, dark curls out in full force and a glow in his eyes, like a kid that’s been promised ice cream. No one could deny him a bookshelf-browsing session. I can’t deny him anything.
‘As long as you’re home by six,’ Anna says, with a hint of relief in her voice. Maybe she’s just as glad as me at the prospect of a break. ‘We need to ensure your tuxes fit before the ball.’
Outside the bakery, their limousine has barely disappeared around the corner before Simo pulls me into the labyrinth of the capital.
He was quiet around my grandparents, more so than usual.
He brightens up when we reach our first stop, a poetry apothecary that offers books for those seeking hope, comfort, heartbreak cures and other remedies.
‘Thanks for the escape plan,’ he says.
‘I didn’t know you needed one,’ I laugh, expecting him to laugh too. But he doesn’t. ‘What is it?’
He shrugs, his fingers gliding over the spines of books on the shelves.
‘Simo, tell me,’ I say.
He glances up at the worry in my voice, then quickly looks away again. ‘Maybe I’m making it up,’ he starts, ‘but I get the sense your grandparents don’t like me that much.’
I don’t know what I expected, but it’s not that. ‘What makes you think that? Of course they like you.’ Anna and Graham have been nothing but charming. They’re the type of hosts that go out of their way to please their guests.
Simo shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t . . . Forget I said anything.’
‘No, Simo—’
‘Pick something,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Pick a book,’ he repeats and motions to the shelves.
I know he’s trying to distract me, and it works, mostly because there’s a flake of leftover croissant clinging to his jaw.
I see myself drop it on my tongue and swallow.
I squash the instinct and brush the crumb from his skin like a sane person.
He watches me with gold-specked eyes, one eyebrow slanted in question.
‘Seriously?’ I ask.
‘Come on. Poetry can be short and sweet.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘I want to buy you a book,’ Simo says quietly, ‘as a memento of this weekend.’
I melt away. I don’t tell him that I don’t need a memento to remember this, or him.
But I nod and step closer. Simo tracks my movement, and his attention warms my neck.
In the end I pick a book solely based on its title: Clouds Cannot Cover Us.
Simo holds his palm out, and I want to take his hand again, like I did the night of the Christmas party.
Instead, I hand over the book. He reads the title with a smile, and I feel like I made the right choice.
The charity ball is held in a converted gas holder.
A red carpet leads into the domed building.
Inside is a wide platform that easily holds a few hundred people, surrounded by water.
As cameras flash and people pose for pictures, Anna introduces us to her friends, men and women in smart tuxes and glittering dresses with ageless faces that tell me they’ve been touched by a surgeon or two.
I’m not being judgemental, simply stating facts.
‘These are your boys, Anna?’ a lady with earrings the size of chandeliers exclaims.
‘My grandson, Luca,’ Anna says with pride in her voice. Either she forgets to introduce Simo, or she purposely skips over him.
Simo is easily the most beautiful person here.
I see the glances he gets, and it’s not because he looks good in a tux, which of course he does.
It’s his gentle nature peeking through a layer of shyness.
He’s charmingly himself in a place where big personalities vie for space.
Which is how I know that Anna didn’t forget he’s here.
‘Luca, please let me introduce you to my granddaughter,’ earring lady says. ‘She’s fallen for a Windsor, and I don’t wish that receding hairline on my future generations.’
I grip Simo’s arm. ‘Don’t let her marry me off to her daughter,’ I whisper in his ear.
‘I’m not letting anyone take you away from me,’ he whispers back, and bites his bottom lip to hide a grin.
The entire evening, during speeches and performances, I try to concentrate, I really do.
But I can only focus on him. I follow the pull, lean in and feel my pulse spike when his lips brush my ear as he tells a joke.
It’s impossible to withstand his charm when a laugh spills from his chest into the room, when he gets caught up in telling a story about his abuela, and his fingers dance through the air to embellish it.
I wish the only disappointment of the night was the dessert, a dollop of chocolate mousse so tiny it would fit on the tip of my thumb.
My grandparents aren’t rude exactly, but the temperature drops by a degree whenever they turn from me to Simo.
It’s so subtle I might have missed it if he hadn’t brought it up at the bookshop.
‘Hold that thought,’ Graham interrupts him in the middle of a story, ‘I see the chancellor of the exchequer. Must have a word with him about that new tax law.’
The further the evening goes, the more we drift away from my grandparents, who are busy with shop talk. I try to make up for their behaviour by hunting down a whole tray of mini chocolate mousses and offering it to Simo.
As the night goes on, people loosen up, but Simo deflates. He keeps up the smile, but I can tell that he’s out of his comfort zone.
‘Hey, why don’t we bounce?’ I suggest.
‘Bounce?’
‘Find the driver and ask him to take us back.’
‘Are you sure? I’m happy to stay longer if you want to.’
‘I’ve seen everything there is to see here. What I haven’t seen is the pool at the house.’
‘The pool at the house,’ he repeats, and there’s a new spark in his eyes.
I crane my neck to find my grandparents and spot Anna working her charm on a group of silver-haired men.
I don’t know why she started giving Simo the cold shoulder, but I don’t feel like speaking to her right now.
We navigate through the drunken crowd, and I try not to trip over sparkling trains as I send her a text instead, telling her we’re on our way home.
Half an hour later, the car stops in front of a modern brick building between two Victorian houses. This view of the house is deceptive: behind the low facade hides a mansion built around a square courtyard. Once inside, it’s easy to forget the city and imagine yourself in a Tuscan villa.
On impulse, I grab the bottle of bubbles from the limo. We head straight for the basement, giggling and nearly tripping over each other as we descend the winding staircase.
‘Whoa,’ Simo says, and I bump into him when he stops in an archway.
I settle my chin on his shoulder and take in the scene.
Light filtered from somewhere above gives the pool a sapphire tint.
Frescoes adorn the walls, but the details are cloaked in shadow.
It’s like we’ve stumbled into a forgotten Roman cave.
It takes Simo only seconds to rip his shoes and shirt off and jump in.
‘Simo! Fuck! Your suit!’
He only laughs and dives under again.
I sit at the edge of the pool and am trying to get the shoes off when he breaks the surface and grabs my ankles. Water pours down his angular face, and mischief dances in his eyes.
‘If you pull me in, I’m gonna kill you, and then my grandparents are going to kill me, and my dad is going to kill them.’