Chapter Three
Marcello
What the fuck is wrong with me? I ask myself, and not for the first time, as I storm out of the gym's double doors and into the heat of a warm July day.
I love summer and spend most of the endless winter months questioning my reasons for living in the UK rather than Sardinia where most of my extended family are, but even I find summers in central London occasionally oppressive and unnecessarily sweaty.
Or maybe that's just the hot heat of feeling foolish flushing my cheeks and the back of my neck.
Because I am a fucking idiot. A fucking testa di cazzo!
Why did I just run away from Giles? And abandon my first ever workout in the process?
What was I thinking signing up to a triathlon before even setting foot in a gym?
Do I really think I’m going to be fit enough to do said triathlon when, at my very first training session, I proceed to run out of that gym as soon as I see someone I vaguely know?
But it isn't just anyone. It's Giles.
Giles who has muscles on muscles. Giles who has never looked at a rowing machine and wondered how not to make a dick out of himself on it.
Giles who probably lifts white vans in his spare time.
Giles, who I knew had a body to envy from the way his work suits fit him so snugly, but I didn't fully realise how stacked he was until I just saw him wearing a vest and a pair of shorts that were so short they'd be illegal in more than a few countries.
Giles whose biceps looked like baby skulls stuck on his arms. Giles whose quads looked like they could crush watermelons in a single squeeze.
Giles who still somehow looked as regal and put together as he does when he's wearing a three-piece suit like he always does for work.
There was no way me, my unkempt beard and my pot belly were going to stick around, not when I was wearing the old football kit I used to train in that still has a slight air of the sweat I perspired when I last wore it despite my washing it several times since.
I barely know the guy beyond how he likes his coffee and a warm pastry fresh from the oven, but what I do know of Giles, and definitely what I could see of him, had me feeling very, very inferior and that was exactly the feeling I was hoping to eradicate by going to the gym.
That’s why I ran away, and why I am now outside, walking at speed back to the café.
As I push through the door of the café, I take in a deep breath and enjoy the rush of cool air that hits me thanks to the air conditioner humming above my head.
With my inhale, I detect the many scents I associate with this little kingdom of mine: coffee, butter pastry, and freshly baked rosemary focaccia.
“Well, that was quick,” Mamma says as I approach the counter and make my way behind it. Walking to the back of the room, I dump my bags and find my apron. She's busy wiping down the surfaces in the kitchen area also close to the rear of the room.
“Yeah, I wasn't feeling so good,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear me and I hope that she's about to get too busy serving customers or making coffee to ask me any more questions.
My mother doesn't often work in the café with me but Chloe's been on holiday for a week.
My cousin Antonella recently left to go work in our grandfather's restaurant in Sardinia, and that's left me a little short-staffed.
“You weren't feeling good?” she says. She's moved closer, her arms folded as she approaches. Looking over her shoulder I see the front of the counter is empty and only a few of the tables are occupied so my mother is apparently more than able to quiz me.
I grab my apron off the hook on the wall. “Bit of a headache,” I say with something like an apologetic wince.
Mamma's eyes narrow on me. “I don't think I believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Because you're afraid of hard work?”
“Excuse me, I made exactly thirty-six caprese panini before I left. I am not afraid of hard work!”
“I mean hard work in the gym.” Her accent isn’t exactly strong these days but there are certain words that have more vowels than they should and gym, or gym-ah, is apparently one of them. It makes me smile to myself.
My apron tied, I put my hands on my hips and get ready to face down the look Mamma is giving me.
"It's one day, Mamma. I'll try again tomorrow.” Just not at the same time.
And maybe not at the same gym. I don't think running away from Giles every day is going to quite cut it as the training I need to do.
“There's something you're not telling me.” She takes another step closer and her face has softened, and her tone almost sounds concerned.
Maybe it's this hint of worry in my mother's voice but I suddenly feel ridiculous for not just admitting what a dickhead I am. The least I can do is own it.
“Fine,” I groan. “I left because I saw Giles.”
“Giles?”
“Yes, Radia's boss. Gravity-defying moustache. Wears tartan suits. Has pectoral muscles the size of tectonic plates."
“I know who Giles is, Marcello. Handsome man from the tailors down the street. Once told me my chocolate croissants were the best in the world.” She blushes with her smile. “What I’m trying to figure out is why you left because of him. What did he do?"
“Nothing,” I say. “Actually that's not true. I think he got up to come and say hello to me but I'd already panicked and decided to run away.”
Mamma frowns at me and all of a sudden I feel like I’m seven years old again and kicked a football through the shed window. “Why did you run away?”
“Because he's... fit. Like really fit. And I'm... not.” I look down at my shoes, but I can barely see them because my belly gets in the way.
Mamma takes so long to talk, I look up to see why. I expect to see a berating pout on her face but there's just a soft smile. “Which is why you're in the gym. Everybody has to start somewhere.”
“But not at forty-two,” I point out and glance again at the front counter. Why are there no customers to save me from this conversation? My leg starts to bounce. I should try and stop it, as I don’t always like customers to see me doing it, but I don’t. Can’t seem to care enough.
“You think Giles was born with intercostal muscles like a draining board?”
I blink at my mother. “What even are intercostal muscles? And how do you know about them?”
She waves a hand round dismissively. “You forget I trained as a nurse. And once I had a boyfriend who was a body builder from Bergamo.” She looks up at the ceiling with a rueful expression.
“One of those things was a lot more fun than the other.
Anyway, what I am trying to say is that Giles had to start somewhere and even if that was a long time ago, that doesn't mean he's forgotten what it's like to be a beginner.”
“But the last thing he will want to do is hang out with a beginner. Really I did him a favour by completely ignoring him.”
Mum's face falls. “Dio mio. You ignored him? Povero Giles.”
“What do you mean poor Giles? He's a big boy. A very big boy, by the way,” I say, thinking again of the stretch of his chest and the thickness of each of his limbs.
“It's all a front,” Mamma says. "Radia told me he's a lot more sensitive than he looks. She once called him a teddy bear, in fact.”
“A teddy bear?”
“She told me that he paid off her student loans the first year she worked for him.”
I bring my hands to my face. “Ah, Mamma, you're killing me!”
I hear a ding and she moves to the oven behind me. “The good news is I have an idea on how you can rectify this.”
“You do?” I turn to watch her pull on an oven glove and open the door.
“Yes. You're going to make his favourite coffee and take one of these croissants over to Giles and apologise for ignoring him.”
I snort. “I am not.” I fold my arms.
Mamma finally gives me the scathing look I've been expecting. “Yes, you are. Giles and Radia are two of our best customers, not to mention Radia is Chloe's girlfriend. You don't want to burn that bridge.”
My leg is shaking so hard it’s actually moving the rest of my body. The café is quiet. And I do still feel like a huge idiot for treating Giles the way I did.
“Fine,” I grit out and take off my apron again.
*****
McCannon & Rivers is one of many bespoke tailors in this corner of London but it stands out with its large, wood panel-framed windows and the shop's name painted on the glass in elegant gold calligraphy.
I've been here a few times before, delivering orders or just popping in to say hello to Radia on my way somewhere else, but I've never had sweating palms as I make way towards the shop.
I could blame the still warm chocolate-filled croissants in the brown paper bag in my hand or the coffee I'm carrying but I know it's more because I have to walk in there and apologise for being a massive wanker, something I often am but somehow manage to get away with, most of the time.
I'm about fifteen metres away from the door when it suddenly opens and two bodies spill out.
Holding hands as they come down the steps outside the door, I immediately recognise Radia and Chloe, who is pulling a suitcase behind her.
She must have just got back from holiday, and of course her first stop was Radia.
I smile thinking about how sweet this is and how happy I am that Chloe – a hard-working, friendly and reliable colleague and friend – has found what very much looks like love with Radia.
In fact, they're so caught up in each other, heads bowed close together as they walk up the street in the opposite direction, that I don't even call out to get their attention.
Instead, I just watch as they walk away and I feel something else join my delight for Chloe, or rather it pops it like a balloon.
Jealousy. It's hot and heavy and ugly and I don't like it.
Just as well I have a different shitty feeling to focus on instead: embarrassment and shame at running away from a perfectly decent bloke in the gym.