12
I ’M lying on my bed trying to read and failing dismally at forgetting that the hottest of the hot is beneath my freakin’ house when Mum knocks on my door.
‘Lunch, Bella.’
There’s my beloved family, all gathered around the dining table, you know, the heart of the home, where laughs are shared, problems halved, all that crap.
A tray of Nonna’s lasagne forms a centrepiece, cut into neat grids.
It’s surrounded by platters of chicken, bread rolls, salads and cheeses.
A water jug and a bottle of red wine bookend the table.
Dad’s at the head, Nonna to his side. Sandwiched between my grandmother and my mother is Paul.
Paul GD Lightwood. The only seat left for me is opposite him. I sit and look around the table.
‘I wonder...’
‘What?’ Matty hates being left out of any potential grain of conversation, no matter how flaky.
‘Hey, do you think if maybe it’s possible, if perhaps, we might be Italian?’
Dad laughs.
‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘This is like a scene straight out of a mafia movie. We’re being so stereotypical it’s offensive.’
Mum takes Paul’s plate and serves him a slice of Nonna’s lasagne.
‘Thank you, Mrs Kelty,’ he says.
‘Actually, it’s Marea,’ says Mum. ‘I never changed my name, but please, call me Angela.’
‘Thank you, Angela.’ He takes a bite. He turns to Nonna, his eyes wide. ‘This is incredible.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she waves him away, beaming. She’s had half a mouthful of red and she’s blushing like a schoolgirl in a musical.
Lunch is pretty much our standard casual performance.
My brothers are tearing at food with their bare hands, our Nonna slapping them, we’re talking over each other with mouths full.
Dad teases Nonna, she pretends she’s offended, she barely restrains herself from hand feeding Tommy, he barely restrains himself from letting her.
Mum and Dad do their nausea-inducing lovestruck eyes at each other before stopping mid-sentence to reprimand each other or any of us.
The only difference is the tall, uber-good looking, muscly surfer god at the table.
He looks completely at ease. He’s bantering with my brothers, asking Mum about her work, complimenting Nonna on her cooking.
I’m about to have my third serve of lasagne when she shoots me a dagger and uses her head to gesture to the salad.
She doesn’t give my brothers the same treatment; Matty is onto his third piece with no recriminations; they’re growing boys is her classic defensive fallback.
Anyway, if we’re being sexist, it’s a well-known fact that a girl who pretends not to eat is a massive turn-off to the opposite sex and so I lift the spatula anyway. ‘Paul?’
He doesn’t hesitate, holding his plate before me. As the lasagne lands on his plate, a splodge of tomato sauce flicks and hits him square in the middle of his t-shirt. I couldn’t have aimed it better if I tried.
‘I am so sorry.’ I lean across the table, taking the mineral water and dipping a serviette before pressing it to his chest. The water soaks through and under the heel of my hand I feel the ridge of his abs.
Oh good lord, how many sit ups make these possible?
‘This should get it out, but I can wash it for you?’ Who even am I?
‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ he laughs. ‘For food this amazing I don’t care if you marinate my clothes in it.’
‘I get the feeling you’re not too precious about getting grubby, Paul?’ asks Dad. ‘You’re in the wrong industry if you don’t like getting dirty.’
‘Yeah, absolutely, I have no problem with getting dirty,’ he says.
Matty kicks me under the table.
‘Same with Cat.’ He waggles his eyebrows at me.
‘Real funny.’ I sit back in my chair and send a hard kick his way, missing. ‘Dad, you should see Paul’s car. It’s nothing like yours, it’s spotless. You could eat dinner off the floor.’
‘Yeah, you could catch a third world disease from your car, Dad,’ says Matty.
‘It’s “developing country”, you tool,’ I say to him. ‘Third world is offensive. As are you. But yes, Dad, your car is a health hazard.’
‘And that’s why my principessa will be a doctor,’ says Nonna.
‘You’re going to do medicine?’ Paul puts down his fork. ‘Wow!’
‘Not without a decent score in Year Twelve maths, she’s not,’ says Dad.
‘Dad! We’ve been over this: if I work hard, I’ll get the marks. But maybe, yeah. Depending on my marks, it’ll be law or medicine, that’s the plan.’
‘Either way we’ll be covered,’ says Dad. ‘She’ll be able to write prescriptions or having a lawyer in the family will come in handy if anyone ever sues us because their building collapses.’
Mum and Nonna do the sign of the cross, Mum laughing, Nonna deathly serious.
‘What about you, Paul?’ Mum tops up her glass of red wine. ‘Did you always want to be a builder?’
‘Not especially. Believe it or not, I was looking at architecture too, right up until, well, I ended up getting pretty average marks.’ He shrugs, looking down at his plate.
He takes a sip of water. ‘A friend of the old man’s offered me a carpentry apprenticeship and that was that.
I didn’t have a lot of other options really.
But it’s been all right, overall. Not at all like I expected, and I got to stay here and not have to move to the city.
But as you know, Mrs Kelty.’ Mum frowns.
‘Sorry, I mean Angela! But yeah, a lot of the stuff down this way is still pretty stock standard. Not too many people are willing to take a shot at making their house anything other than a three-bedroom, two-bathroom box. Which is why I’m so happy to be working on this place. ’
‘This is a family home in every sense of the word.’ Mum beams with pride. ‘We designed it and built it. We dreamed about it all the years we spent staring at skyscrapers. We wanted to see either the ocean or the country from every window. We found this block and here we are.’
‘This house, it’s good now, but it was trouble,’ Nonna says. ‘The neighbours complained.’
‘Complained? About what?’ Paul says. ‘You haven’t blocked anyone’s view?’
‘“Out of character” believe it or not.’ Dad shifts in his seat. ‘Funny, given it was the people with the asbestos hot boxes who don’t even live here. Arseholes.’
‘That’s a bit shit. This house is the bomb! I just love the way it flows across so many levels.’ From his position at the dining table, he has a view of the whole house. ‘But it’s still a home, it’s not just a fluid expression of space.’
I crack up laughing. ‘A fluid expression of what?’
‘Ignore her.’ Mum puts her hand on his shoulder as he blushes. ‘You know your architecture.’
‘Not really.’ Paul grins, and for some unknown reason, Mum, Nonna and I all simultaneously reach for a glass of water.
‘I read up when I found out what job Mick needed me for. I found an article profiling this house. Just like I memorised some Italian, signora , but I hope I did a better job on the architecture words.’
The afternoon drifts on. No one is in a hurry to leave the table, and even Nonna seems to have forgotten her usual afternoon routine of panicking that she won’t be home before dark. Dad is as relaxed as I’ve seen him for weeks.
‘I reckon it’s knock off time.’ He pours himself a drink. ‘Thanks to Paul, I think we might even be able to finish this summer.’
‘We’ll smash it,’ says Paul.
‘Come have a look, Mum.’ Dad leaves the table and helps Nonna from her chair.
She reaches for her plate, but before she can collect it, Paul has it stacked on his and clears Mum’s plate too.
He walks around the table collecting the remainder of the dishes.
Nonna’s eyebrows practically lift back to meet the soft dowager’s hump she’s cultivated at the top of her spine.
‘It’s okay, the kids have got it.’ Mum tries to shoo him away.
‘By “kids” she means Matty and Tommy.’ I hand Matty the pile of dishes.
‘Not fair!’ He shoves it towards me.
‘Matty...’ says Mum.
He balances the cutlery haphazardly and carries it across to the kitchen bench where he dumps it with a clatter that makes my teeth clench. He jumps the stairs to the living room and fires up his new game.
‘Does that look like the dishwasher, dipshit?’ I say to his retreating back.
‘Cat!’ Mum calls my name like I’m the one abandoning the unclean dishes. ‘Just leave it; I’ll take care of it. I can’t listen to you two squabbling for another second. Tommy, go play with your brother.’
‘It’s all good; finish your wine.’ Paul turns to me, the plates still stacked in his arms. ‘Lead the way, principessa .’
‘You want me to stab you in the eye with a fork?’ I brandish one of the two Tommy didn’t throw in the sink. He follows me around the bench into the kitchen. Mum’s at the dining table, cradling her glass in her hand, staring out the window, a half-smile.
‘Your family is awesome,’ he says. ‘Your mum is so easy to talk to, she’s a TV mum.’
‘Well, with a bottle down she’s certainly something.’
We stand side by side at the sink, scraping plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. I rescue salad scraps from the bin, and he gives me a confused look.
‘I know it’s disgusting, but Nonna keeps them for her chickens.’
‘No worries,’ he says.
The bench is clear, the dishwasher stacked.
‘That’s it?’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Thanks so much for your help. Matty and Tommy would have left me to it all by my lonesome.’
‘No worries.’ He shakes his head. ‘I said that already, didn’t I? You must think I’m such a dumb tradie.’
‘We don’t use that expression in this house,’ Mum interjects from the dining table. ‘I’m married to a tradie, you may recall.’
‘Yes, but look who your tradie’s married to.’ Paul winks. ‘Must be the smartest tradie on the planet.’
I punch him in the arm.
‘What was that for?’ He rubs his arm.
‘Oh, don’t pretend that hurt,’ I say. ‘You’re tougher than that, a big, strong surfer tradie. Since when do tough guys make cutesy jokes with old ladies?’
‘Watch yourself, Caterina,’ says Mum. ‘Who are you calling old?’
‘Can I call you Caterina?’ asks Paul.
‘Only if you want a punch in the face instead of the arm.’ I swing a soft punch towards him, and he catches my fist. His hand moves down mine until our fingers interlock. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
‘So, why’d you leave the party? Was it that bad?’
Nonna’s head appears in the kitchen window. Startled, I drop Paul’s hand. She’s light on her feet when she wants. Her face is flushed from either the exertion of climbing the stairs, or from the spectacle of her granddaughter and a handsome stranger abbracciando, or canoodling in Matty-speak.
‘Ready, mi bella ?’ she says to Mum.
Mum’s brow furrows as she considers the glass in her hand.
‘I can take your mother home,’ says Paul, ‘I only had half a glass.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mum’s gleeful tone doesn’t quite match the question. In her mind, she’s already cracking open another bottle. ‘Mum, happy for Paul and Cat to take you home? I’m okay, but it’s summer, you know? Poliziotti everywhere.’
‘I’m very grateful to you,’ says Nonna to Paul, patting his cheek.
‘No problem, signora . Just let me know when you’re ready.’
Nonna holds her handbag in both hands low against her hips.
She couldn’t be more ready. She’s determined to get home before dark, never mind the fact that dusk is still hours away and her house is less than a fifteen-minute drive.
She kisses Mum on both cheeks and calls out to the boys.
They bound up the stairs like puppies and I feel a swell of love for them.
There’s no prepubescent self-consciousness in these two when it comes to their grandmother; their faces are as full of the adoration they felt for her as when they were toddlers.
If the beach is my happy place, Nonna is theirs.
‘Can I come too, Paul?’ says Tommy.
‘Nope,’ I say.
Paul shrugs.
‘Sorry, mate, your sister’s the boss.’
He starts to whine before Nonna holds his face in both hands. In Italian, she tells him to back off and let me have some time alone with my ragazz o. I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue.
‘What did your grandmother say?’ Paul asks me, quietly.
‘She said she likes Cat’s tits in that top,’ Matty says, and Nonna clocks him over the back of the head with her hand.
‘ Diavolo !’ He laughs and takes her arm to help her down the terraces under the stairs.
I can hear Nonna giving Matty an almighty serve in Italian, a soliloquy that rolls off her tongue like high-pitched automatic gunfire, but she is completely and utterly wasting her breath.
He’s laughing all the way to Paul’s car.