Chapter 4
The next morning, my hangover is brutal. As Gloria would say, I feel like I’ve been dug up and belted with a shovel.
I stand up and start stripping off my clothes but give a little stagger and realize I’m still drunk. How am I going to get through the day? I curse myself for getting the summer off to such a bad start. I’m supposed to be a responsible adult. I’m supposed to be the host!
I knock back a strong coffee, jump in the shower, knock back another, and when the minibus arrives, crash out on the back seat.
My phone pings with a text. I look at the home screen and see it’s from Dad. That’s all I need.
Alreet, lad, it reads. Is it today ur off to Italy? Have a beltin time. Dad
My stomach lurches. I put the phone away.
A few minutes later, I’m feeling worse and have to ask the driver if he’ll pull over so I can get out and throw up. I lean on a wall at the side of the road and empty my guts into a drain, tears streaming from my eyes as passing cars sound their horns. I feel the sting of humiliation.
When I look up, I see a little old lady pulling along a canvas granny trolley, who’s stopped to stare at me.
“Sorry, it was a heavy night,” I mouth, feebly. Then I find myself adding, “We went to a drag bar.”
The old lady gives me a wink. “Don’t worry, love. We’ve all been there.”
Fifteen minutes later, the minibus pulls up outside Theo’s flat. By now I’m sitting up, wearing my sunglasses—despite the fact the sky is slate gray—and chewing gum.
“Morning!” I screech, then realize I sound borderline deranged.
Thankfully, Archie gets in first and sits next to me. “Want to play Top Trumps?” he bursts out, the kink at the front of his ginger hair looking more upright than usual. “I’ve got our favorites!”
Theo slides in next to him, takes one look at me and knows how I’m feeling. “I think Adam might need some quiet time, squirt. Maybe at the airport.”
“Why does this minibus stink of booze?” says Callum, thumping himself down on the back seat and squeezing his long limbs into the leg space.
“Is it you, Adam?” asks Mabel, sitting next to Callum, wearing her usual baggy top and sweatpants. “Oh my god, are you an alcoholic?”
“Mabel, Adam’s not an alcoholic,” states Theo.
“Mum says alcohol’s a drug,” Mabel crows. “She says it’s a poison.”
“She’s right,” I groan.
“Well, I’m glad you think that,” Theo says to Mabel. “I’ll remind you of it when you want to go out drinking.”
Mabel tugs on a strand of her long fair hair. “As if! I’m never going to touch alcohol!”
“How do you say alcohol in Italian?” gabbles Archie, his green plastic glasses slipping down his nose.
Theo pushes them up again. “I’ve no idea, squirt. We can look it up later.”
Callum makes a gagging sound. “Seriously, that smell is minging.” He opens his window so wide that the sound of the motorway overrides any attempt at conversation. That works for me.
Mabel puts her earphones in and starts listening to music I imagine is her usual Harry Styles or Taylor Swift, while I see from the screen of Callum’s phone he’s listening to Oasis.
I close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting in Montemagno, enjoying the sunset.
I look at my watch: I just have to get through the next five hours and I’ll be there.
When we arrive at the airport, we discover our flight’s been delayed until lunchtime.
Deflated, we trudge through security, battle our way through the crowds, and manage to find four seats that have just become empty.
Theo insists on standing and I clear away the remains of the previous occupants’ breakfast—which makes me want to throw up again.
Over his shoulder I notice a bar packed with early-morning drinkers and am suddenly desperate for the hair of the dog.
But I couldn’t bear to defend myself against more accusations of alcoholism.
Besides, when we get to Italy I want to drive: that way I won’t have to do too much talking.
To pass the time, Theo suspends his usual rule and allows Callum and Mabel unlimited screen time.
Archie and I lose ourselves in a marathon game of Top Trumps—playing not just with our favorite set Great British Bakes, but also Wonders of the World and Creatures of the Deep.
I focus on the detailed description of manatees and conger eels and, by the time we hear the call for boarding, think I’ve memorized every statistic for the Blue Blubber Jelly fish.
“Adam, can I sit next to you?” squeaks Archie. “I’ve got Skyscrapers and Dinosaurs in my bag!” He smiles, revealing a gap where his two front teeth recently fell out.
“Of course you can!”
Across the aisle from us, an argument erupts between Callum and Mabel over who gets the window seat, then—when Theo tries to settle it by taking the seat himself—they start elbowing each other for control of the armrest. Once we’ve taken off, Theo has to sit between them, setting his stopwatch to split their time in the window seat.
“How many people are on this plane?” Archie asks me.
I look around and give him a rough calculation.
“How high does it go in the sky?” he continues.
I find the answer to this in the airline’s brochure.
“Why does it not fall out of the sky?”
This I have no idea how to answer but Archie’s eyelids are drooping. Soon, he’s nodded off—and I’m not far behind.
Miraculously, I manage to sleep for over an hour. By the time we’re landing, I feel much less rank.
It takes us nearly an hour to clear customs and collect our luggage, but when we finally emerge from Pisa Airport, one of the first things we see is a cluster of those tall, slender cypress trees that I always associate with Tuscany.
Above them, the sun’s blazing in a sky that’s almost exactly the same blue as Callum’s Manchester City football shirt.
And all around us, we hear the distinctive sound of crickets rubbing their wings together.
I feel a rush of excitement. “Get a load of that, kids! We’re on holiday!”
“Yeah!” warbles Archie, wiggling his bum. “Woo-woo!”
An Italian couple who are passing give him a smile. “Che carino!” says the woman.
I’ve no idea what that means but guess it must be something about Archie being cute—and he is, with his freckled cheeks, carrot-colored hair and skinny little legs. I return her smile.
Mabel, on the other hand, scowls. “Archie, you’re so cringe!”
In response to this, he begins circling her and wiggling his bum even more.
Theo steps in. “Gang, look at that sunshine. Isn’t it superb?”
Callum runs a hand over his short fringe. “Mum’s text—apparently the weather’s sick in Atlanta.”
“Everything’s sick in Atlanta,” adds Mabel.
Theo and I exchange a look of solidarity. We lead everyone to the car-rental terminal—dragging our suitcases behind us—but when we arrive at the desk there’s a long line.
“Why do they always have to be so slow?” I ask Theo. “Everyone’s filled in the forms online. Why can’t they be ready to go?”
We pick apart the process, joking that we should be management consultants and could whip the industry into shape.
“Why do adults have such boring conversations?” interjects Callum.
Theo and I burst out laughing.
“I’ve got to admit, that is a bit boring!” says Theo.
Am I imagining this or is there a hint of a smile playing at the corner of Callum’s mouth?
“How do you say car in Italian?” cuts in Archie.
I look it up on my translation app. “La macchina.”
“Try to remember that,” says Theo, laying his hands on Archie’s shoulders. “In fact, let’s learn as many Italian words as we can.”
“Dad, why do you have to make everything about learning?” moans Callum, all traces of his smile gone.
“We’re supposed to be off school!” agrees Mabel, pulling her sleeves over her wrists.
I can’t help thinking that she must be hot in her long-sleeved top and sweatpants but don’t say anything.
I know she’s still growing into her adult body and is struggling to shed the puppy fat.
That’s why she prefers to cover up—and pulls her long, wavy hair in front of her face.
She’s also conscious of her big boobs and hunches over slightly in an attempt to make them less noticeable.
Callum, on the other hand, has shot up to over six foot but still hasn’t started filling out.
I assume from the number of protein bars and muscle-building shakes he gets through that he must hate being skinny.
At least he’ll wear shorts and T-shirts, although he does stoop to make himself shorter.
And he avoids smiling, to hide the train-track braces on his teeth.
I suddenly remember how miserable it is being a teenager.
Theo ignores his older children as he and Archie look up the Italian words for engine, gear stick and steering wheel.
When we’ve finally reached the front of the line and picked up the keys, Mabel announces she’s desperate for the loo. We follow the sign to the other side of the terminal but she refuses to use the Ladies, saying it’s too dirty. “Dad, there’s a turd in there!”
Theo chuckles. “It won’t bite you—flush it away!”
Mabel looks horrified. “What if I catch salmonella?”
“What’s sallomella?” asks Archie.
“Mabel, you won’t catch salmonella,” Theo reassures her.
He finds a disabled loo, goes inside to check it’s clean, and Mabel slinks in after him. When she eventually emerges, Theo says, “That better, chicken?”
Her face falls. “Dad, I’ve told you not to call me that!”
“Alright, alright.” Theo flashes her an impish grin. “Sorry, chicken.”
Mabel growls and turns her back on us. I can’t help but feel relieved.
As we lug our cases to the car park, Theo asks if I want him to drive.
“No,” I insist, “I’ll do it!”