Chapter 14
On Sunday, I know the five of us are going to be together all day. As I’m not going to get the chance to read the letters, I try not to think about them. We’ve decided to go on a day trip to the nearby seaside resort of Viareggio. But things don’t go according to plan.
Theo had wanted to leave the house after an early breakfast so we could find a parking space close to the front and a spot on the public beach.
But Callum refused to get out of bed till nearly eleven, which he insisted was early for a Sunday.
And then Mabel announced that she’s on her period and couldn’t possibly do beachwear.
Theo looked almost as embarrassed as I was by this—and only marginally less out of his depth.
It struck me that it must be hard for Mabel being the only girl, something I hadn’t considered before. We agreed to abandon the beach.
The drive to Viareggio takes ages. As it’s a Sunday, the roads are full of cyclists, many of them in such large groups I struggle to overtake.
Callum and Mabel sit with their earphones in, but still manage to scoff and snigger at my driving.
By the time we arrive, the only parking space we can find is a fifteen-minute walk from the front.
The kids complain all the way to the promenade.
We decide to stroll down the concrete pier, its walkway covered in crazy paving.
On our left is a marina full of yachts and speedboats, bobbing and clinking in the water; behind that, a much bigger and more industrial-looking shipyard.
Theo tries testing Callum and Mabel on the flags flying from some of the boats but they’re not interested.
On our right is a long stretch of beach packed with people. The coarse sand isn’t quite golden: it’s slightly darker, like a burnished gold. But the Mediterranean laps the shore and the sky is an uninterrupted slab of clear, sharp blue.
Theo gestures at the view. “Look at that, gang! Isn’t it superb?”
“Woo-woo!” says Archie. He climbs onto the wall separating the pier from the beach. I walk alongside him in case he needs to grab onto something.
“I hate the beach,” whines Mabel, pulling her wide-brim straw hat down at each side.
“I hate the sand,” Callum agrees.
“Are there any sharks?” asks Archie.
Callum scoffs. “Not in the Med, Archie. There might be jellyfish though.”
Mabel looks up. “What about sea urchins?”
“I’m not even engaging in this conversation,” Theo says, pausing to shake a stone out of his slider. “We’re not going on the beach so let’s all just stop moaning about it.”
We continue walking, past the end of the sand and the start of a strip of enormous rocks that have been arranged along the side of the pier, presumably to break the waves.
Theo has to restrain Archie from jumping off the wall and scrambling over them, especially when he spots a few fishermen.
Perched on a little outcrop is a bronze statue of what looks like a family.
We read the plaque and discover it’s called L’attesa—which translates as “the wait”—and is meant to signify hope. I could do with a bit of that.
When we reach the end of the wall, Theo lifts Archie down and we stand on the square platform, looking out to sea.
The other arm of the marina stretches around us, its main wall decorated with graffiti.
I turn to take in the view back to the beach, the town behind it and the now familiar mountains behind that.
But this is the first time I see that one of them has a white peak, with chunks of marble sliced out of it, just like Luisa and Stefano said.
I point it out to Theo, whose face lights up.
When he shows Callum and Mabel, their faces darken.
“Boring,” dismisses Callum.
I want to take some pictures of us all but Callum and Mabel refuse.
So I take a selfie with Theo, his arm around me, the two of us tipping back our Panama hats so our faces aren’t in shadow.
As we stroll back down the pier, I post it on my Instagram with the caption Mi amore.
The kids might be doing their best to spoil the summer but that’s not going to stop me showing off my gorgeous man.
Then Archie holds my hand, which could brighten up the most miserable day.
At the bottom of the pier, we come to the start of the promenade.
Unusually, this doesn’t run directly along the beach but is separated from it by a row of elegant shops, cafés and restaurants, as well as private beach clubs, which all seem to have pools.
On the opposite side of the promenade is a row of palm trees, beyond that the road, beyond that a long stretch of hotels and villas.
The architecture is all in the same style, with lots of arches, curving lines and ornamentation, often patterned with flowers and leaves.
Theo and I think it might be Art Deco but he checks online and discovers it’s Art Nouveau.
“What do you think of the architecture?” Theo asks Mabel.
“Dad, I’ve got period pains,” she grumbles. “I couldn’t care less about the architecture.”
Theo frowns. “Sorry. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
She glowers at him. “I knew you wouldn’t understand! I wish Mum was here!”
“I’m starving!” chimes Callum.
I let out a weary sigh. “Look, shall we just go and get some lunch?”
Theo agrees.
But after much trudging around, the only place we can find with a table for five is a very basic pizzeria that’s three blocks away from the seafront. And it isn’t till we sit down that we realize the menus are only in Italian.
“That’s a good sign!” insists Theo. “It means this place is for locals.”
I have to hand it to him: he’s doing everything he can to flip the mood.
“It’s also cheaper,” I chip in. “So you’ll get no complaints from me.” I try not to think of all that extra money I have to find for the retaining wall. At least Giuseppe said I can settle any fees outside the original budget at the end of summer.
We manage to place our order—in very inept Italian—but when the food arrives, Mabel gives a yelp. “Dad, this isn’t meant to have olives! It’s a capricciosa—when I get them at home they never have olives.”
Theo’s unfolding his napkin on his lap. “Can’t you just pick them off?”
“Dad, they’ve touched the rest of it. I’m allergic to olives!”
Theo exhales. “You’re not allergic, Mabel; you just don’t like them.”
She gives him a withering look. “It’s the same thing.”
“We’ve been through this: it’s not the same thing.”
Mabel folds her arms. “Well, I need another pizza. I’m starving and it’s my period and I’ve got a heavy flow.”
Theo blushes. He calls over the waiter and orders her a Margherita.
The rest of us sit in silence, eating our pizzas. Callum drives slices into his mouth with one hand, while tapping furiously on his phone with the other. Theo must be too exhausted to argue with him. Mabel, meanwhile, devours a packet of breadsticks—then mine and Theo’s, too.
When her second pizza arrives, she declares she isn’t hungry.
Callum finally looks up from his phone. “I’ll have it!”
Without saying a word, Theo lifts the plate from in front of Mabel and plonks it down in front of Callum.
By the time we’ve paid the bill and are walking out the door, it’s a relief.
Archie’s attention is caught by a shop across the road. “Dad, can I have an ice cream?”
“Of course you can, squirt,” says Theo. “You ate all your pizza.”
“Can I have an ice cream?” asks Mabel, tartly.
I can’t contain myself any longer. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”
She gasps. “Adam, it’s good for period pains!”
I can’t argue with that.
We buy five ice creams. Theo tries to encourage the kids to try some Italian flavors—like his favorite bacio, which he tells them is chocolate and hazelnut—but they insist on ordering what they usually have at home.
I choose a scoop of pistacchio and another of stracciatella, which reminds me of the Wall’s Viennetta my mum used to love.
Both are delicious. Even better, we manage to commandeer one of the few tables outside.
As he licks his chocolate, Callum continues tapping away on his phone. But he struggles to do both at once and spills ice cream down his football shirt. As he grabs a napkin to wipe it up, Theo catches sight of what’s on his screen.
“Cal, what’s that?”
Callum shields his phone. “Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Callum tugs at his fringe. “It’s just something my mates sent me.”
“I’d like to see it, please.” Theo stabs his plastic spoon into his ice cream.
Callum pretends he hasn’t heard and continues licking his.
“I said, I’d like to see your phone,” Theo repeats in a tone that’s much firmer. This time, Callum knows not to argue.
Theo takes hold of the phone, looks at the screen, and flicks through several images. His face sets hard. “These images are inappropriate for a fifteen-year-old.”
Callum huffs. “Dad, I didn’t ask to see them!”
I hold out my hand and Theo passes me the phone.
On the screen is an explicit GIF of two men having sex.
As I scroll down, I discover it’s the latest of several images of gay porn Callum’s been sent over the last hour.
Each is accompanied by jokes about “fags,” “faggots” and what they—we—do in the bedroom.
All of a sudden, I’m back on the school bus, being pushed up and down the aisle, listening to words like poof and queer, listening to boys tell me what happens to men who have gay sex, that when I grow up I’ll have to use tampons because I’ll be incontinent and will end up dying of AIDS.
I feel nauseous and push away my ice cream.
“Can I see?” asks Archie, banana-flavored ice cream smeared around his mouth.
“Can I?” says Mabel, who’s barely touched her strawberry.
I thrust the phone back at Theo, as if it’s about to blow up.
“No,” answers Theo. “No one’s seeing it. Cal, I want you to delete these videos immediately.”
He gives the phone back to Callum.
“My pleasure,” says Callum. “They’re gross!”