Chapter 27
It’s Friday night and Mabel and I are on our way to see Harry Styles. The gig’s taking place in an open-air arena that’s been set up on one of the huge lawns next to Lucca’s historic walls.
We’re in the car listening to Harry’s latest album and compiling our top five of his songs.
I don’t like to say I don’t know many of them.
I’m nervous about tonight, especially after Theo designated it the perfect opportunity for Mabel and me to bond.
I don’t want to blow it. So I rearrange Mabel’s songs in a different order, switching out “Watermelon Sugar” for “Music for a Sushi Restaurant,” which I do at least know. That seems to do the trick.
We pass through a nondescript village and see a sign that tells us Lucca is just a few kilometers away.
Mabel lets out a whinny of excitement, which I’m pleased she isn’t trying to hide.
She’s also put on some makeup, including shimmery lip gloss and the false eyelashes Gloria gave her.
And I may be imagining this, but she isn’t cowering behind her hair as much as usual.
“Have you seen Harry before?” I ask, brightly.
In a quick-fire babble, Mabel tells me that she and Sharita tried to get tickets to see the tour when it came to Manchester, but her mum missed the deadline and it sold out. “I’m going to post loads of pics on my Insta. Sharita will be devo when she sees them! And Aurora’s going to die!”
I hope they don’t provoke jealousy in Kate.
I spit out a feather that’s stuck to my lips.
Mabel and I are wearing thick boas: hers is the tasteful green of a Tuscan artichoke, while mine is much less stylish, the same color as the oranges we throw off the hill.
She’d seen on TikTok that Harry’s hardcore fans wear feather boas when they go to his concerts.
Apparently, this is inspired by some appearance he made at the Grammys.
I hope she’s right and we’re not the only ones, as I’m starting to get a sweaty neck.
We pass the two dodgy junctions, but I don’t have trouble negotiating them as there’s so much traffic heading into the city, I just follow the flow.
Besides, I’m starting to feel much more confident driving.
When we arrive on the outskirts of Lucca, it takes us a long time to find somewhere to park and I have to settle for a spot that’s a good distance from the city center.
It’s also tight and will test my parallel parking skills, so I brace myself for sniggering.
It doesn’t come—and I manage to maneuver the car into the spot in just two attempts.
When we leave the car, Mabel and I discover that, although we’re a long way from the venue, there’s a stream of girls heading in that direction, most of them chaperoned by older women, presumably their mums, mums’ friends, and maybe the odd auntie.
To my relief, many are wearing feather boas, some of which have already started to shed their feathers on the pavement.
I pity whoever has to clear them up tomorrow.
“Good shout on the feather boas,” I say.
Mabel gives a little skip.
Before long, the stream of fans has expanded into a river. And there’s so much excitement in the air, I can’t help but be affected.
“Nearly there now!” I tweet.
“He’s probs getting ready backstage!” Mabel squeaks.
Suddenly, I’m fifteen years old again, on my way to the Manchester Apollo to see the Take That and Party tour with Auntie Julie; the two of us are linking arms and the excitement is vibrating through me.
I’ve no idea why I was nervous about tonight.
I hold out my arm for Mabel to link it. She threads hers through.
“That was unbelievable!” I gush. “He’s literally a god!”
“Unreal!” chimes Mabel. “What was your fave bit?”
“‘Sign of the Times’,” I yap. “And I found ‘Matilda’ really moving. I should have put that in my top five, by the way.”
“Oh my god, we’ll have to do them again,” declares Mabel.
We’re in the car on the way back, our faces flushed, our voices hoarse from screaming, our legs aching from dancing. Although our feather boas are thinning and mine’s plastered to my neck, neither of us wants to take them off.
“My fave bit was probs ‘As It Was’,” Mabel rabbits on. “I loved it when everyone sang along.”
“Me too,” I say. What I don’t mention is that I particularly enjoyed singing along with her. “Oh, and I liked that One Direction song. When all the mums and aunties joined in.”
“Yeah, that was fun.”
It’s dark, except when we pass through the odd street-lit village. When this happens, I notice Mabel has no hair in front of her face.
“I loved it when he wore those dungarees with hearts on them,” she babbles. “They were so cute!”
“And when he held up the Pride flag and helped that girl come out!” I add, tapping on the steering wheel.
“Oh my god, that was incred! Although I think my fave bit of the whole show was when they told him he was the most popular singer they’d ever had in Lucca—and he started crying.”
I smile and allow a pause to fall. “You know, not everyone gets to see that.”
Mabel twists to face me. “Do you not think so?”
“No, you can’t fake that kind of emotion.” Although I’m not sure this is necessarily true, I think it’s important for her to hear it.
“He did seem really emotional. He can’t get like that at every concert.” Mabel pulls down the sun visor so she can look at herself in the mirror and rearrange her boa. Even though I can’t see her, I sense a huge grin on her face.
“Oh, and he’s so hot!” I slip out. “I can’t believe we haven’t discussed that!”
Mabel remains silent.
Shit. I hope I haven’t messed up. After all, I am in a relationship with her dad, and Harry Styles is probably twenty years younger than me. Will she think I’m gross?
But she lets out a giggle. “I know! I love his hair. And his smile!”
As relief rushes in, my grip on the steering wheel loosens. “And those tattoos!”
“I keep thinking if I could just meet him,” she goes on, “he’d realize we’re perfect for each other and he’d fall madly in love with me.”
I don’t like to tell her that every girl in the arena was probably thinking that. Instead I say, “I used to think that about Howard Donald.”
“Who’s Howard Donald?”
“He was in Take That. Well, he still is, but he was when I was obsessed with them. I used to fancy him so much, and he wasn’t even gay.”
“That doesn’t matter,” declares Mabel. “Harry Styles is a lot older than me, but I don’t care. I love him. And I know he’d love me.”
“You hold onto that feeling,” I tell her. “Never forget it.”
We come to the section of the road that’s lined with cypress trees on either side: we’re approaching Montemagno.
Mabel slides her hands under her thighs. “You know, you’re much better at this than Dad.”
“Well, your dad didn’t really get his head around being gay till he was older,” I explain. “I knew from a young age. But I couldn’t express it, so I couldn’t talk about this kind of thing. I couldn’t tell anyone I fancied Howard Donald.”
“Why not?”
“Because the other boys would have battered me!”
Her eyes bulge. “Oh my god, did that actually happen?”
“Yeah, all the time. So I learned to keep things in. Ian thinks that’s why a lot of gay men act like teenage girls. Because all those things we’re supposed to do as teenagers we didn’t get to do.”
We pass the walled cemetery that’s just outside the village.
“At least that stops you from being a boring grown-up,” observes Mabel.
I chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I love being connected to my inner teenage girl. Although maybe that explains why I’ve got such bad skin.”
Mabel shakes her head. “No, that’ll be all the suncream you put on. What products are you using?”
I tell her and her face falls.
“You need to make some adjustments,” she states, emphatically. “I can help you if you like. I know loads about skincare. I’ve watched everything on TikTok and Insta and YouTube.”
I smile. “OK, that’d be brill.”
We come to the old-fashioned women’s clothes shop and turn off the main road.
“You know, I can’t wait to tell your dad about tonight,” I say.
Mabel doesn’t respond, but I can tell that she does, too.