Chapter 17
When Phoebe pulls up outside her building at the end of the day, she has a brief moment where she wonders if she’s totally losing it, because the view of the high street looks very different to when she left that morning. It has been a long day, after all, so maybe she’s just hallucinating. But as she climbs down off her motorbike, she realises her mind isn’t playing tricks on her. The shop below her, which had been closed this morning and for months before, is finally open. The newspaper covering the windows has disappeared, revealing shining glass framed by a dark green awning, Giuglia’s written across it in swirling gold font.
Eager to discover what business she’ll now be living above and who has been waking her up in the early mornings, Phoebe grabs her things from the bike’s panniers and then heads straight for the new shop. From the pavement outside, she peers in through the shining window.
The shop couldn’t look more different to Amit’s old newsagent. The whole place is fresh and sparkling, the grubby but functional linoleum having been ripped up to reveal wooden floorboards and the walls painted a soft duck-egg blue. The counter that Phoebe had spied through a chink in the newspaper is now piled with tarts, cakes and heaped bowls of jewel-coloured salads, a gleaming silver coffee machine set up on another counter right at the back. The shelves that were being constructed, and that likely caused the bulk of the noise, are stacked neatly with boxes of pasta, bottles of olive oil and, Phoebe spots with a twinge of excitement, wine. A brightly lit display houses an array of cheeses and charcuterie meats. Hanging from the ceiling are the pastel-shade boxes of pandoro and panettone, suspended from ribbons.
As well as the shop area, there is a little café section with a few tables and a counter facing out onto the street. There’s already a customer inside, a man in his seventies sipping from an espresso cup and reading a paper which Phoebe notices is in Italian.
Unable to stop herself, she pushes open the shop’s door. A bell tinkles, but she is too enchanted to notice the sound. The place smells incredible. Like sun-kissed tomatoes, freshly baked focaccia and smoky, nutty coffee. Everything looks so fresh and delicious, reminding Phoebe that it’s been a while since she had a proper meal made with proper ingredients not just something packaged in plastic that can be chucked in the microwave. Her stomach grumbles, imagining the taste of the salty prosciutto laid out in the fridge and the ripe, fuzzy peaches piled in a crate by the window. It feels as though she has stepped from Somerset straight to Italy. She thinks of Max and the holiday she’d pictured for them both, the breakfasts they could have had outside in the sunshine, reading and drinking espresso. Rome! Florence! A fucking break from everything. The disappointment of it all comes back in a painful, deliciously scented rush.
‘Ciao!’ comes a deep voice from the doorway leading through to the kitchen and Phoebe looks up, startled.
‘Oh,’ she says as she meets the dark gaze of the man coming to stand behind the shop’s counter, wearing a dark green striped apron covered in flour and wiping his hands on a tea towel slung over his shoulder. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms and, as Phoebe takes in the dark hair on his arms, she realises she’s seen those arms before, those broad shoulders and that dark, curly hair that looks like it may never have been brushed, a particularly wild few strands falling down over his left eyebrow. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
The man laughs slightly, rubbing his forehead and leaving a trail of flour there, which would be cute if Phoebe wasn’t suddenly so indignant.
‘Um, yes, I am me.’
His accent is British but with the slightest Italian inflection that Phoebe somehow imagines might be stronger when he’s just woken up, immediately kicking herself for the thought because it also brings to mind his thick curls charmingly stuck up with sleep, which is something she absolutely does not want to think about.
A chuckle comes from the older man sitting with his paper. But Phoebe doesn’t join in.
‘You nearly bloody killed me this morning!’ At that, the customer nearly spits out his coffee. ‘I was swimming at the river and you came charging along in your boat, not looking where you were going. You could have decapitated us all!’
The man in the apron shoots a look in the direction of his customer. ‘Just a misunderstanding!’ he says, waving a hand, but the customer shakes his head, picking up his paper and throwing a note down on the table in its place. Once the man has left, the guy in the apron shoots Phoebe a frown.
‘Hey, you just lost me a customer! My first, actually.’
‘Well, it serves you right!’ She recalls Sandra grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the way of the oncoming boat and the way he had glanced down at his watch as though they were inconveniencing him by interrupting his session.
‘I didn’t see you. Obviously,’ he grumbles.
‘You should have been looking where you were going. And you’ve been keeping me awake.’
‘What are you talking about?’ His voice is tight and strained and she can hear a sigh just waiting to come out, as though he’s talking to an exasperating older relative who is losing their marbles. But she doesn’t care. She’s had a long day and that surly expression on his annoyingly perfect face is making her blood boil.
‘I live just upstairs.’ She gestures to the ceiling. ‘All the noise has kept me up. Who does drilling at seven in the morning?’
She’s aware that her cheeks are likely flushed by now, probably perfectly matching her hair. When she first dyed it, she was thinking Ariel vibes – growing up by the seaside, The Little Mermaid was always her favourite – but now she probably looks more like a traffic light.
‘There’s been a lot to do to get the place ready,’ he says with a shrug, crossing his arms. As he does, the muscles on his forearms tauten and somehow it only makes her crosser. How dare he have such beautiful arms! He pulls his lips into a tight line. ‘I’ve had to get my guys to do overtime to get it all done. And unfortunately no one has yet mastered the art of silent drilling or sanding. None of the other neighbours have complained.’
‘That’s because the next-door flat is owned by a ninety-year-old called Marjorie who is completely deaf!’
‘Well, there we go then. I haven’t been disturbing anyone else.’ He even has the audacity to flash her a smile. What’s wrong with this guy? He might look like he could be the ambassador of some wholesome outdoors brand or natural but delicious cereal bar, but he’s rude, making Phoebe’s skin prickle with irritation. She misses Amit. Yes, he may have had alarmingly long grey hairs growing out of his ears, but he was quiet and always mindful of his neighbours sleeping just upstairs. ‘Nice bike,’ he says, nodding out the window. She feels thrown by the comment and suddenly conscious of the fact that she is sweating beneath her leather jacket and really needs a shower.
‘Thanks, I love her.’ Why did she say that?
‘I’m not surprised,’ he replies simply. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this morning at the river, but everyone was fine, weren’t they? And the shop’s open now. Unless my builders have fleeced me and everything in here falls down by the end of the week, there should be no more drilling or hammering happening down here. Just great food and excellent coffee. Would you like one, by the way? I’ll give you a neighbour’s discount.’
Phoebe ignores his question and the fact that the smell of the espresso in the air is making her mouth water.
‘What about the radio?’
‘Ah. That, I can’t make any promises about. Who doesn’t love a bit of Magic FM?’
She’s suddenly exhausted, too exhausted to be here arguing with this man and surrounded by smells that are both appealing and painful all at once.
‘I’m going now.’ As she spins around, her eyes fall on a basket of freshly baked bread and she thinks of her empty cupboards upstairs and the sensation of chewing down on a crusty, fresh loaf. She remembers the wine she spotted earlier on the shelves in here too, which would go perfectly with the cheese over on the counter. But she storms out empty-handed, on principle.
When Phoebe pushes open her front door, she wonders if she might be hallucinating again. It takes her a second to realise that she’s not.
‘Fucking Max.’ She looks around, taking it all in. ‘Fucking Max!’
Where the dining table, chairs and sofa used to be is one huge patch of bare carpet. Apart from the pictures on the walls and Phoebe’s books stacked on the built-in shelves, the living room is completely empty. Max has left one single wooden chair – a chair Phoebe remembers finding on the street when they first moved in and sanding and painting. But everything else is gone. She charges through to the bedroom. The bed frame has gone, the mattress left behind on the floor.
Without thinking, she dials Max’s number. It will be the first time they’ve spoken since he left, but she’s too angry to stop herself. He picks up after a few rings, but she doesn’t let him say anything before cutting in.
‘What – and I mean this deeply – the actual fuck, Max?’
‘Oh, I take it you’re back from work then.’ He does at least sound hesitant, but it does nothing to stop Phoebe’s anger.
‘Where’s all our stuff?’
‘I only took the things that I bought.’ His voice has a righteous tone to it that makes Phoebe’s skin crawl. She can hear someone pottering about in the background. It must be her. The woman Max left her for, the woman he is now living with and who is presumably now sleeping on her bed and sitting on her sofa.
‘You took everything.’
‘Well, yes. I did buy everything, remember.’
‘Only because you insisted on “upgrading” all my furniture. I was quite happy with my old IKEA stuff.’ If she thinks about it now, mostly he hadn’t even asked her, just assumed she wouldn’t mind some ratty MDF coffee table being replaced with something modern and expensive, made from glass and brass. And she hadn’t minded, not especially. But that was before she came home to an apartment void of any furniture.
‘I did leave you the mattress.’
‘Oh, well, that’s OK, then. Thank you, Max. Thank you so bloody much for being so generous!’
‘You don’t have to be like this, Phoebe. Some couples actually manage harmonious break-ups. I always thought that would be us.’
‘You always thought? So, you’ve been thinking about this for a long time, then?’ Jesus, had their whole relationship been a sham? How could she have been so stupid? She should have kept her promise to herself to not date after Luke.
Max lets out a sigh that reminds her of her conversation with Luca and makes her even more fuming. ‘You know what I mean. I just thought we could handle this in a civilised way.’
‘Right. After you cheated on me, left me and took all of our fucking furniture.’
From the corner of her eye, Phoebe spies a bottle of gin on the counter. Last night, she had been restrained, sticking only to wine, but now all she wants is to open that bottle. Why is she even bothering to speak to Max? They are over, something that now feels dazzlingly clear.
‘Goodbye, Max,’ she says decisively, hanging up before he can say anything else. She grabs the gin bottle and twists open the lid, taking a swig. It hits the back of her throat, making her cough. But by the second swig, her hands have stopped shaking, a pleasant warmth spreading through her body. She pours herself a large glass, topping it up with tonic and a slice of a lemon she finds at the back of the fridge, which seems fine enough once she’s scraped off the mould. Then she sits down at her single wooden dining chair and drinks it, staring out the window at the street below.
What a fucking day. She takes another long glug of gin. What a fucking week. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. For a second, she wonders if it might be Max, sending some message about how grateful she should be that he didn’t take the in-built bookshelves or the oven. But luckily for her phone and her window, it’s not Max.
This is Camilla Ramsgate. I just wanted to let you know that I contacted a local running group after our chat. They seem very welcoming and say they have lots of beginners and people getting back into running like me who do a mix of walking and jogging. I’m going to meet up with them tomorrow. Arabella is delighted. Thanks for giving me the push I needed.
A warm glow spreads its way through Phoebe’s body, and not just because of the gin. After everything that has happened over the past couple of days, the message lifts her up. For all the difficult parts, this right here is why she loves her job. This feeling, which is unlike any other she’s ever experienced. It’s why she sticks at it through everything. Because small moments like this are not actually small at all. They’re huge.
Thankfully, her phone’s autocorrect catches the typos in her own reply before she sends it.
That’s brilliant, well done, Camilla. I can’t wait to hear all about your run.
Camilla Ramsgate’s reply comes in quickly.
Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our deal. I want to hear about your swim too.
Phoebe smiles to herself. She can just picture Camilla’s expression, that same challenging look that had sparkled in her eye when Phoebe promised she would go swimming again if only to encourage Camilla out of her comfort zone. It was a look that was so different to the vacant stare that had been on her face when Phoebe had arrived in her stuffy bedroom.
Before she can send another reply, the doorbell rings sharply, making her jump. When she opens it, there is no one there, but there is a large paper bag resting on the doormat.
‘Hello?’ she calls down the stairs, but the front door has already closed; whoever made the delivery already gone.
She takes the paper bag through to the kitchen and carefully unpacks its contents. Inside is a large box of rigatoni pasta and a jar of home-made arrabbiata sauce, a small bottle of olive oil and a waxed paper package that Phoebe unwraps to reveal several slices of prosciutto and a chunk of Parmesan cheese. Inside a small white tub is a plump ball of juicy burrata. There’s a loaf of crusty bread, a beautiful box of biscotti, and nestled among everything is a bottle of red wine. As she lays the items out on the counter, she notices for the first time the curling text on the front of the bag. Giuglia’s.