Chapter 19
The first thing Phoebe thinks when she wakes up is, Coffee. Normally, she makes herself one as soon as she is up and drinks it in the armchair by the window, enjoying watching the village begin to stir below. But there’ll be none of that this morning because her armchair, like the rest of her furniture, save for the single dining chair and the mattress she slept on last night, is gone. The second thing she thinks is, Bloody Max.
Once she’s dressed and about to start up the coffee machine her eyes land on the Giuglia’s paper bag on the counter, its contents mostly consumed last night on the floor, with the parcels spread in front of her and the bottle of gin in one hand. Even though she’d been hungry, part of her had wanted not to like any of it because she was still angry at the shop owner for his arrogance on the river and again when she’d tried to get an apology out of him. But everything was delicious. The prosciutto had melted on her tongue and the Parmesan made her entire mouth tingle.
She decisively grabs her things for the day and heads downstairs.
It might still be early, but the ‘Open’ sign is flipped round in the deli window and the bell tinkles as she pushes the door. The curly-haired owner looks up from behind the counter where he had been setting out a batch of tarts and pastries, his dark eyebrows raising questioningly and a half-smile appearing on his lips. Today, he is in slim-fit black jeans and a green T-shirt that matches his apron. The apron itself is just as flour-dusted as before. His face is shadowed by stubble and his hair looks especially wild. Phoebe wonders whether perhaps he has noisy neighbours too. It would serve him right.
‘Hello, neighbour,’ he says. ‘Did the sound of me dropping a teaspoon just now wake you up?’ He smiles wryly, revealing a little gap between his top teeth.
Phoebe considers walking straight back out again, but then gets a hit of the scent of espresso and just the smell of it makes her feel more awake. She sits down defiantly at the table right opposite the counter, even though she is the only customer and there are plenty of other free tables. She crosses her legs in front of her, her chunky motorbike boots scuffing slightly against the freshly mopped floor. She fights the urge to reach down and wipe the mark away with a paper napkin.
‘Cause total chaos on any local waterways recently?’ comes her retort.
He makes a sound that could be a cough or a laugh. But then his expression settles and he rolls his neck, wincing slightly as something clicks. ‘No, I didn’t manage to get down there this morning. There’s still a lot to do here …’
She notices the dark shadows under his eyes again and as she does, her own tiredness gives her a little nudge.
‘Can I get a long black, please? With three shots.’
‘Three shots? Are you sure? My coffee’s pretty strong.’
‘Are you saying I can’t handle it?’
She’s expecting another sharp reply to bounce back at her, but to her surprise, his expression shifts and he shakes his head.
‘More that I can’t handle it. It’s delicious stuff, but it makes me bounce off the walls. I stick to decaf now, otherwise I’m a total mess. Give me a hazelnut decaf latté any day. I know – I’m an embarrassment to my homeland!’
He says it with total ease, laughter in his voice. Phoebe thinks of Max and how he’d rather drink a coffee he hated than admit he preferred his sweet and milky. She’d always found it kind of endearing, but now she wonders whether it was actually kind of ridiculous.
‘Three shots is good.’
The shop owner nods and turns towards the coffee machine. ‘One cup of rocket fuel coming up.’ The muscles on his broad shoulders tense as he reaches for the levers and Phoebe forces herself to look away, focusing on the shelves of pasta instead while he prepares her drink.
‘I wanted to say thank you for the food, by the way. I’m assuming that was you.’
His face flushes as he places the coffee down on her table, a biscotti resting on the saucer. He runs a hand through his messy curls, ‘messy’ becoming ‘out of control’.
‘I figured I probably owed you an apology. But I’ve always been better with food than words.’
‘Well, it was all delicious.’
The pink spots on his cheeks spread to his forehead and his mouth tightens slightly as though he’s trying very hard not to let himself smile.
‘I’m Luca, by the way.’
‘Not Giuglia, then?’ she asks, gesturing to the sign behind the counter that displays the name of the shop in a gold font.
‘Ah, no. That’s my mum. Did you think I look like a Giuglia?’
‘Um, no, you look …’ She clears her voice. She can’t seem to finish the sentence. ‘Luca probably suits you better. I’m Phoebe.’
He nods. ‘And what’s her name?’
‘What?’
Phoebe follows the tilt of his head to where he’s gesturing towards her motorbike parked up outside the shop.
‘Oh. That’s Frances.’ It’s her turn to flush now. Why did she let that slip out? She didn’t even admit to Max that she’d named her bike, but of course she had, the second she had spotted her at the showroom. She just looked like a Frances.
She’s expecting him to laugh, but instead he just nods. ‘Mine’s Roberta.’
‘You have a bike?’
‘Had,’ he corrects, swallowing hard. ‘A classic Ducati. I had to sell her to help finance all this.’ He gestures around him with the tea towel that had been flung over his shoulder.
‘Oh my God, that’s so sad!’ It comes out before she can help herself. But it’s got her thinking about her own motorbike. Will she have to sell it now that she’s living off a solo income – and a nurse’s income at that? Her eyes well up at the thought. Not Frances.
‘Well, hopefully it will be worth it,’ Luca says, looking around the shop with a faraway expression. When she’s certain he isn’t looking, she grabs a paper towel and ducks under the table to give the black scuff mark she made with her foot a quick wipe.
When she sits back up again, Luca is watching her with a strange expression on his face. Phoebe coughs and glances up at the clock above the counter. Shit. She downs the last of her coffee, pocketing her biscotti for later.
‘Work?’ he asks as she grabs her things and tucks the chair under the table.
‘In a bit. But first I’m going for a swim.’
‘At the river?’
‘Yeah. Hopefully there will be no water menaces out today.’
It still feels strange to think about going back for another swim. Two days of exercising in a row … It has to be a personal record, despite how much she bangs on to her patients about the benefits of moving their bodies.
‘Apologise to your swimming mates for me, will you?’ Luca says, slipping his hands in his apron pockets and shifting on the spot. ‘I was having a bad morning.’ There’s that tired look on his face again, that slightly distant glaze to his deep brown eyes.
She wants to press him to tell her more – she can’t help herself, given her profession – but reminds herself he’s not a patient. It’s none of her business. Plus, she’s going to be late if she doesn’t leave soon. And she can’t be late. She made a promise to Camilla Ramsgate. And, actually, she’s looking forward to seeing Sandra, Jazz and Hester again.
‘The coffee was great, by the way,’ she says as she’s leaving.
Luca is behind the counter again, tinkering with the display, his dark eyes focused intently on the baked goods, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. He looks up at her and something about the look he gives her makes her stand up a little taller.
‘Bye, neighbour.’