“Will you give her a nice tip for all her hard work?” The tone of Lucia’s request suggests she knows that there’s more to what I say.
I suppose Lucia thinks I slept with Ruby and therefore ought to receive compensation.
I grind my teeth. Lucia’s also telling me, not so subtly, that I can find Ruby again if I want to.
“She’ll be paid, don’t worry. I said I’d cover the costs of Francesca’s wedding, and I meant it. That’s all. Nothing more.”
And that’s a lie, again. Because although I should leave Ruby alone to live her life, I’ll be watching.
9
RUBY
Two months later
Compared to Italy, London is grey and drab. It’s raining as I leave work and make my way home to my house share.
Some days I imagine I see Dante in snatches. Through the doors of the bus on the way home, the shape of him walking past the hair salon, or at the end of the aisle at the supermarket. But when I rush to check if it’s him, my eyes have always been deceiving me.
But not today. It’s just wet and cold, and I hug my jacket tighter around me.
The silliest thing about being so down is that I have every reason to be happy. Not only was the pay from the wedding better than I thought it would be—my boss told me I wasn’t going to get paid at all because I was gaining experience—but the landlord finally fixed the sticky front door, and I’ve been allowed to see more clients at the salon.
I escape into books, as best I can. Nothing holds my attention for long. Every hero reminds me of Dante, and the whole sting of his rejection re-emerges.
I messaged my mother about the wedding, telling her about the hair I did and sending her a couple of pictures in case she was interested, and that I met a guy, but it’s been a bit lonely since I’ve been home.
She messaged back “glad you had a nice time”. And that was that.
Getting into the soulless modern house I rent a room in, I check for the little lock boxes that all our mail is sorted into.
Snail mail really is the most tedious form of communication. Email is bad enough, all that fuss, formality, and clutter of ads and bills and a chaotic mix of family and work stuff. But with mail, there’s the whole opening the envelope, recycling it, unfolding it, there’s no text to speech, and you can’t change the font size.
But I spent a bit of the money from the wedding on some cute holographic stickers to cheer myself up, and I leaf through the pile of post in my box to see if they’ve arrived. I haven’t for a while, and there’s so much junk.
The stickers aren’t there, which is disappointing. I was looking forward to putting them on my ereader. The only interesting thing is a smart, thick, white envelope with a yellow sticky-note over the name and address that just says “Ruby?” and my room number.
Must be written unclearly, or maybe smudged, but for me.
Up in my bedroom, I flop onto my bed and rip open the envelope and tug out the contents.
There are two pieces of paper and one’s a letter. I ignore it and look at the other. It’s cream paper written in dark-green, and in black handwriting beneath.
Something that doesn’t make sense.
Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage. Dante Angelini. Bachelor. 40. Ruby Wilson. 22. Spinster. And in the space forthe witnesses are the names of Francesca and her husband, Henry.
What?
There are our addresses listed, and our professions. Mine says hairdresser, Dante’s says CEO. No signatures because, I guess, this is some sort of copy. Or hoax. Or… Am I hallucinating?
I flip to the letter.
Dear Mr & Mrs Angelini.
Uhhh? I scan down.
Unfortunate circumstances … enclosed a new marriage certificate. Congratulations on your marriage.
