I realize I’ve been scratching my mosquito bite and make myself stop.
I feel dizzy and my heart rate is at a canter. I put the letter down and lean back against the headboard, drawing in deep, calming breaths.
So Mum was going to leave Dad and was planning to come here. And not just that but she knew I was gay, she always knew. And she didn’t mind. She still loved me.
On the other hand, I’m shocked that she wasn’t just going to leave Dad but move in with Gary—and take me with her and make him my stepdad. And by the sounds of it, Wilf encouraged her! Although I’ve no idea what he said about her plan for the two of them to come to Italy. Did he agree? And what did Arnaldo think about it?
Through the open window, I hear the sound of a siren coming from an ambulance down in the valley. I fill my lungs and let out a long breath.
I look at the date on the letter and confirm it’s just a few weeks before Mum died. So what happened? She didn’t leave and I don’t remember anyone trying to stop her leaving, although it’s possible people would have kept that from me. But did Dad know?
Even if we were close, I couldn’t ask him. What if he has no idea Mum cheated on him and thinks everything was fine? What if he asks to see the letters and finds out she didn’t love him anymore?
And there’s another thing: now I know what was going on inMum’s life, now I know how she felt about me, I can’t see any reason why she would have killed herself. So maybe she did have an accident on a night out with Auntie Julie. But just before she was planning to leave?
No, there’s something not quite right about this.
And there’s only one way for me to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter 36
It’s my birthday.
I’m woken up with a kiss and several presents from Theo. He gives me a coffee-table book on Tuscan interiors, a floral-patterned shirt I liked when we saw it in a shop in Pietrasanta, and a black leather man bag—after I noticed several Italians carrying them and commented that they must come in useful.
“I reckon it can fit in my phone, wallet, keys and your reading glasses,” I observe.
“Now you’re forty-six, you’re going to be needing your own reading glasses,” Theo quips.
I hit him with a pillow.
At this point, the kids come barreling in. Callum and Mabel sit at the bottom of the bed and Archie climbs in between us—and they all wish me Happy Birthday. They announce they’ve booked the five of us into a beach club in Viareggio for the day, which Theo helped them plan. I’m delighted.
We arrive mid-morning and have a wonderful day. Archie is allowed to come off his crutches but has to take it easy, so we mainly stay in the pool, playing diving and ball games and making sure he doesn’t run too much around the sides. We also go for a walk on the beach—with Theo giving Archie a piggyback—and alittle dip in the sea, which is much colder than I expected. But no one complains. No one complains about the sand, either—and there’s no mention of jellyfish or sea urchins. When we make it back to the club, I have a read and a nap, much to the amusement of the kids, who rib me about being an old man.
On arriving back at the house, Theo and the kids announce I’m having a night off cooking and they’re making me a special birthday dinner. As I shower then get changed in our temporary bedroom, I can hear Theo teaching the kids what we learned on our course back in Manchester, that all Italian sauces are built on a base of chopped onion, carrot and celery—called asoffritto—to which they’re adding garlic and olive oil.
But when I go downstairs to fix us a drink, I see they’re making a mess of the new kitchen. There are vegetable peelings all over the floor, Bolognese sauce splattered on the new tiles, and someone has dropped a bag of spaghetti, which has shattered into hundreds of pieces and rolled everywhere. I don’t mind, though. I don’t mind in the slightest.
“The best meals come out of the messiest kitchens,” I chirp, before leaving them to it.
I sit outside and sip my Prosecco. Our garden is much more colorful and healthier now I’ve been looking after it and Theo has used a pair of shears to cut the lawn—which is almost completely restored to green. Although these days we don’t just have to contend with mosquitoes: as it’s the second half of August, there are wasps hovering around the grapes. Actually, I wonder if they might be worker bees, the symbol of Manchester. It would be fitting if they were, but they’re very big: could they even be hornets? Whatever they are, they don’t seem to be interested in me. So I pay them no attention and catch up on my texts and WhatsApps.
I have two missed calls from Auntie Julie, followed by a text.
“Happy Birthday, chuck!” it reads. “I’ve got your prezzie but am saving it till you’re back. If you don’t have something to come home for you might stay there forever!”
“Thanks but don’t worry,” I reply, “I’ll definitely be home. But I’m having a fab day and the kids are cooking me a birthday tea. Can I call you tomorrow? Xx”
Julie hasn’t retired yet but recently moved down to part-time hours. I know she isn’t working tomorrow but I hope she doesn’t have anything planned. After reading Mum’s letters, there’s a lot I want to ask her.
I check the WhatsApp group I share with my sisters and find several messages, including various memes of naked men with cakes, party poppers and exploding presents. Gloria has created a GIF superimposing my face onto a raunchy video by the Pussycat Dolls, suggesting I recreate the dance routine for Theo later.
“If I do, I’ll be celebrating my next birthday alone,” I joke.
“You shouldn’t get boring in the bedroom just because you’re an old lady,” Gloria messages back.
“If I try and slut-drop now I’ll probably put my back out,” I type back.
