There’s a heavy silence.
I look up. “Dad, why have we never talked about this?”
“I always thought you weren’t comfortable with it,” he says. “You never wanted to see me at t’ best of times. I were frightened if I pushed it, I’d lose you completely.”
I feel dragged down by guilt. Because he’s right: I do feel uncomfortable around him. I do struggle with his masculinity—his deep voice, his slightly earthy scent, his love of beer and football, even the way he calls me “lad.” As Ian would say, I find it triggering, because it reminds me of what I’m not. So I pushed him away. To protect myself, I shut him out completely.
I swallow. “Sorry, Dad. I think I misunderstood you. I didn’t give you a fair chance.”
He inches forward. “Don’t be daft, lad. You’ve nowt to apologize for.I’msorry I weren’t always sensitive. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to talk about things.”
“It’s OK,” I manage to say. But I can feel myself collapsing inwards. Because all this time I’ve been thinking I was abandoned byboth parents, I’ve been thinking that neither of them loved me. And it turns out I was wrong on both counts.
I can feel the tears rushing to my eyes. But I don’t want to break down here. I don’t want Dad to see me crying.
I stand up and make for the door. “Sorry, Dad, I’ve got to go.”
“You what, lad?”
I grasp the handle. “Sorry. I will be able to talk about this. Just not yet.”
Chapter 45
The day after my conversation with Dad, I’m still feeling winded.
After I left the campsite, I had to pull over in a dirt track at the side of the road and surrender to the tears I’d been holding in. I wasn’t sure who I was crying for—myself or Dad—or if I was just crying with regret. But I cried hard, until spasms racked my body and my face was raw. And I cried for a long time, until I saw a tractor approaching and decided I’d better move before I was asked questions in a language I didn’t understand.
Later that evening, I recounted what Dad and I had talked about to Theo and he put his arms around me and told me he loved me. I sobbed into his chest and he kissed my head and told me it was alright and I hadn’t known the whole story so shouldn’t blame myself. I felt comforted and forgiven. This morning, I’ve no more tears to cry.
That’s just as well, as I don’t have the time to sit around crying. It’s the launch day for the castello’s website and Airbnb entry, plus its social media accounts. At ten a.m. UK time, Mabel starts posting our photos and videos on TikTok, Instagram and Facebook. She interacts with all the comments, explaining this will boost engagement and push the post up people’s feeds. Over the course of the day, Callum monitors how many people are clickingthrough from the social media platforms to the website. The numbers are good but we expect they’ll be inflated by all the friends and acquaintances who’ll be looking out of curiosity. Our theory is backed up by the number of texts and messages we receive. But it’s good to get feedback—and everyone is impressed.
There are just four days till the party and we throw ourselves into preparations. Mabel and Callum put together a playlist of music that will be pumped through some speakers Angelika has lent us. The list is heavy on Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, Oasis and the Stone Roses, but I persuade the kids to let me slot in a few songs by Kylie, Madonna and various girl bands.
For drinks, we create two cocktails, which we’ll pre-mix in jugs—and I message my sisters for tips on ingredients and twists on classic recipes. One of them we name the Montemagno Margarita, the other the Castello Cosmo. When the kids point out that we should also have a non-alcoholic option, we create a third—the Virgin Versilia.
We spend a long time planning the food for the buffet and Theo has the idea of setting up a build-your-own pizza station. We compile a list of the toppings we want to offer, from peppers to mushrooms, from cooked meats to tuna. To my disbelief, the kids even agree to have olives on the table—but only if we make a sign telling people to avoid cross-contamination. We also make signs encouraging people to post about the castello on their social media and tag our accounts, which we’re going to place on the buffet table.
Next, we turn our attention to the games. As our designated games master, Archie’s principal idea is to set up a mammoth Top Trumps tournament. Thinking this may not be the best way to create a party atmosphere, Theo and I tactfully persuade him to scale it back and add a few other options. An obvious one is an orange-throwing competition, and we calculate that, if we save all our orange halves between now and Saturday, this should give us enough for each guest to have several throws.
“And how about a competition to see who can do the longest keepy-uppy?” I suggest, much to my own surprise. After our game of football on the beach in Viareggio, Theo and the boysspent an hour taking it in turns to keep up the ball using their feet, legs and knees, the others hollering and howling when it hit the ground. “That should appeal to the football fans.”
Callum and Archie think this is an excellent idea.
“How about a treasure hunt around the house?” chips in Mabel. “We could come up with clues based on all the history we’ve learnt.”
“That’s a superb idea,” says Theo. He suggests the treasure should be little replicas of the Leaning Tower, which he’s seen for sale in a shop in Camaiore.
“Oh my god, perfect!” chirrups Mabel.
It’s fab to see everyone so enthusiastic and eager to make the party a success. And everyone we’ve invited has replied to say they can make it—including some who’ve asked if they can bring partners. Theo suggested I invite my dad and Debbie, and I do feel really bad about bolting at the climax of our heart-to-heart. But I’m also feeling rotten about the way I’ve treated them over the years. And if they do come to the party, I don’t think I’ll be able to enjoy myself. I make an excuse about not wanting the numbers to spiral out of control—although Theo’s expression tells me he can see through this. I promise him I’ll work out what to do about Dad once I’m back in Manchester.
Just before lunch, Stefano comes barreling through the olive grove and down the gravel driveway. He’s wearing his work overalls and clutching themacchinettahe uses to spray the olive trees with insecticide.
“Adam,” he calls out, “I have a letter for you!”
There’s only one letter it could be: the one I’ve been expecting since I read the email from Auntie Julie. Although I’m excited to read it, right now dread wins through.
“I think it is important,” he expands. “The postman make me sign a document.”
