I lift up my sunglasses and press my eyes with my thumbs. “Why not?”
“Well, he didn’t want to get married and he didn’t want to have kids so I would probably have knocked him back; time was running out. But you helped me realize that idea in my head wouldn’t have been right for me at all.”
I drop my sunglasses back down over my eyes. “Do you not think so?”
She sighs. “No, chuck. I definitely had the urge to look after someone, maternal feelings or whatever you want to call them. But I probably would have got ground down by little kids—all those early mornings, sleepless nights, nagging them to eat their veg, all that baby talk and singing nursery rhymes over and over again and letting your brain go to mush. But when you came to live with me, I learned there were other ways to express my maternal feelings. And I loved being an auntie, an involved, hands-on auntie. So if we’re saying thanks, thanks to you, too.”
I insist there’s no need, but feel my contentment growing.
Once we’ve said our goodbyes, I pull down a branch and examine a few olives. We’re still a couple of months off the harvest but they’ve grown much bigger, although I’ve no way of telling which have been attacked by the flesh-eating flies, and which will be good enough to make into oil.
I try to sit down but am still feeling driven, like I’m on a mission. And I know there’s another communication I need to deliver. I write an email to my dad.
Since visiting him in Umbria, I’ve accepted it may take a while for me to truly relax in Dad’s company, but the only way to combat my regrets about our relationship is by getting it on track for the future. And all Dad wants is to be let into my life. What better way than inviting him and Debbie to this celebration of what I’ve been doing over the summer—with the people I’ve been doing it with?
Hi Dad, I’m sorry I ran off the other day. It was rude and there’s no excuse but it was all just a lot for me to get my head around.Having said that, I’m really glad we had the conversation and I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I was wondering if you and Debbie would like to come to Montemagno for a party we’re having on Saturday. Theo’s kids will be here and I’d really like you to meet them. And you can see what we’ve done with the house. Please say yes—I’d love you to come.
Adam x
I reread the email to check it captures what I want to say. And, just as I’m hitting Send, Giuseppe calls my name.
Chapter 47
As I follow Giuseppe to the cottage, he tells me there’s a last-minute problem with the renovations.
He dismisses his men—including the Syrian plasterer who’s replaced Arjan—with an instruction to take a quick break. He turns their radio off but the silence only adds to my anxiety, as does Giuseppe’s order to wear a hard hat. This must be serious.
He takes me upstairs and indicates a corner of the ceiling that has caved in—at the back of the bedroom—sending a cloud of dust and plaster everywhere. It’s beneath a section of the roof Giuseppe and his men left, as it seemed OK: in general, they thought the roof of the cottage was in a much better state than that of the main house. But it’s now become clear it isn’t OK.
Giuseppe scratches the back of his head. “Sorry, we judge it bad. Now we look at that part of the roof. We see if we can fix one part or if we need to replace the whole roof of the cottage.”
“The whole roof?” I’m aware that my voice has risen a few octaves. “But that’ll take ages.”
Giuseppe frowns. “Yes. Sorry. I think one extra week, maybe more. We also need to hire scaffolding again. And we need extra money for the scaffolding and labor.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “How much?” I ask.
Giuseppe tells me.
My throat tightens. Even with what’s left over from the cigarette case, I don’t have enough. “But where am I supposed to find that? And we’re supposed to be throwing a party on Saturday. We’re supposed to be showing everyone the finished house.”
“And I’ve just invited Dad and Debbie,” I want to add—but keep this to myself; it isn’t relevant to Giuseppe.
“Yes, but it is possible the house is not finished,” he reasons. “And it is possible it is not safe for the party.”
“Not safe? What, even if we were to cordon off the cottage?”
Giuseppe looks puzzled. I search around for a way to rephrase my question.
“Actually, scrap that,” I toss in. “Let’s forget about it for now. You investigate, see if you can fix that section of the roof. And when you know, let’s talk.”
Giuseppe strokes his beard and nods, gravely. “OK, Adam. We do our best.”
“Dad,” Mabel says, “you’d better speak to Mum.”
Theo lowers his eyebrows. “What is it?”
The sun has gone down, we’ve just put Archie to bed, and Theo and I are sitting on the patio, drinking a glass of wine as we discuss the potential hitch in the renovations—and how we’ll respond if the worst really does come to the worst. But from the look on Mabel’s face, there’s another problem. A flash of dread passes through me. Especially as Mabel doesn’t answer Theo’s question—and nor does Callum, who’s standing beside her.
