“Yeah, well, the doors are thin. And I’m sorry but it doesn’t feel right.”
Theo sits up. “Why? I used to do it with Kate.”
“I don’t want to think of you shagging your ex-wife, thanks very much.”
“Alright, point taken. But what I want to say is, straight couples have sex while their kids are in the other room—sometimes the same room when they’re in a hotel.”
“I know,” I say, even though I don’t. “I’m just not feeling it, that’s all.”
I give him a peck on the lips, slip in the mouth guard that stops me grinding my teeth, and turn over.
Theo sighs. Then he lets his sigh hang in the air. The silence thickens.
He sits up and switches out the light.
The first time we came to Italy, Theo and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I couldn’t get enough of him.
I feel a surge of anger at myself. What if he goes off me?
And I can’t escape another thought: if he does, it’ll be my fault. I’ll have driven him away, just like I’ve always done. Just like I’ve done with everyone I care about.
Chapter 13
I’m on the top floor of the house, cleaning the third—entirely redundant—lounge. Following Theo’s comment about families sharing rooms when they’re on holiday, I’ve had the idea of converting this into another bedroom—meaning the top floor will have one big bedroom, a double and a single leading off it, plus a shared bathroom—and we can advertise it as a family suite. If it isn’t taken by a family, it could always be used by a group of friends: I’d be happy to stay somewhere like this with my sisters.
The space has the potential to be stunning, with walls of exposed stone and sturdy wooden beams holding up a vaulted, textured ceiling. Plus, it’s the only room in the house to have a big window along the back wall, offering a view up into the mountains, rather than down over the valley. Best of all, repurposing it won’t cost any more money than I already have in my budget—I’ll just switch from buying a sofa and armchairs to a bed and a wardrobe. The only thing is, with most of Wilf’s old furniture stripped out, patches of thick grime have been exposed on the tiled floor. So I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing it with hot, soapy water.
As it’s a Saturday and the builders aren’t working—and Theo has driven the kids into the village so they can use the Wi-Fi—I’vetaken off my T-shirt and put on my swimming trunks, sliders and a pair of banana-yellow washing-up gloves. I’ve already got a pile of laundry and don’t want to add to it: this way I can jump in the shower when I’ve finished. And I won’t need to wash my hair, as I’m wearing a shower cap to protect it. I’m aware I must look ridiculous.
I’m listening to one of Wilf’s opera albums, which is blasting up from the old record player on the floor below. It’s Puccini’sLa Traviata—not my usual thing but I’m surprised to find it works well in this setting.
Wait a minute, never mind cleaning—while everyone’s out I can read Wilf’s letters. …
I drop the scourer into the bucket of water and snap off my washing-up gloves. I march downstairs to Callum’s bedroom and yank the boxes of letters out from under the wardrobe. I sit on the bed and open the first shoebox.
My heart rate quickens as I pull out just three letters. They’re all addressed to Arnaldo Silvestri at Azienda Silvestri, in a town called Prato. So Arnaldo must have worked for some kind of family business.
All three envelopes are postmarked with the year 1958. I look to see which has the earliest date.
As I pick it up and slide the letter out, my heart takes flight.
I tug in a breath and start reading.
Carissimo Arnaldo,
How was your journey home? I hope it wasn’t too gruelling.
I hope it was lifted by memories of our time together.
Even now, a week later, I can hardly believe we met. Everything that happened over those ten days was like a dream. So much of it took place in that one hotel room that it felt separated from life. It didn’t feel real.
However, it was real. When the memories come back to me, I thank the stars I had such good fortune. Thank goodness I met you on your first night in Manchester and not at the end of your stay. Thank goodness for the Union. Thank goodness there’s a hotel that accepts folk like us. I’mnot quite sure what to call us. ‘Homosexual’ sounds like something the doctor would say. ‘Queer’ is a wretched word. I can’t for the life of me think of any nice words. What do they call us in Italian?
I didn’t tell you this in Manchester but the first time I went in the Union, just to the pub downstairs, was on my birthday last year. I’d had tea with my mam and dad and my sister called round with our Suzanne and baby Julie. I blinking love those kiddies and Suzanne sat on my knee and helped me blow out the candles on a Victoria sponge Mam had made. That’s a cake, in case you haven’t guessed. Any road, it was a lovely evening but, strangely enough, I felt lonely. I felt like the odd one out and started to fret that the older I got, the more this would be obvious. The more folk would start to ask questions. I suppose I was feeling sorry for myself. Happen that’s why, rather than going home, I ended up walking into town.
I’d known about the Union for a while. I’d read about it in the Evening News, when the landlord was sent to prison for running a ‘disorderly house’. Obviously, I was terrified by that but happen I was intrigued too because I held onto the information. For some reason, the night of my birthday it popped back into my head and took hold of me. I was powerless to resist.
When I arrived outside, I was shaking like a leaf. I had to pace up and down Canal Street, trying to pluck up the courage to go in. Even though the windows were painted black, I was frightened someone would see me walking through the door. Every time I approached it, a passer-by seemed to appear on Princess Street and gawp at me. Actually, do you understand that word? It means ‘stare’. I should say your English is marvellous, by the way. I have a lot to thank that Irish nanny for!
