“I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” I rise to my feet and dust the back of my shorts. “Anyway, enough about me. What’s going on at home?”
“Well, that’s a handbrake turn!” he jokes. But I hear a meow: one of his cats must be joining him on the sofa. Ian has two, girls he named Celie and Nettie after the characters in his favorite film,The Color Purple. Thanks to them, it looks like I’ve got away with it.
As I stand, savoring the sunset, Ian tells me he’s about to start his first course of group coaching, which he’s organizing through the Proud Trust, one of Manchester’s LGBTQ+ charities.
“That’s brill news. And what about Gloria and Dom?”
“We went out last night. Gloria got off with some bloke with blue hair. Apparently his dick was like a Coke can. He said it was short and stubby but that thick he couldn’t get his hand around it.”
I let out a honk of a laugh. “And Dom?”
“Oh, same old Dom. He shagged some artist with thousands of followers on Instagram. He’s doing some photography project on all the men he’s slept with and asked Dom to pose.”
“After that Dom’ll dump him.”
“Already happened. Honestly, I’ve had cups of tea that have lasted longer than his relationships.”
I grin. “I miss you girls.”
“We miss you, too. But don’t worry, we’ll be with you soon.”
My stomach flips. I was already worried about bringing my two worlds together—and that was before Callum added homophobia to the mix. What’s he going to be like around my sisters?
I can’t think about it right now.
“Yeah, but brace yourselves,” I joke. “You’ve no idea what you’re letting yourselves in for!”
Chapter 15
At the start of our second week, I carry one of the bins up through the olive grove—we have five altogether and I had to ask Luisa to translate what each is for. Today’s the day forRUR, which I couldn’t work out until she told me it’s for general rubbish, anything that can’t be recycled. Once I’ve done that, I decide to tackle the massive pile of laundry.
Theo has always insisted he’ll do this but it’s my house so that goes against all my instincts as a host. That aside, I’m surprised by just how much laundry there is. Archie seems to have a special talent for spilling every drink, meal and snack down himself. Callum thinks every item of clothing needs washing every single time he wears it, even if it’s a pair of jeans or denim shorts he’s only had on for a few hours. Mabel, on the other hand, dumps all her clothes on the bedroom floor, so—even if they don’t need washing—they do after that. Without wanting to provoke an argument, I scoop it all up off her floor—being careful to leave the underwear—and stuff it into the washing machine.
Once the first load is done I hang the clothes up on the washing line I found behind the chapel. Then I go and find Theo and the kids, who are cutting back the ivy that’s growing up the fig trees. I offer to drive them down to the café in the village for a fix of Wi-Fi, on my way to the sports shop. I’m going to buy that exercisebike, pleased to be following some of Ian’s advice and focusing on self-care.
As I wind the car down the hill, around bend after bend, I can feel the tension in my shoulders. The road’s so narrow, every time I use it, I dread a car coming in the other direction. Then—for the first time—one does.
Shit.
To make matters worse, it’s on a stretch of road that runs along the brow of an olive grove, with no barrier to protect us from a sheer drop. I try to reverse but am disconcerted by the bend and—after a few attempts—the kids start screaming that we’re going to fall over the edge.
“Alright, alright!” I yank on the handbrake.
“Dad, I don’t think Adam should be driving,” bursts out Callum.
“I don’t think Mum would be happy,” jumps in Mabel. “We could die!”
I draw in a deep breath. “Theo, would you mind taking over?”
I step out of the car but don’t get back in the passenger seat. I decide to wait while Theo maneuvers into the nearest passing place. But the driver of the other car is waving. She beckons me over.
Oh no; is she going to criticize my driving?
I trot along, smiling desperately. When she winds down her window, I see she’s a blond woman in her seventies, wearing fire-engine red lipstick and lots of expensive-looking jewelry.
“Buongiorno!”I say, contorting my face into a smile.
“You can speak to me in English,” the woman trills. “I’m German. My name’s Angelika. I live further up the hill.”
