As I drink my orange juice and munch on a bowl of cornflakes, I watch the builders at work. Every now and then, they do something that reminds me of my dad, who was a window fitter before he retired. When I was little, I’d sometimes accompany him on a Saturday, when he was doing a “foreigner”—an off-the-books job for friends or family. As Mum worked in a shop selling women’s fashions, she wasn’t around on Saturdays. At the time, I looked up to Dad and idolized him. I thought he was so skillful and talented. But then he tried to teach me the basics of window fitting and I just couldn’t grasp it. Nor could I grasp joinery or tiling, or any of the DIY activities he tried teaching me. I started to ask if I couldgo to Auntie Julie’s when he had a job on Saturdays. It was bad enough registering his disappointment, but when I’d come home with cupcakes or a trifle we’d made, he’d look baffled, like he didn’t know what to make of me, like I was some kind of alien. In Dad’s eyes, the kitchen was a female domain—despite the fact Mum couldn’t even make beans on toast and used to joke that she could burn water. He couldn’t understand why his son would choose to spend a day cooking or baking over going out with him. It made me feel miserable and rotten. And why should I forgive him for that? Aren’t parents supposed to love their children unconditionally?
Now that I think of it, this could be another reason I didn’t consider becoming a dad—because my relationship with mine wasn’t great. But if circumstances had been different, would I have wanted kids?
I finish my cereal and take my crockery indoors.
I don’t understand why all these years later, revisiting this in my head should make me feel just as miserable and rotten.
Maybe Ian’s right and I am still holding onto some gay shame.
I’m going to make a pot of coffee and take one up to Theo.
At five o’clock, we drive the kids into Pietrasanta. It’s another medieval town but in the opposite direction from Montemagno to Lucca. It’s also smaller, more upmarket, its streets and squares dotted with public art, much of this made out of local marble. Luisa has told us that the town’s many shops and galleries are renowned for art, interior design, ornaments and soft furnishings.
After browsing a couple, I see she’s right. “This place is fab! I’m picking up loads of ideas!”
But Mabel scoffs at my efforts, comparing me unfavorably to her mum and her talent in this area.
“Alright, alright,” I say, putting back some bookends in the shape of chess pieces. “I’m not a professional, only an amateur!”
I hold up a Venetian blown-glass vase that’s streaked with the colors of the rainbow and suggest it might make a nice nod to the Pride flag.
But Callum screws up his face. “Adam, it’s proper tacky.”
One step forward, two steps back!
I tell myself not to be downhearted: I couldn’t afford it anyway.
After buying a couple much cheaper plant pots, a marble bowl that will be good for our house keys, and a bigger moka to make coffee for the builders—who seem to drink it all day—we stop in the main square. This is dominated by a marble cathedral and a red-brick bell tower, and is currently acting as an exhibition space for various big bronze sculptures of open and closed hands by the artist showing in the municipal gallery. The plan is to sit at a table outside one of the bars so the kids can connect to the Wi-Fi and check in with their friends, while Theo and I enjoy anaperitivoand observe thepasseggiata, which seems to be in full swing even though it’s only a Wednesday. Once we’re sitting down, he orders his usual beer, while I ask for an Aperol Spritz.
“Can I have one of those?” cuts in Callum.
Theo tilts his head as he considers this. “Alright, just the one.” He looks at me and shrugs. “It isn’t very strong.”
But I notice that when we’re leaving the bar, Callum spots the remains of someone else’s Aperol Spritz on another table and tips it back while his dad isn’t looking.
“Is everything alright, Callum?” I ask.
“Yeah!” he snarls. “What’s your point?”
I decide not to push it.
When we get back to the house, Callum announces he doesn’t want dinner and slinks off to his room. But as soon as Theo and I have a moment alone—which is when Mabel and Archie are washing up—I tell him what I witnessed. He goes up to check on Callum and discovers that he’s smuggled a bottle of Aperol out of the larder and has already drunk half of it, neat. I only find this out when I’m drawn upstairs by the sound of raised voices.
“Cal, what are you playing at?” Theo is demanding, standing in the doorway.
But Callum pushes both of us out of the way and lurches over to the bathroom, where he throws up into the toilet.
I go back downstairs and bring him a bottle of water. When I enter the bathroom, Callum’s telling Theo that while we were in Pietrasanta, he heard Charlotte has dumped him for another boy. She didn’t even tell him herself—he had to hear it from a friend.
“I hate being here!” he wails. “This is the worst summer ever!”
Make that three or four steps back.
Theo helps him to the bedroom and sits on the bed next to him. I decide to leave them to it: Callum’s probably feeling humiliated as well as angry. He won’t appreciate me hanging around.
When I’m walking through to the big lounge, I find Mabel, hiding in the study, listening to what’s happening.
My heart drops in my chest. What’s Kate going to say when she hears about it?
