I leave the socks and go over to hug him. His hold is strong and I can feel the hairs on his forearms tickle the back of my neck.
“It’s alright,” I reassure him. “It’s not your fault.”
We break out of the hug and sit at the island.
“No, but I know how much this means to you,” he says. “I know how much you’re giving up.”
I take a sip of my wine. “It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d given us more notice: we leave in ten days. The flights are going to be expensive.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll deal with that. And hire a bigger car.”
I force out a smile. I don’t like to remind him that he hasn’t got much money—ever since he gave in to pretty much all Kate’s financial demands.
Theo spreads his hands on the table. “But you know, maybe it’s happening for a reason. I know it’s going to be a challenge, but it could work out for the best.”
I can tell how desperately Theo’s trying to convince himself as well as me. But I’m not going to argue. And I’m not going to criticize his kids. I can’t: I hardly know them. After all these months, I’ve still only managed to establish a bond with Archie. He’s eight and is into Marvel superheroes, WWF wrestlers and the card game Top Trumps, building up a collection of several of the different sets. We’re not an obvious match but I like playing with his action figures—it’s surprisingly imaginative—and we’ve managed to find a set of Top Trumps called Great British Bakes that works for both of us. But the older two—Callum, who’s fifteen, and Mabel, who’s thirteen—just refuse to engage with me. Their barriers are up the whole time. Last weekend, we took them to an Italian restaurant to try to get them excited about the holiday—which at the time we thought was only for a week. That’s when we told them about the house and castle, information they must have passed on to Kate. The irony is, when we showed them pictures, they didn’t seem remotely interested. They said the house looked boring, that the castle was just a load of rubble, and moaned that there was no swimming pool. No, I can’t see how this is going to work out for the best.
“I suppose I was just looking forward to us having some romantic time together,” I venture, diplomatically.
Theo sips his wine and swirls it around the glass. “I’m sure we can still do that. Callum’s older now and very responsible. He’s been babysitting for the other two for a while.”
Great, so we’ll get the odd evening out.
But I can’t say that. I force out another smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Theo inches his stool closer and gives me a serious expression. “Ads, I know it isn’t ideal. I know Callum and Mabel are still struggling with all the changes. But they’re great kids, I promise.They just need to get to know you. And this could be the perfect opportunity.”
I remember the state of the bathrooms, that the builders have told us the kitchen will be out of action for two weeks. I remember that the earliest I can get Wi-Fi installed is mid-August—which would have been fine when the kids were joining us at the end of the holidays but not when they’ll be there from the last week of July. And I remember how hot it was the last time I was there, which was only June—and there’s no air-conditioning.
I have a premonition that sends a chill down my spine: the kids turn their dad against me and he dumps me—just like all my exes have in the past. All those exes who told me I was insecure, oversensitive,needy. …Wait a minute, is that what’s happening now? Am I getting in my head, worrying needlessly and am going to end up scaring him off?
Whatever’s going on, it’s not as if I have any choice; if I want to spend the summer with Theo, I’ll just have to accept his kids. And if I don’t make an effort, that’ll be a surefire way to lose him.
“You’re right,” I manage, brightly. “Let’s see this as an opportunity. Let’s make the most out of it!”
Although my expression is cheerful, I’m feeling dragged down by dread. My dream summer is turning into a nightmare and it hasn’t even started.
Chapter 2
It’s the day after my work leaving do but I’m not remotely hungover. We just went to a few bars around the corner from the office in Spinningfields. And there were several people leaving, two of them because of ill health, so the evening fell a bit flat. I ended up slipping away after a few hours, which suited me fine. Although I’ve been in that job for more than ten years, as soon as I made the decision to leave, in my head I moved on. I started looking forward to the future—and the next chapter of my life in Montemagno. This time next week we’ll be on the plane.
As I’ve listed my house on Airbnb and rented it out for pretty much the whole summer, I’m going from room to room packing up everything personal. My Auntie Julie’s going to manage the lettings for me and has said I can leave a few boxes of belongings in her garage. So I’m taking down framed photos, clearing the bathroom of toiletries, and wrapping up breakable vases and ornaments. I don’t really like the idea of strangers staying in my home but will have to get over it: if I’m paying two sets of bills for six weeks I’ll need the extra income.
Since Easter I’ve been back to Italy twice, once with Theo during half-term, and once on my own in June. When mycodice fiscalefinally came through, I set up a bank account, with the help ofSignor Mancini. Then we had to attach a value to the estate, work out the duty and complete a tax return. Only once this was done could he arrange for the deeds to the castello to be transferred into my name. And I could start filling out—with the help of my translation app—several online forms to set up accounts for the utilities, plus the Italian equivalent of council tax.
Signor Mancini also introduced me to the Italian couple who live in the property closest to ours—Stefano and Luisa Fiore. They’re the couple who found Wilfred dead in his bed, but I decided against bringing that up at our first meeting. Stefano’s a farmer and Luisa a history teacher in the high school in the closest town of Camaiore—and, thankfully, she speaks excellent English. Not that we had much time to speak at all as they were on their way out when we called. Although we did have just enough time to learn that Stefano used to maintain the vineyard and olive grove for my uncle—keeping seventy-five percent of the harvest for himself and giving twenty-five percent to Wilfred—an arrangement I was happy to renew. And for Luisa to explain that she runs the local history society, following this up with a request to do a dig of the castle—something she’s been trying to set up for years. I pointed out that the deeds to the property state the castle is protected by all kinds of regulations, but Luisa reassured me she’d be working with the staff from the local museum, who know all about this kind of thing. I gave my permission and they’ve set up a dig for the summer: as she’s a teacher, our dates coincide perfectly.
Other than that, Theo and I bought three new beds from a branch of IKEA near Pisa Airport. We also met with several builders and gathered their suggestions and quotes for the renovations. In the end, we hired a man called Giuseppe. Giving him the edge was the fact he’s married to a British woman and so he speaks good English. But I’ve told him we don’t want him to start until we’re actually staying in the house, just in case anything goes wrong.
In the meantime, I’ve doubled my efforts to learn Italian—although I keep getting distracted so haven’t made much progress. But everyone tells me the easiest way to learn is through immersion in everyday life so I expect that’ll become my plan.
I’ve also researched the lettings market in Tuscany and it’s more lucrative than I expected. Even without a pool, if the property is rented out for the full season I should be able to stay off work. If not, I’ll have to pick up some contracts as a freelancer or find a part-time job. But I want to give myself the best chance of avoiding that—and that’s one of the reasons I’m putting the house in Manchester on Airbnb.
I take down a photo of me and my best gay friends—who I call my sisters—on a wild singles’ holiday to Gran Canaria. There’s a selfie I took of me and Theo on Canal Street a month after we met, on the night he asked me to be his boyfriend. Then there’s my favorite photo of my mum.
It was taken the summer before she died, when she and Dad took me on holiday to Newquay. I remember we’d just eaten our tea in the caravan when Mum insisted we all go outside to watch the sunset. Dad said she looked beautiful in the soft light and went back in to find his camera. In the photo she’s smiling, relaxed and tanned, holding a glass of gin and tonic, sitting at a table on which stands her usual jar of Nivea hand cream and packet of Silk Cut cigarettes, around her neck the silver S she wore for her name, Suzanne—an S she’d often run up and down the chain as she was talking. Mum’s hair was naturally fair but she dyed it butter-blond and had just had it permed, which was the height of fashion in the late ’80s.
She was beautiful. I’m sure everyone thinks their mum’s beautiful but I know mine was because everyone said it—not just Dad but shop assistants, bus drivers and strangers who’d stop her on the street. She loved the attention but would giggle and pretend to be embarrassed, then catch my eye and give me a wink.
