“Go on,” says Mabel, “stand in front of the house.”
I pick up a napkin and blot my face—cursing my greasy skin—and Theo and I take up our positions in front of the big turquoise doors. He wraps an arm around my shoulders.
Mabel takes several pictures. “I think you’ll like them,” she pronounces.
“Let’s have a look,” says Callum, taking the phone and swiping through. “Yeah, they’re not bad.”
“High praise indeed,” teases Theo. “Now, what would you say about taking one of the five of us? Can we do a selfie?”
There’s a pause. I can’t work out if Callum and Mabel are resisting. But eventually they skulk towards us, pretending to be taking part under duress. Archie, on the other hand, doesn’t pretend at all. He springs out of his seat, skips over to take up position, and immediately starts striking poses.
Theo whips out his phone but can’t work out how to take the picture without casting a shadow over our faces.
“Dad, you’re so crap!” says Callum, miming exasperation.
He lifts out his own phone and directs us to shuffle around so there are no shadows. “That’s better.”
But he and Mabel aren’t smiling.
“Everybody sayformaggio!” chirps Theo.
“Dad!” Callum and Mabel elbow and slap him.
“Everybody sayparmigiano!” I can’t resist adding.
“Adam!”groan Callum and Mabel.
But I smile—we all do.
And Callum takes our photo.
Just as I’m about to ask if I can have a look at them, he shuts down his phone and slots it into his pocket. “Right,” he says, briskly, “shall we play another round?”
Chapter 27
It’s Friday night and Mabel and I are on our way to see Harry Styles. The gig’s taking place in an open-air arena that’s been set up on one of the huge lawns next to Lucca’s historic walls.
We’re in the car listening to Harry’s latest album and compiling our top five of his songs. I don’t like to say I don’t know many of them. I’m nervous about tonight, especially after Theo designated it the perfect opportunity for Mabel and me to bond. I don’t want to blow it. So I rearrange Mabel’s songs in a different order, switching out “Watermelon Sugar” for “Music for a Sushi Restaurant,” which I do at least know. That seems to do the trick.
We pass through a nondescript village and see a sign that tells us Lucca is just a few kilometers away. Mabel lets out a whinny of excitement, which I’m pleased she isn’t trying to hide. She’s also put on some makeup, including shimmery lip gloss and the false eyelashes Gloria gave her. And I may be imagining this, but she isn’t cowering behind her hair as much as usual.
“Have you seen Harry before?” I ask, brightly.
In a quick-fire babble, Mabel tells me that she and Sharita tried to get tickets to see the tour when it came to Manchester, but her mum missed the deadline and it sold out. “I’m going to post loads of pics on my Insta. Sharita will be devo when she sees them! And Aurora’s going todie!”
I hope they don’t provoke jealousy in Kate.
I spit out a feather that’s stuck to my lips. Mabel and I are wearing thick boas: hers is the tasteful green of a Tuscan artichoke, while mine is much less stylish, the same color as the oranges we throw off the hill. She’d seen on TikTok that Harry’s hardcore fans wear feather boas when they go to his concerts. Apparently, this is inspired by some appearance he made at the Grammys. I hope she’s right and we’re not the only ones, as I’m starting to get a sweaty neck.
We pass the two dodgy junctions, but I don’t have trouble negotiating them as there’s so much traffic heading into the city, I just follow the flow. Besides, I’m starting to feel much more confident driving. When we arrive on the outskirts of Lucca, it takes us a long time to find somewhere to park and I have to settle for a spot that’s a good distance from the city center. It’s also tight and will test my parallel parking skills, so I brace myself for sniggering. It doesn’t come—and I manage to maneuver the car into the spot in just two attempts.
When we leave the car, Mabel and I discover that, although we’re a long way from the venue, there’s a stream of girls heading in that direction, most of them chaperoned by older women, presumably their mums, mums’ friends, and maybe the odd auntie. To my relief, many are wearing feather boas, some of which have already started to shed their feathers on the pavement. I pity whoever has to clear them up tomorrow.
“Good shout on the feather boas,” I say.
Mabel gives a little skip.
Before long, the stream of fans has expanded into a river. And there’s so much excitement in the air, I can’t help but be affected.
