“Mister Webb!” calls the voice again. There’s a banging on the door.
I sit up. Shit, it’s the Wi-Fi engineer!
Realizing I’ve overslept, I jump out of bed, throw on my dressing gown and bolt downstairs. I apologize profusely, not getting too close to the man in case I have morning breath. More to the point, I hope I don’t smell of sex. But he smiles brightly, clearly used to greeting customers before they’ve woken up properly or made themselves presentable.
The engineer is a young, dark-haired, olive-skinned man, who tells me his name is Cristian and he’s from Romania. But, as he doesn’t speak much English and I don’t speak Romanian—or Italian, come to think of it—we struggle to communicate. I make us a pot of coffee while Cristian unloads his van.
When Giuseppe arrives, he steps in to translate. As far as I can make out, the two men decide that the best plan is to lay Cristian’s cables along the same route as the old phone line, which is erectedon poles about five or six meters above ground and runs along the lower boundary of the olive grove. But I zone out. I stand there, holding my coffee and grinning, thinking of last night, thinking of Theo.
Once Cristian has started work, I go back into the bedroom and open the shutters. “Morning!”
Theo rolls over and smiles. “Morning.”
He’s naked on top of the sheets, the curve of his bum and thigh backlit by the sunshine streaming in through the window. My bones cry out for him but I tell myself to get a grip: the kids will be awake soon and the house is crawling with workmen.
Once Theo has got out of bed and the two of us have dressed and showered, we round up the kids and take them through our usual morning routine. Then we troop down to the wine store and fling open the doors. This is the only part of the house we haven’t touched, mainly because I can’t afford to do anything with it, so it hasn’t been a priority. But even if we want to continue using it as a dumping ground—which Theo and I joke every house needs—first we need to strip it of Wilf and Arnaldo’s dumped items, which almost fill it, in some parts up to the ceiling. We lift out tins of dried-up paint, broken heaters and fans, and dust-covered lampshades and stands. There’s a gold cigarette case inscribed with the initials A.S. that I assume belonged to Arnaldo—but I have no idea why it’s been tossed in here. I tuck it into my pocket so it doesn’t get thrown away. We continue tugging out shabby old shelving units, a wooden chair that’s missing so many slats it would be impossible to sit on it, and a rusty old barbecue. I pause to picture Wilf and Arnaldo enjoying barbecues on the lawn, just like we do. Then I plunge back in, instructing everyone to keep the old kegs and barrels, as they’ll add to the atmosphere.
“Of what?” asks Theo, smirking. “A dumping ground?”
I roll my eyes in mock annoyance. “No,mio carissimo. Whatever we decide to do in Phase Two.” I’ve no idea where that idea came from: until now I hadn’t even thought of a second phase to the renovations. I also realize I just used the wordwe.
But Theo doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Good thinking,mio tesoro.”
He grins and I feel another pulse of love for him.
As the builders’ skip was recently emptied, Giuseppe says we can throw everything we don’t want in there. By lunchtime, it’s full and the wine store is as empty as we’re going to get it.
“That’s it, gang!” declares Theo. “Job done!”
Towards mid-afternoon, the Wi-Fi is up and running, so we give the kids the code and connect Archie’s devices. As Theo begins connecting his home office in the study, the kids retreat to their bedrooms. I feel a stab of worry that they might also retreat into themselves, that they might start distancing themselves from us again—or moving closer to Kate. But I check on them after an hour or so and they all seem relaxed and happy. They don’t stay in their rooms much longer. Archie leaves his devices to play on his rope swing, while Callum and Mabel take pics and videos of the house and grounds, then lie in their hammocks, sending them to friends. A few video calls also take place, but I don’t pay attention to who’s on the other end. The important thing is, the kids seem to be enjoying showing off the house and telling people about their summer.
I decide to check my social media and catch up on the latest antics of my sisters. Ian’s posted a coaching video about the dangers of catastrophizing, Dom’s posted a few shirtless training pics—which, as far as I can tell, are identical to the last—and Gloria’s posted a video of him in full drag, lip-syncing to some long-forgotten solo single by a minor member of Girls Aloud. I notice that on Callum’s Instagram he’s posted the pic he took of the five of us standing in front of the turquoise door. There’s no caption but I guess it speaks for itself.
“I love your Instagram post,” I casually mention when I find him in the temporary kitchen mixing a protein shake.
“Thanks,” he says, screwing the top on his plastic bottle.
I open the fridge and pour myself a glass of fizzy water. “I meant to ask, what happened with those friends who sent you the gay GIFs?”
Callum shakes his bottle. “Oh, I dealt with that ages ago. I told them they were homophobic and out of order. They moaned for a bit but then they apologized.” He flips the lid on his bottle and tips back the shake.
“Good on you,” I say. “That’s great to hear.”
He trots upstairs to play FIFA.
After relaying Callum’s news to Theo—and sneaking a kiss—I start preparingarancinirice balls for Stefano and Luisa, who are joining us for dinner. Just as I’m stirring the risotto for the stuffing, Mabel shuffles in. “Adam, I can’t find this place on TikTok.”
“That’ll be because I haven’t registered it,” I confess. “Sorry, I know TikTok’s really important but I’m literally clueless about it.”
She pulls at a stray thread on her top. “You know, I could always have a look at some of the other accounts on there. It’s not my usual thing but I could see what other people with places like this are posting. And let you know if there’s anything that does well.”
I rest my wooden spoon on the side of the pan. “Really?”
She shrugs. “If you like.”
“That’d be fab.”
Mabel bounces out of the room.
