Stepping under the stream of hot water pouring from the showerhead, the smell of Alex returned. It had become imbued in the layers of her skin and the lengths of her hair. She brought her hands to her face to splash it with water, only to find him there too. Wherever he had touched Lucia, her skin remembered his smell.
And now, tangled with the memories of their sex, that scent taunted her.
She closed her eyes and stepped back under the water, allowing it to sluice its way through her long tresses and down her slender frame. Lucia hoped that it might wash away some of her confusion and bring clarity to her clouded mind.
The revelations Alex had shared last night, coupled with his outpouring of truths, had established a more intimate bond between them. Hearing how his trauma had triggered a devastating and unique way of living for Alex had brought up mixed feelings in her; shame for some of her earlier actions towards him, but also great comfort. She wasn’t alone. Knowing that someone else out there knew and understood how she felt on a truly personal level was deeply reassuring.
Two different rhythms had caught her heart mid-pulse: the first, that new beating drum that echoed Alex’s name, with its intoxicating mix of attraction and the haunting reminder of her previous contempt; and the second, the tick-tock of the expiration date of Edoardo’s deadline, just twenty-one days away now.
Lucia finished showering, dressed and was munching her way through acornettowhen Francesco arrived. Down went the key out the window with a wave and a smile, and catching her reflection in Alex’s window across thecalle– smiling, bright-faced – she knew Alex was the reason.
If he could make her feel so seen, so understood, perhaps others might accept her in the same way – in spite of what had been written about her of late, despite the years of interest and intrigue. What if telling her story –her way, with clear parameters in place to protect what she wanted to keep private – might actually bring some good? What if telling her story could release her from all the torment –andbuy her the rest of the school?
Hearing Alex’s story had made her realise that survival simply wasn’t enough. She wanted to take back control. All of it. And it would be on her terms.
Just as Francesco appeared at the landing and welcomed Foscari into his arms, Lucia pounced. ‘I’m going to do it.’
‘Buongiornoto you too,’ he quipped sarcastically. He offered her cheek kisses. ‘Dowhat, exactly? Did you shower?’ He reached for a lock of her still-damp hair. ‘You never shower in the morning.’
‘That’s because I had sex with Alex last night, and I slept over at his place, and I am taking back my life.’
‘Wha—?’
But it was too late. Lucia was holding her phone to her ear and held up her index finger to silence him as the call connected.
‘Pronto, Benedetta? It’s Lucia. Trevisan . . .Bene, grazie. Senti, when is the earliest you can come to talk about your offer? . . . Yes . . . Thank you, Iwouldprefer in person. I have some requests to make that are of a sensitive nature. Monday after lessons? Perfect. Thank you.’
She dropped the phone to her desk and the incredulous look on Francesco’s face begged for answers.
Noting this, Lucia stifled a laugh, and said, ‘Somuch to tell you.’
‘We’re starting with the Alex-sex, then we’ll move on to the book deal.’
‘Not withoutcafféfirst.’ She checked the time. ‘We have half an hour.’
‘Let’s cancel the day. I’ve waited a lifetime for this!’
‘Checco . . .’
Turning to direct his next comment to Foscari, he said, ‘Piccino, I think our girl’s turned a corner.’
Filling the bottom chamber of the moka with water, Lucia turned and rolled her eyes at him. ‘I’m just sick of hiding around corners.’
After Lucia had got on with her day, she noticed Alex slip out with his paper flowers later than usual. In fact, it was during the school’s morning tea break. Lucia noted the time on her watch and smiled, knowing that he would usually have been home asleep at this time.
Happy Thursday, Alex.
The next forty-eight hours were punctuated with hope and the delicious potential of the future. It was something Lucia had never really thought about. So much of her life had been spent looking behind her to the past, or stuck in the present, trying to put one foot in front of the other without falling flat on her face.
But both the situation with Alex – whatever that was turning into – and the forthcoming meeting with Benedetta filled her with hope. She hadn’t really ever allowed herself to hope for anything. Her subconscious guilt and ever-present fears usually quashed any daydreaming or future-planning. But buoyed by this new effervescent spirit, not even a glimpse of Vittorio Gatti walking past the school during their lunchbreak, or the vision of Edoardo’s papers still sitting on the corner of her desk, could stifle her optimistic mood.
And Lucia had also noticed a new pattern to Alex’s comings and goings.
By night, the lights that usually backlit the upper windows of La Commedia were out. No suggestion of any night-time activity or work schedule at play. And this brought her great joy.
Perhaps he’s found a new rhythm . . .
She stood by the school’s front window on Saturday morning, with Foscari for company. He looped around her ankles as she turned to look at her family’s portrait hanging behind the welcome desk. The fiery bite of the bougainvillea made the photo pop. It was a vibrant burst of colour and life in an image that held so much of the dead past.
