Lucia, towelling herself dry, said, ‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright. Finding me like that in the window.’
He lay the clothes on the edge of the wash basin. ‘Once you’re dressed, I suggest we call Mariella so she knows what’s going on across thecalle.’
‘Ok,’ Lucia replied.
‘And I’m staying here tonight.’
‘Checco . . .’
He raised a finger. ‘Silenzio! No arguments. A dachshund isn’t a reliable second witness.’
Sitting cross-legged on the bay window seat with an extra-strong cappuccino nestled between her palms, Lucia started to feel human again.
‘You worry too much about me.’
Francesco shrugged. ‘It’s what I do.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘Grazie. You being here means a lot right now.’ Her eyes settled on the financial papers she had pulled together the day before. She was grateful for Francesco’s support and needed to focus her attention.
‘Any ideas about where to start, then?’ he asked, noting the direction of her gaze.
She took a deep breath, then said, ‘Let’s begin by crosschecking Edoardo’s numbers. Due diligence. I have copies of all the bank statements, lists of all our inventory and resources. Then, we should know where we stand – and what we need to make up the rest of the money.’ She closed her eyes. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
‘You should be proud of your success.’ Francesco gave her thigh a sympathetic pat before standing. ‘I’ll go grab my laptop from downstairs. Need anything else?’
Lucia looked across the apartment to her desk. ‘Bring back some A3 paper to plot on.’
‘To plotand scheme?’ Francesco twisted an invisible moustache melodramatically.
Lucia caved and gave him the smile he had worked for. ‘Yes, let’s scheme.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Let’s bring down Vittorio Gatti, one bilingual dictionary at a time.’ She rubbed her tender temple. ‘Not a comfortable pillow substitute.’
Francesco cackled then disappeared downstairs.
Lucia downed the remainder of her coffee, set the hand-blown glass cup on the windowsill, and gently tutted her tongue behind her front teeth. ‘Foscari?Tut, tut. Dove sei?’
On cue, Foscari emerged from his sleeping basket under Lucia’s bed. His black silken coat with caramel accents glistened in the morning light. Ambling his way up his customised staircase, Foscari joined her on the window seat and padded into her waiting arms. Lucia felt his little body relax in her embrace and she nuzzled her cheek against his coat, comforted by his warmth. Pulling him closer to her chest, she whispered, ‘What do you think? Will we pull this off?Eh?’
Her furry companion snuggled in closer, and she read the gesture as one of moral support, and held him a little more tightly.
It was reassuring to arrive at the same figure Edoardo had penned, indicating that all had been calculated fairly and accurately. But still, the €300,000 required to buy Jacopo’s share of the school still made Lucia feel faint.
Spread across the dining table were a series of A3 sheets of paper, each labelled differently:Expenses;Revenue;Savings;Avenues to explore. For good measure, Lucia had decorated the last with stars and a few love hearts, casting her hopes for a miracle out to the universe.
‘Where did the personal loan lenders list go?’ Lucia asked, sifting through the bank statements in her lap.
‘Eccola!’ Francesco passed it across to her from his side of the table.
Lucia reassessed the €300,000 written on the contract. ‘Minus my savings. Minus what’s left of my parents’ estate . . .’ she murmured, leaning over and scribbling some notes. ‘Did you get a balance of 180,000 euros?’
He checked his total. ‘Sì, sì.’
She dropped back in her chair. ‘I don’t even think I havespicciin my wallet forcafféright now, let alone 180,000 euros.’ Her eyes scanned the papers. ‘Va bene, we try for a personal loan.’
‘Or a business loan against your half of the school.’ He righted photocopies of the photo page of Lucia’s passport, hercarta d’identità, and her proof of residence documents. ‘This is all ready to go.’
‘Let’s lodge some applications now. The future waits for no one. Especially me.’ She grabbed her papers and laptop and shuffled around to Francesco’s side of the table. ‘Eighty-nine days, Checco . . .’
Somewhere between the mountain of bureaucratic paperwork and the niggling hope that someone might come through with a loan, Lucia found her appetite. Together she and Francesco prepared a simple yet satisfying dinner ofpolenta e radicchio, which Lucia served on the same wooden platter her mother had always used. And, as usual, the pair consumed the meal without plates, simply with forks, and generously poured glasses of Amarone red wine.
