‘Oh, soot. That’s from the fire. Long story,’ she sighs, as I brace myself for what’s coming.
She tells me they arrived earlier at a campsite on the edge of Lake Como. While Milly went off to the shower block, Frankie thought she’d get dinner going. The story that follows is typically opaque. While she doesn’t explicitly say that she left a lit barbecue unattended – instead detailing unexpected gusts of wind, stray sparks and a billowing tent – I know her modus operandi well enough by now to fill in the gaps.
‘It was chaos,’ she hoots, rolling her eyes like this is an entertaining anecdote at a dinner party. ‘All these people ran over to help. It was quite dramatic at one point.’
‘Frankie. Was anyone hurt?’ I ask, trying not to sound as disturbed as I am about this story.
‘Oh no,’ she says, with a dismissive swig from a beer bottle. ‘Not really.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask, imagining bodies being stretchered into intensive care.
‘I stubbed my toe when I was running to get help, but that’s it.’
‘Right.’ I release a long breath. ‘What about all your things?’
‘The tent’s a goner, obviously, but we did save most of our stuff.’
‘What did Milly have to say about all this?’
She looks from side to side as if checking the coast is clear, then leans in. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think she’s all that happy with me.’
No shit.
‘I keep telling her it’s just one of those things,’ she continues, ‘and besides, look at all thelovelypeople we’ve met in our time of distress . . .’
The emotional roller coaster I’ve been on in the last forty-five seconds is followed by a flicker of relief. I imagine a delightful Italian mama taking the girls under her wing, feeding them wholesome, home-cooked cannelloni, perhaps even offering somewhere to stay for the night, in a lovely quaint bedroom with pillowcases she probably embroidered herself . . .
‘So, you’ve got somewhere to stay?’
‘Well, a B&B down the road but it’s quite pricey so some Swedish guys said we’re welcome to bunk into their villa. Oh, here’s Lars now! Say hi, Lars!’
She spins the camera around and for a split second I feel like I’ve inadvertently stumbled across the video from ‘Club Tropicana’. There are five or six perma-tanned men with honed physiques lounging around a pool, wearing Wayfarers and the kind of swimming trunks my dad used to refer to as ‘budgie smugglers’. My relief at spotting a couple of women is short-lived when I realise that they too look dodgy in ways I can’t entirely define. Before I get a chance to comment, a figure I can only presume to be Lars stumbles towards the camera. He has a dubious-looking cigarette between his fingers and what I seriously hope is a courgette stuffed in the front of his Speedos.
‘Heyy!’ he says, peering into the camera with a bleary-eyed grin that he seems to think is adorable. ‘Is this your sister?’
‘Ha!’ she guffaws, then hits him on the arm playfully, harder than he was expecting judging by the way he stumbles away.
I scowl into the phone.
‘Frankie. You cannot stay with those people. They’re strangers.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll pay for you and Milly to stay in the nice B&B tonight,’ I interrupt.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ she protests. ‘We’refine, seriously.’
‘No, I do. I really do. Why don’t the two of you head over there now. I’ll transfer some money immediately.’
She sighs. ‘Well, now I feel bad.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t be relying on you for money.’
‘Frankie. It is fine. In fact, I insist. Humour me, please. Just go now, okay? And don’t—’
‘Hitchhike. I know. Honestly, Mum. This is really lovely
