Page 8 of My Lemon Grove Summer
‘Thank you, er, Signor, er . . .’
‘Please, call me Giuseppe.’
‘Giuseppe,’ we both say, and smile.
‘We are family now, part of the same community,’ Giuseppe says. He holds out his arms, but I don’t step forward or hug him or anything. That would be weird. We’re not family. We only just got here. ‘After my meetings, I will be collecting the rest of our new residents from the airport. I will come back and see you later. Relax, eat, enjoy,’ he instructs us, and then disappears out of the door.
Lennie and I look at the dark-wood kitchen and the groaning table, and then at each other.
‘Wow!’ we both say together, then I grin and try to go in for the hug again, like we’re a proper couple, and this time end up clutching at his arm. I’m just not used to this with Lennie. We’ve always been quite tactile, linking arms when we walk anywhere, him rubbing my feet when I buy impractical bargain shoes, and he’s forever ruffling my hair. He thinks it’s a sign of affection. I think it’s annoying. The hugging thing is new. But it’s something I think we should do as a couple. Practice, everything comes with practice, I tell myself again, and look around at my wonderful new home.
‘When they said we were getting a place to stay in, I didn’t expect it to be like this!’ I say.
‘No, I thought we were going to be in one of those dilapidated houses we passed on the way here. This could be amazing with a bit of work!’ he says, sounding like an estate agent who’s just found a gem.
I think I will be very happy here, very happy indeed! Whoever doubted us and said this was a silly idea was so wrong.
‘There has to be a catch!’ I say suddenly. ‘You always tell me that if something looks too good to be true, it usually is.’
‘I hate to admit it,’ he grins, then shrugs, ‘but maybe I was wrong!’
I hold my hand to my chest in mock horror. ‘You? Wrong? I can’t remember you being wrong since, oh, since the last time we played Trivial Pursuit. You vowed never to play again when you lost, and said it had to be Twister from now on. And you always win at that because you’ve got longer arms and legs than me and your mum!’
We’re back on home turf. The hugging is a whole new world we’ll have to just try and get used to. Especially if we’re going to take things to another level and actually sleep together.
Lennie starts looking in cupboards. ‘Maybe it’s the town that’s the catch,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing going on there at all. Even the tourists don’t stop, just keep driving through.’
He’s right. The town may not have much going for it. But I didn’t come here to be part of a big, close community. I came here to start up a business – online if I have to – and to create a home for me and Lennie. Maybe, just maybe we have hit the jackpot after all.
He finds two glasses and pours the wine.
‘Now, let’s eat,’ he says, looking at the feast in front of us.
‘Benvenuto!Welcome! Come in!’
Giuseppe’s voice makes us both sit up from where we’ve dozed off on the settee in the big open-plan kitchen diner, me with my head resting against Lennie’s shoulder. After a delicious lunch and a good old look around with glasses of glorious red wine in our hands, we took our bags upstairs and started to unpack. There are five bedrooms up there, and another two doubles in a converted barn outside. Lennie suggested we have a room each and spread our stuff out. We might as well with all this space. It’s not like we have a young family . . . yet.
‘No need to rush things,’ he said, and I have to admit, I felt a sense of relief. I couldn’t have agreed more. I didn’t want to feel we had to ‘perform’ this evening. We still haven’t got the hugging sorted. ‘Let’s take our time,’ he added. ‘Let it happen naturally.’
Once again, I’m grateful for his level-headed thinking. Otherwise I’d just plough on in there, probably make a complete hash of it and put him off ever wanting to go to bed with me again! It could be where I’ve been going wrong in my quest for Mr Right. Taking our time is sensible. Although if we are to think of having a baby, maybe not too much time. I’m pushing my luck at my age. But a home here with Lennie will be enough if it doesn’t happen.
‘Meet your new family!’ Now I hear Giuseppe laugh, and we both realise at the same time that we have company. I hope they learn to knock next time. I’m not used to people just wandering in. I’ve never lived anywhere where you leave the door unlocked. And as for this ‘new family’, it’s like he’s suggesting a commune!
‘Ah, Lennie, Zelda, let me introduce you.’ Giuseppe is standing just inside the double doors that lead out onto the courtyard. He’s surrounded by a group of people, like a tour guide.
We both jump to our feet, knocking over the half-drunk glasses of wine we’ve left on the floor, trying not to look like we’ve had a boozy lunch and fallen asleep, even though that is exactly what has happened.
‘Hi, I’m Tabitha,’ says a woman maybe my age or a bit younger, in quite a posh accent. ‘My mum loved the TV show – what can I say?’ she says.
Ah,Bewitched, the American sitcom. A witch marries a mortal man and tries to be an ordinary housewife. Tabitha was their daughter. I remember my mum saying she thought I’d been born a witch. Sometimes I believed it. When I was in the children’s home, I often wished I could twitch my nose and transport myself to anywhere rather than where I was.
So if her mum liked the series, and mine knew it, I’d say Tabitha is just about exactly my age. She’s wearing a leopard-print hat, dark glasses, an oversized scarf, despite the heat, distressed jeans and DM boots, and has a leather jacket slung over her shoulder, showing her muscular shoulders. Very rock chick. We shake hands stiffly.
‘This place is very . . . rustic!’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I reply. What was she expecting here in rural Sicily? I think the place is amazing! Okay, it needs some doing up, but the potential is all there. I realise I’m thinking like Lennie and I smile. I like that. We’re singing from the same song sheet. I’m dying to ask Tabitha what she’s doing here, presumably on her own. But I manage not to blurt it out and feel quite proud of myself.
‘And I’m Barry,’ says an older man, late fifties, touching sixty maybe, red-faced and sweating. He’s wearing a washed-out Stones T-shirt, and washed-out jeans to match, with a belt just about holding them up under his pot belly.
