Page 33 of A Place in the Sun
‘Thank you,’ I croak.
Later … I’m wide wake and staring at the ceiling. The one that is still intact, not like the hall and downstairs. My pillow is sodden with tears I didn’t even know I’d been shedding. I turn my head to the pillow next to mine. There’s no indentation in it. Marco isn’t here. He never was. He’s gone. I turn my head away from it to see Mr Fluffy tucked in beside me. The tears come fast and furious now.
The following morning, when dawn arrives, I haul myself out of bed, carrying Mr Fluffy. I have a quick wash and get dressed, barely brushing my hair. Nothing matters right now.
I make my way downstairs, turn the corner and look at the mess. The plaster is still everywhere, but I notice a pathway to the front door that someone has cleared for me.
I follow it, carrying Mr Fluffy, go outside and stop to stroke the cat lying in the sun.
I close the door and start to walk, no idea where, because that’s all my brain will manage. I walk away from the house, away from the images of Marco and the arrival of the young woman last night. I walk up the hill, feeling the sun on my face, the dust in my hair and eyes despite the wash. I shake it out. And then I walk around the village. I don’t know where I’m walking to. I just keep going until dawn turns to morning, the day starts to warm, and I’m outside La Tavola.
I stand and look at the gate, ajar as always, letting people know they’re welcome. I push it open, step into the shady garden and move towards the open door. I feel the rush of familiarity as voices from the kitchen travel across the big dining room to greet me.
‘Mum!’ The children appear from the kitchen, run over and hug me hard.
‘We had such fun!’ Luca tells me excitedly. ‘We stayed up and had a firepit in the garden and drank hot chocolate and watched the stars.’ He sounds like the boy he should be. ‘There was a shooting star. I said it was Dad, bombing around Heaven, making everyone smile.’
‘We’ve had such fun,’ Aimee joins in. ‘We made a tent out of a sheet in the bedroom and slept in it!’
‘Can we stay again tonight? Can we, Mum?’
I look up at Caterina, who is beside me, smiling. ‘Thank you so much for having them.’ My voice is weak. I don’t sound like me at all.
‘Really, the pleasure was all ours. We loved having them. Such a change for the children to be themselves without all the other stuff they have to worry about.’
Someone hands me a coffee, I’m not sure who. It’s hot and deliciously sweet.
‘It’s fine for them to stay again tonight,’ she carries on. ‘Really no bother. I imagine your house is going to take a bit of sorting.’
‘Yes,’ I say, not knowing where to begin. Where do I start to unravel all this mess?
In the kitchen, there are people, some of whom I may or may not have met before. They greet me, and are busy laying the big table. Giuseppe is the only one I recognize. A few others I don’t know. One woman is in a wheelchair, with a bowl of peas she’s shelling slowly. It’s Sunday. They’re preparing today’s lunch. I don’t move. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to or can’t. I don’t know what I’m doing here. But being in the kitchen feels like where I need to be. Like the home I left a long time ago.
There’s a shout from outside and everyone puts down what they’re doing and dashes to the front door. A delivery has arrived from Alfonso. I put Mr Fluffy on the table, and go out to where everyone is taking things from Alfonso to carry them into the kitchen. He greets me with a smile and hands me a box of tomatoes. Their ripe scent is amazing, keeping me in the here and now, not letting my mind wander.
In the kitchen, the boxes are unpacked to the delight of Giovanni and the others.
‘Pasta carbonara!’ someone calls out.
‘Pasta Norma!’ says another.
A pile of onions and other vegetables sits on the kitchen island. I can feel Giovanni next to me, but he’s not watching me. He slides a knife towards me on the work surface. I pick it up and begin to peel, then chop the onions. Not in a cheffy way, because I was never a chef. Marco was the chef. I just liked helping him whenwe were in the kitchen as a family. Organization and front-of-house were my areas but I loved being backstage, in the kitchen, the excitement before service, then relaxing at the end of a successful or stressful shift. I say nothing. I’m on autopilot. I just keep chopping.
And when I’ve finished chopping the onions, my eyes stinging, tears falling, he pushes something else towards me, courgettes, and I chop some more. Until …
‘I think that’s enough.’ He rests a hand on my arm. And I look at the pile of onions and other vegetables in front of me.
‘Oh … maybe a caponata?’ I say suddenly, remembering it being on the menu when we had a glut of aubergines, tomatoes and courgettes from the suppliers. ‘Or …’ I put up my hand. ‘Sorry, sorry …’ The tears catch in my throat as I remember what Marco would do with a surplus of onions. I thought I knew exactly what he would be thinking and that I knew everything about him. But maybe I didn’t. Now I feel I didn’t know him at all. The memory of the Marco I loved has disappeared, likegelatoon a hot, sunny day.
I put down the knife, hurry out of the kitchen and across the road, hoping the children haven’t seen me. From the sounds of laughter and fun in the kitchen, I can breathe a sigh of relief that they haven’t.
I lean against the wall, hug myself and gaze at the beautiful green valley below that, for a while, from thephotographs Marco had shown me, I believed would be my future.
I hear footsteps behind me. ‘You didn’t finish your coffee,’ says Giovanni.
‘Thank you.’ I turn to take it from him but with no intention of drinking it. I try to clear my throat. ‘A young woman came to the house last night.’
‘Ah,’ he says.
