Page 29 of A Place in the Sun
He planned for us to do up the house and spend our retirement in the sun. I smile at the thought of him here, with me, in the kitchen, mornings with his coffee, lunches, siestas and evenings, singing, as he often did, while prepping in the kitchen, sipping red wine and cooking up a storm, his big build filling the space. I wish he was here now. I wish we’d done it sooner instead of trying to make the restaurant work against the odds. I’m sure that’s why he had the heart attack. It was all too much, trying to do it all ourselves, like King Canute trying to hold back the tide.
I pick up Marco’s iPad from the table, pour my coffee, open the back door, letting in a shaft of light, and take the mug to the table. I tap in his password – he was predictable with such things – and open it to his photographs, many of this place, and his messages, which I still haven’t been able to face going through yet. I look at them, I know I should see if there’s anything important in there, anyone I need to still contact, but no, I still can’t face doing it. I’ll do it another time.
I put down the iPad. I have a house to clear out. I wonder where to start. Not the kitchen. I’m not ready to erase the image of Marco I’ve created in my head.
I head upstairs to where the children are in bed, awake now. I pop my head around the door and am struck, again, by the tired, dated paper peeling off the walls. The children seem unaware of their surroundings. They are lying on their backs, staring at the stained ceiling.
‘Mr Fluffy says let’s play guess the animal,’ says Aimee.
‘Okay, but I go first,’ says Luca, from under his rumpled sheet, where usually he would be staring at his phone, but now, without the internet, it’s a different landscape.
‘Mr Fluffy says you always go first,’ replies Aimee, grumpily.
‘I’m not playing unless I go first.’
I wonder whether I should intervene.
Aimee sighs. ‘Okay. Mr Fluffy says you can go first.’
I step back from the doorway and into the shadows on the dark landing.
‘Okay. I’ll make the sound and you have to guess it,’ says Luca.
I turn away, walk into the room where I’ve been sleeping and throw open the wardrobe doors to reveal the contents. It seems like as good a place as any to start.
I pull out coats and jackets, and put them on the wrought-iron-framed bed. Part of me is wondering what Marco did when he came alone to check out the house. Had it occurred to him to start making a homefor us? There certainly hasn’t been any work done on the place. But I knew that. When he signed for the house, he paid with all of the money he had from his mother. All that was left was the big black hole of our business bank account to pay wages, rates and rent. And a lot of hope that one day it would all come good, that the business would get back into profit and we could sell up in Cardiff with some money behind us.
I pick up, fold each item and put it into the black bag I’ve brought upstairs with me. These clothes were clearly kept for best: a neat woollen jacket, a dark knee-length coat. Everything smells of mothballs and a floral scent. This was someone’s life, someone’s home. I work steadily throughout the morning as the day gets hotter and muggier. The children entertain themselves with just a few reminders to play nicely.
‘Mum, can we go back to La Tavola?’ asks Luca.
‘Yes, can we, Mum?’
‘Giovanni said it would be fine. They’ll be starting to prep for tomorrow’s Sunday lunch,’ says Luca.
‘Please, Mum! Mr Fluffy really wants to go back and see Isabella again.’
‘Er … we don’t know she’ll be there,’ I say, playing for time. The one thing I said I wouldn’t do was encourage the children into the world of hospitality. ‘Don’t you want to help me here? We can make it fun!’ I say, jerking a thumb at the black sacks I’ve already filled.
‘It’s not fun!’ says Luca, deadpan, folding his arms, just like his father. ‘You said it was okay to have fun. This isn’t it. Going to see Pietro and La Tavola is fun!’
‘No, you’re right.’ Of course it’s not fun here, but hanging out with Pietro and Isabella yesterday was. It’s not like he’ll suddenly announce he wants to be a Corden Bleu chef. He’s eleven, I remind myself. ‘Of course you can go, if it’s okay with Giovanni.’
‘Yessss!’
I could cry to see Luca so excited, even if it is about going into a kitchen.
When Marco was training to be a chef, it was hard, with long hours in dark kitchens, never seeing the light of day. He came from Le Marche to London to try to make it. It was a hard slog, living up to the chef’s standards but also avoiding the knives aimed at your back by someone equally keen to earn the chef’s approval. It was brutal. A bit like the world of finance. But I stood my ground, survived it, met Marco and got what I thought I’d always wanted: our own business. It was just as brutal, navigating difficult customers who threatened bad online reviews, and being responsible for others’ welfare, income and security. All Marco ever wanted to do was cook. He loved it, and every night was a performance. I loved to make everything happen seamlessly, like a theatre’s stage manager. Until the final curtain came down abruptly. I shake away the memory.
‘Muuum!’
‘Sorry, Luca. Yes?’
‘Can we go, then? I said I’d meet Pietro.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Have fun, and look out for your sister. Come home when Giovanni or Pietro’s mum tells you to. Make sure you wear hats and sun cream. Wash your hands. Have you got your phone? Is it on? Oh, no Wi-Fi. I remember. Does La Tavola have Wi-Fi?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Luca sighs and takes Aimee’s hand.
