Page 17 of Escape to Tuscany

5 missed video chats

‘Right,’ I say, stuffing it back in again. ‘Oh, did you manage to ask whether my temporary health insurance is all right? Or should I look at another provider?’

‘The lady on the phone said it sounded fine. Of course, it really depends on who we get on the day. Relax,’ he says, and I realise that I’m clenching all over. ‘You have the right to live here. The worst that happens is some kind of annoying administrative setback, and we can fix those. Believe me, you don’t want to know what my non-EU clients have to go through.’

‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘It’s just so weird to have nothing to do.’

‘Enjoy it. Unpack your stuff, explore the city, work on your book…’ Because he knows there’s a book, of course, just as he knows there’s an ex-husband and a mother and a sister. He just doesn’t know the details. ‘We’ll be back in bureaucratic hell before you know it.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, and smile – but, to my surprise, I’m a little sad. I’ve spent a lot of time with Marco over the last days, going over paperwork or sitting companionably in waiting rooms or listening while he banters with officials and bank staff and shop personnel. He’s the closest I have to a friend here, even if he does bill by the hour. ‘Look,’ I hear myself say, ‘can I buy you a coffee?’

He looks at his watch. ‘That would be nice, thanks. I have a few minutes.’

We go downstairs, cross the road to the nearest bar – my local bar, now – and stand at the counter. ‘Due caffè,’ I tell the young woman behind the bar, and she says ‘Certo,’ and starts up the espresso machine.

‘You didn’t even say please,’ Marco says.

‘Oh no, didn’t I? Sorry.’

‘No, it’s good. You say please and thank you way too often by Italian standards. And sorry.’

‘Sorry,’ I say reflexively.

‘Politeness is a bit different here, that’s all. It’s more about your attitude, how you speak to people.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever fit in.Grazie,’ I say as the coffees are placed in front of us. I pick up a little packet of cane sugar and try to open it without spilling any, which is a skill that tends to abandon me at nervous moments.

Marco picks up the glass pot on the counter and pours a long stream of white sugar into his cup. ‘Well, okay, it’s unlikely anyone’s going to mistake you for Italian any time soon – especially if you keep apologising for everything. But just because you’re English, that doesn’t mean you can’t be a real Florentine.’

‘Like the old ladies inTea with Mussolini?’

‘Ha!’ Marco drains his coffee in one. I don’t know how anyone can do that. ‘Well, I suppose I was thinking of your grandmother. She sounds like a character.’

‘She was.’

‘You must tell me more about her sometime. But, damn, I have a meeting. Thanks so much for the coffee.’ For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but he sticks out his hand instead. ‘Don’t worry. I know how you Brits are with your personal space.’

‘I appreciate it,’ I say, though I’m not totally sure I do.

‘Ciao, Tori,’ he says, and with a squeeze of my hand he turns and is gone. I finish my coffee, grimacing at the gritty sludge of sugar at the bottom, and look at my phone.

19 missed calls

55 messages

12 emails

7 missed video chats

Oh God.

*

Word has got round. I can safely say that. I lie flat on my back on my new sofa – it’s hard and shiny and not the most comfortable – and scroll through my messages. Snatches of text leap out at me.

I had no idea.

Why didn’t you say???

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