Page 20 of Escape to Tuscany

‘Something more robust, or smooth? Or do you prefer decaf?’

‘Smooth, I think. And definitely caffeinated.’

She goes to the fancy machine in the corner of her office, picks out a coffee pod and snaps it in. I’d never thought the Italians would be so into pod coffee, but those machines are everywhere. I saw an entire shop dedicated to coffee pods the other day. ‘Take your time,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘Those forms are horrible even for us.’

‘It saystariffa non residentehere.’ I point at the top page. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. You’re considered non-resident until you register with the Anagrafe. Once you do, just let me know and we’ll sort that out. You get a cheaper rate that way.’

‘Is it going to be as complicated as this?’

‘Oh, no,’ Chiara says. She puts a little tray next to me with a paper cup of espresso, a packet of sugar, a stirrer and a tiny madeleine on a napkin. ‘This bit’s the worst.’

Fuelled by caffeine and sugar, I work through the pages, checking the details over and over again: name, tax code, birthdate, birthplace, nationality, address, phone number, email, IBAN. After a while, Chiara removes the empty coffee cup and brings me another.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She watches while I go through the TARI form and then set it aside. ‘All done?’

‘Yes, thank God.’

‘Any questions?’

‘I wouldn’t know what to ask,’ I say.

She laughs. ‘Don’t worry. In another year, you’ll be fluent in Italian bureaucracy. That reminds me, how are you getting on with Marco?’

‘Oh, he’s great,’ I say, and she beams at me.

‘Isn’t he? He’s a really serious guy – I mean, he takes his work seriously. I love that I can send people to him and know they’re in safe hands. And he’s available.’ She furrows her brow. ‘No, sorry, that’s an Italian thing to say. I guess the word I want is “helpful”, but it’s a bit more than that. We say that people like him aredisponibile.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I say, and I do. Despite his busy schedule, he’s always managed to check in with me, return my calls, fit me in. But my heart’s racing just a little, and I find that I desperately want to ask Chiara if she knows whether Marco actuallyisavailable. Which is ridiculous, of course, because I’ve only just got away from Duncan. I’m enjoying being alone and free, and doing whatever I like, and eating whenever I want, and not having to think about anyone else. The last thing I want to do is start obsessing about some man who’s being nice to me because it’s his job. ‘He’s very professional,’ I say.

‘That’s it. And he’s kind, too.’ Chiara laughs. ‘I think all his clients fall in love with him.’

See? Ridiculous. ‘Well, thanks again for recommending him,’ I say. ‘Is there anything else I need to do today?’

‘No, but I’ll give you this.’ Chiara opens a drawer and takes out a white envelope, which she hands to me. ‘Here’s your registered contract. Keep it safe – you’ll need it for the Anagrafe.’

I tuck the envelope into my bag. ‘Thanks.’

‘No trouble at all. And I know I’ve said it before, but if you need anything, just call me. I say that to all my English clients and they never believe me, but I’m not just being polite. That’s not how we do things here. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I say. We say goodbye, and I go downstairs and out into the midday sunshine.

*

Chiara’s office is south of the river, on via dei Serragli in the Oltrarno quarter. When Granny first started bringing me here, when I’d just turned eleven, the street still had mostly old-fashioned shops, little bars and traditional restaurants. We’d go to one of the bars and I’d sit next to her drinking sweet-bitter Sicilian orangeade while she chatted with a stream of people who came and went, kissing and embracing her and exclaiming over me. I never really understood the conversations. My language skills were developing fast thanks to Granny’s tutelage, but they were no match for a bunch of Italians in full flow.

I wish I’d worked at it harder. I wish I’d listened instead of just letting it all wash over me and wondering when we could go for ice cream. And then when I got older, old enough to safely entertain myself for an hour or so, she’d leave me to look at the shops near the Ponte Vecchio while she came here to catch up with her friends. I remember how pleased I was to be treated like a grown-up, how I savoured every new freedom I was given as we returned to Florence year after year. But that whole side of Granny’s life – the place she kept going back to, the people she must have loved – that was closed off to me from that moment onwards. Now I’ve lost her, that’s starting to haunt me in a way it never did before.

I walk up the long narrow street towards the river, watching as I go for anything that looks familiar. There are still a few old-fashioned shopfronts, but they’re mixed in with tattoo parlours and cocktail bars and funky restaurants with exposed piping and abstract art on the walls. At first sight, I can’t see any sign of Granny’s bar, and I wonder if I’ve misremembered. Maybe it wasn’t in via dei Serragli after all. But the sun is beating down on my head and I’m hungry, I realise – properly hungry for the first time in I don’t know how long. That in itself is a good feeling. Like the germ of my old self, the girl who loved pasta and would walk from one side of Florence to the other if there was a really good pistachio gelato at the end of it.

There’s a trattoria on my right, like a little room open onto the street. It has plain wooden tables and white walls with the occasional black-and-white photograph on display, and it’s bustling. Must be the start of the lunchtime rush. I linger for a moment, trying to see if there’s any space at all, and the owner – I presume – catches my eye and hurries over.

‘Buongiorno, signora,’ he says.

‘Buongiorno.Do you have a table for one?’

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