Page 24 of Escape to Tuscany

‘You’ll have to enlighten me.’

‘It was the last racing car Bugatti ever made. Well, in their original incarnation. It was a total failure. You’re sure it was this one?’

‘I think so. Or something that looked very like it.’

‘Believe me, nothing looks like a Bugatti 251. Damn.’ Marco switches the screen off and puts his phone in his pocket. ‘There goes my theory.’

‘You had a theory?’

‘Maybe that’s overstating it. But when you mentioned the car, I thought they might be Formula One people. I suppose I had this fantasy that it would turn out to be the picture of a specific car – and if I could identify it then maybe I could find out who drove it, and whether they had relatives in Florence and—’ He breaks off, shaking his head. ‘You know, it’s silly now I say it out loud. Like a story for little boys.’

He’s smiling, but he’s clearly crestfallen. It would be so easy to reach out, to take his hand like he took mine, but I don’t. I drink the last of my gin and tonic and watch him drain his whisky glass.Lucky bloody Chiara,I think.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘that was a dead end. But maybe you can find out some more about your grandmother’s life in Florence. Do you have anything of hers? Letters, diaries?’

I’ve been so absorbed in meeting Richenda’s deadline that the thought hadn’t occurred to me. ‘I don’t have anything with me, but I suppose… well, she must have left things behind. My mother would know. She’s in charge of dealing with the house.’ I imagine Granny’s beautiful Arts and Crafts cottage as I always knew it, full of books and paintings and folders of Grandad’s terrible watercolours. God only knows what Mummy will do with it all – though hopefully, knowing Granny, she left the most important pieces to people who’ll actually like them.

‘Maybe your mother can help you with the story,’ Marco says.

I laugh, and rather more harshly than I meant to. ‘Sorry. No, she wasn’t close to Granny. She’s not that fond of me, come to think of it. But there must be some papers somewhere, and if anyone has access to them, it’s her.’

‘I guess you don’t want to call her up for a chat,’ Marco says.

‘No, I do not. But I’ll figure something out,’ I say, fighting down my rising anxiety. ‘It’s a good idea.’

He smiles at me. ‘I’m sure you’ll find what you need. But if I can help, just call me. Off the clock, of course. This is friend stuff, not lawyer stuff.Capito?’

‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Thank you. Uh… speaking of lawyer stuff, I think you had something to tell me?’

‘To tell you? Oh, yes. I had a look to see if I could find you someone to advise on your divorce, and I actually found a solicitor who trained in Milan and Edinburgh. Funny thing, she’s the ex-wife of an old law school classmate of mine.’

‘I hope she got a decent settlement,’ I say.

‘Ha! Well, I’ve only met her a couple of times, but I remember that she was pretty impressive. I think you’d be in good hands with her. Let me send you her contact card.’ Marco fiddles with his phone. ‘There.’

The name AMBRA KURTI flashes up on my phone, along with an email address and an Edinburgh telephone number. ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Thanks. This is really helpful.’

‘Any time. And listen, if you don’t feel comfortable with her or you want to look at more options, just let me know. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I say.

Marco shrugs on his jacket without looking – no fishing around for the sleeve holes with this man – and gets to his feet. ‘Which way are you headed?’

‘I think I’m going to stay here for a while,’ I say. ‘Get a bit more work done.’

‘Serious. I like it. I’ll get these on the way out.’ He kisses me on each cheek, light whisky-smelling kisses. I’m aware I should kiss him, too, but I don’t react in time. ‘Work well. I’ll see you soon.’ And he’s off, heading to the till with an air of purpose.

I’ve just opened my laptop again when Gianni appears with another gin and tonic. ‘Your boyfriend got you this,’ he says, and sort of twinkles at me. ‘Enjoy.’

‘He’s not—’ I begin, and then stop because Gianni’s already walking away and, besides, he doesn’t care, does he? The only one who’s that wound up about who Marco may or may not be to me is, well, me. Besides, he’s already told me exactly what he is – he’s my friend, nothing more and nothing less than that. It’s just that Italians are a bit more… expressive than emotionally constipated Anglo types like me.

I remember the restaurant owner’s hand on my shoulder; Chiara telling me to call her if I needed help. I remember Granny hugging Giuseppe and Maria like long-lost relatives. Come to think of it, Granny was the most upright Englishwoman I ever met in my life, but she knew how Italy worked. When she was in Florence, she was a Florentine, and she hugged people and kissed them and let them call her Rita and never – I am mortally sure of it – never, ever took any of it as a sign that someone was interested in her when it was perfectly obvious that they weren’t.

*

I drink the rest of my gin and tonic while staring out into the street. I’m starting to feel a bit tipsy, slightly otherworldly in a way that isn’t totally unpleasant but not quite welcome, either. Once I’ve finished, I pack up my things, sayciaoto Gianni and head out towards via de’ Guicciardini and the Ponte Vecchio. It’s not even summer yet, not remotely near high season, but the bridge is already packed with people. By the stern-looking bust of Benvenuto Cellini, a busker is belting out ‘Lay, Lady, Lay’. I walk swiftly, carving my route through the strolling couples and the groups of students posing for selfies. Once I’m across the bridge, I swerve off into a quiet side alley, pull out my phone and call Charlie.

She answers on the first ring. ‘Tori,’ she says. ‘Is everything all right?’

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