Page 63 of Escape to Tuscany

‘Okay. So there’s no pressing need to get this done. You have plenty of time to decide which approach you want to take.’

‘Which do you think is better?’ I know she can’t actually tell me what to do, but I’m kind of hoping she will anyway.

‘I can’t tell you which to choose.’ Ambra gives me an assessing look. ‘I can, however, tell you from extensive experience that if someone’s already being uncooperative, alleging unreasonable behaviour can aggravate them further — and they may even try to defend themselves in court. It’s reasonable to want to avoid that. But then a few of my clients feel that it doesn’t matter. Divorce is unpleasant anyway, and you’re not going to get through it without some discomfort. For those people, it’s easier to brave the backlash and get on with it, especially if they’re already living separate lives.’

‘That does make sense,’ I say.

‘But for many others, waiting out the two years is worth it if it means a simplified divorce. Really, it depends what’s at stake. How safe you feel right now, how much conflict you’re prepared to tolerate… these are very personal things. I tell all my clients to think carefully about the balance of interests and put their own wellbeing first. Although if you did have a new partner – a serious one – you might find it useful to talk it over with them. It’s your decision, though, so don’t lose sight of that.’

A serious new partner. That’s a whole other set of questions, and it’s one I try not to think about. ‘I think that’s pretty clear, thank you,’ I say. ‘Can I take a bit of time to think about it?’

‘Of course. Take all the time you need. Is there anything else today?’

‘Nothing you can solve,’ I say, and Ambra smiles.

‘Then just send me an email when you want to talk again. Bye for now, Tori, and good luck.’

*

After the call ends I mean to make another cup of tea and get back to work, but I can’t concentrate. It’s about four in the afternoon and the street outside is blazing with sun. I know that I’ll regret it instantly if I leave my nice air-conditioned flat. I also know that if I don’t put in at least a few hours of work every day, at least six days a week, I risk falling behind on my deadline. And I cannot, I absolutely cannot let Swithins down (again).

I suppose that if I went ahead with the divorce now, did the unreasonable-behaviour thing, then I might be in real danger of that. I’ve developed a habit of lurking on divorce-related forums recently, and I’ve read countless stories of previously reasonable husbands and wives refusing to accept the petition, pretending not to have received it, ‘losing’ important paperwork or sending it back incomplete. None of which can stop the process, of course. But it all slows it down, consuming time and energy and money and causing endless stress – which I suppose is the point.

I remember meeting a friend of Charlie’s at a party, hollow-eyed and on her second bottle of wine, raving about how her ex had ‘forgotten’ to sign the financial declaration after weeks of strong-arming him to fill it out at all. ‘It’s psychological warfare,’ she declared, clutching my arm. ‘The whole bloody process is a war of attrition.’ And I felt sorry for her – of course I did, because she was so obviously distressed and I couldn’t imagine, not then, how terrible it must be to deal with the end of a marriage. But I didn’t really see how a bit of delayed paperwork could cause so much angst. I’m beginning to see now, and I’m beginning to wonder how well I’d cope if Duncan were really determined to make my life difficult. Maybe it really is best just to leave the situation alone, wait it out, spare my nerves.

It might even work. It’s been days now since Charlie told me I’d hear from him, and I haven’t. That’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it? If Duncan’s not bothering me, and Charlie’s not bothering me – though, frankly, I’m amazed she’s kept it up even this long – then maybe this is just how it’s going to be. Maybe I just won’t hear from him at all, and the time will fly past; because it always does, doesn’t it, when you have a deadline? In fact, by the time I deliver the book, most of the wait will be over already. And then I’ll just file for a simplified divorce and it will all be sorted. No stress. Well, not as much stress, probably. And even if there is stress, even if Duncan really digs his heels in, I’ve got loads of time to prepare. Why would I go stirring things up now when I could just live in peace for a while?

My phone buzzes and I start, almost knocking over a table lamp. But it’s just Marco, thank God. Hey! I’ve got wall-to-wall Brits today but I should be able to stop work about 8. Trattoria Serragli at 8:30?

See you then, I text back, and he sends me a row of little red pulsing hearts. That doesn’t really mean anything, of course. Italians in general tend to be pretty casual in their use of emojis. I learned that the first time my accountant sent me a winky face.

If I’m going to go out this evening with a clear conscience, then I really had better get back to work. I plonk down on the sofa, pick up my tablet and open the document I started before my appointment with Ambra. I’ve been working through Achille’s letters to Granny, reading a bit every day. It was a struggle at first, but I quickly got used to his bold, forward-slanting hand. (Even his writing seemed to be racing to get somewhere.) The vocabulary, though, can be a challenge and I spend a lot of time looking things up.

Comacchi continues to pester me, to present me with grandiose visions like Satan in the desert. It won’t do him any good. However much money he holds out, however he tempts me with illusions of power, nothing would persuade me to leave Pierfrancesco and work with a[carogna]

Oh. That literally means ‘rotting animal carcass’. Figurative meanings: lowlife, scum, snake, swine.

with a double-dealing scumbag who chose to enrich himself while the partisans he now claims to admire were risking everything to overthrow Fascism. I told him as much the last time we met, and yet he persists in making me insulting offers. What will it take for him to piss off?

I smile as I imagine Achille, all fire and spit, squaring up to the patrician Guido Comacchi with his well-cut suit and designer shades. Perhaps Rosa Legni will have something to tell me about Comacchi’s attempts to lure away her father’s star driver. I can ask her tomorrow. I make a note, and then get back to reading. My concentration’s shattered and the words seem to zoom in and out of focus, shifting before my tired eyes. If I can make it to the end of this letter, I promise myself, then I can stop for the day. A few more minutes – that’s all it’s going to take. Just a few more.

*

At twenty to nine, I’m speed-walking down via dei Serragli towards the restaurant, cursing myself for having agreed to meet somewhere so far from my flat. But Marco’s choice was pretty impeccable. I’ve felt a distinct loyalty to the Trattoria dei Serragli ever since the day they were so kind to me as a lonely new arrival in Florence; the day I saw Marco and Chiara together. (Marco doesn’t know that bit of the story. I’ll tell him someday.)

When I finally get there, the owner Michele gives me a warm hug. ‘Ciao, Tori. Are you alone this evening, or is someone joining you?’

Ha! So Marco isn’t even here yet. ‘My friend should be joining me shortly,’ I say casually, dabbing at my brow. I’ve got a horrible suspicion I’m purple in the face.

‘This heat, eh? I’ve got a nice table for you by the air conditioner. Shall I bring you a glass of wine?’ Michele asks as I settle into my seat. ‘Red or white?’

‘Red, please.’

‘Certo.’ He puts a menu down in front of me – hand-written, as ever, on a single page – and bustles off.

Marco shows up just as I’m starting on my wine. ‘Sorry,’ he says, leaning down to kiss me before collapsing into the chair opposite. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. I was on time and then my last client just talked and talked… I almost ran here.’ He peels off his jacket to reveal practically no sweat stains at all, the jammy bastard. I clamp my arms to my sides and try to look nonchalant.

‘Sounds like a demanding day,’ I say, as Michele hoves into view with another menu.

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