Page 67 of Escape to Tuscany

‘Yeah, unfortunately it is. I’d much rather take you there when it’s less touristy and the weather’s a bit cooler and we can spend proper time together. But I just don’t feel good leaving you here on your own. Not now your ex knows where you are.’

I play with my empty drink can, spinning it between my fingers. ‘I really don’t think Duncan’s going to come here. He hardly ever leaves the estate. There’s always some emergency, and he doesn’t trust anyone else to handle things for him.’

‘Well, you know him, of course. But, Tori, wouldn’t it be nice not to have to think about it for a while? To take some proper time out? I know I’d feel better.’

‘It has been getting to me a bit,’ I say.

‘Then please think about coming with me. You can work in the daytime if you need to. Or, if Rome really seems like too much right now… well, suppose you stayed at my place? Look at it as a favour to me,’ Marco says. ‘You can, I don’t know, water my plants.’

‘You haven’t got any plants.’

‘Mere details. Anyway, I was thinking about getting some.’

‘I should warn you,’ I say, ‘I kill plants.’

‘I’ll get cacti. They hardly need water at all. Let’s not examine the logic too closely here.’ Marco pushes on before I can interrupt. ‘I’ll feel much happier if I know you’re somewhere safe. And you can relax and focus on Achille.’

The offer is starting to feel very tempting. The idea of a few days properly off Duncan’s radar is like a holiday for my central nervous system. ‘Your airconisbetter than mine,’ I say.

‘You know it is. Faster Wi-Fi, too. Do we have a deal?’

He reaches across the table and I put my hands into his. ‘Deal.’

‘Great. Oh, great, I’m relieved.’ He really is, too. He’s smiling at me, looking at me as if I matter. As if I matter to him.

Hope spreads through me, warm and irresistible. Maybe I can let myself have this. Maybe I can relax, let go, allow myself simply to like this man who seems to like me.

Maybe it’s all going to be okay.

26

The Florence offices of Pierfrancesco Legni Editore occupy one of those tall nineteenth-century terraces in Rifredi, a residential area in the north of the city. Inside it’s all faded gentility, old-but-good furniture and the odd oil painting. If not for the green shutters and terracotta floors, you’d think you were in some decaying ancestral home in Knightsbridge or St James. Frida Gattolini, who turns out to be a woman of about sixty with artsy specs, spiky grey-blonde hair and an outfit made of many layers of baggy linen, shows me into a book-lined parlour.

‘Have a seat.’ She gestures to a low, comfortable-looking sofa. ‘Would you like a coffee? Or are you a tea drinker?’

I got to Rifredi much earlier than I needed to, and have had two coffees from the bar on the corner already. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Dr Legni will be with you as soon as her meeting finishes. Just let me know if you need anything.’ Frida smiles and withdraws, closing the door after her.

I take out my tablet and quickly run through the questions I’d jotted down – not that I don’t already know them by heart. I’m oddly nervous about this interview. Not just because Rosa Legni is a direct, living connection to Achille, but because she’s just one of those really impressive people. She’s got a degree in PPE from Oxford, a masters in philosophy from Cambridge, and she wrote her PhD at the Sorbonne on some ultra-obscure aspect of Marxist theory. And she’s published a ridiculous number of books, all called things likeTowards a Renewed Theory of Permanent RevolutionandHunger, Sex and Death: Embodied Struggle and the Challenge of Socialist Art.

In short, she’s terrifying.

I put my tablet away and cast around for something to look at, something that might distract me from the sight of all these fat red-jacketed books – most of which were probably written by Rosa herself. A framed photograph on the far wall catches my eye, and I stand and go over to look at it. It’s a black-and-white shot taken in some ornate marble-paved hall, perhaps the lobby of a hotel, with tall columns and potted palms. To the left stands a tall, spare man I recognise as Pierfrancesco Legni, with glasses and wild, curly hair. He’s watching indulgently as a skinny teenage girl – I presume, Rosa – holds forth to a scruffy-looking, bearded type in fatigues, with his shirt open to the waist. She seems to be lecturing him, thrusting her finger into the air almost under his nose, and he’s looking down in amusement while he lifts a cigar to his lips and oh fuck, it’s Che Guevara.

‘Ms MacNair?’ says a cut-glass voice behind me.

I turn and see a small, round woman leaning on a stick. Her white hair is in a dishevelled bun and she’s dressed in a loose floral-patterned top and a shapeless skirt with orthopaedic-looking sandals. Like a harmless grandma in a children’s book.

‘I’m so terribly sorry for the delay,’ Rosa Legni says. Her English is old-school Oxford-donnish, quite different from Marco and Chiara’s vaguely transatlantic tones. ‘I’m afraid time management has never been my strength. I schedule so many meetings and then end up hurrying from one to the other. Frida tries to keep me in line, of course, but it’s impossible. Sit, sit, make yourself comfortable. Don’t just hover there, please.’

Obediently I sit down in the nearest armchair while Rosa settles onto the couch. ‘It’s very kind of you to make time for me,’ I say.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, nothing at all. I like to talk about my father. Now, before we begin, I have something for you – if I can only find it.’ She’s rooting through a huge leather bag. ‘Ah, here it is,’ she says, and hands me a slightly crumpled A4 envelope. I open it and pull out two pieces of thin typewritten paper.

‘That’s the menu for the party,’ Rosa explains. ‘The one where your grandmother and Achille first met. And that’s the guest list. You might know some of the names.’

‘Wow.’ Even from the few I recognise instantly – Roberto Rossellini, Federico Fellini, Anna Magnani – it was obviously quite an event. ‘I don’t suppose you were there, too?’

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