Page 9 of Escape to Tuscany

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, actually, I do.’

‘Right.’ I close my eyes for a moment, sorting through the horrible memories that are raging to the surface. ‘Right, okay. Remember when you and Ben and the boys came to us for Christmas? And Duncan’s auntie Rhoda was there, and a couple of his cousins, and an old college friend as well – I don’t remember his name, only that he had BO and kept calling me Vicky.’

‘Well, how could I forget that? We had a lovely time.’

I mustn’t scream at her. I mustn’t. ‘All right, then. Remember after dinner? When I had a little too much wine and tripped over the rug while I was carrying in the Christmas pudding? And I ended up on the floor with pudding all over me and my pants on display, and everybody laughed and laughed.’

‘Of course we did! It washilarious.’

‘Well, Duncan thought it was hilarious, too.’ I say. ‘He told everyone that story. He told the whole village. He told the farrier and the vet and the man who came to clean the chimneys. He told the minister of the local kirk when he came round for a cup of tea. He’s probably still telling it.’

‘Tori—’

‘And why did I have too much wine?’ I plough on. ‘Why was I drinking like that in the first place? Maybe it’s because Duncan had been in my ear all day, doling out poison every chance he got. I had on that red dress with the circular skirt, remember, and the necklace Granny gave me. I bloody loved that dress.’

‘You looked very nice,’ Charlie says. There’s a note of caution in her voice, as if she’s talking to someone unstable.

‘That’s not what Duncan said. He said I shouldn’t have worn red because it matched my face. He pointed out the rolls around my waist, the damp patches under my arms, the way everyone could see my tits when I bent over. And just before I brought that bloody pudding in, when he was in the kitchen supposedly helping me with the brandy butter and the cream and all the rest of it, he leaned in and put his mouth right against my ear and told me that I should be ashamed. That I was an embarrassment – that you were all laughing at me behind my back. And no wonder, he said, because in that low-cut dress and big gaudy necklace I looked like a fat old clapped-out society whore.’

There’s silence at the other end of the line. Surely, I think, Charlie must understand now. Surely my sister of all people – my fierce, fair, impeccably right-on sister –hasto understand.

‘We’d all had quite a bit to drink,’ she says finally. ‘And drink makes people say regretful things. I hate that kind of language as much as you do, possibly more, but Duncan is a decent man and I just can’t believe that he actually meant to—’

‘I have to go,’ I say. It isn’t true, but the tears are welling up again.

‘Wait!’ She sounds desperate. ‘Tori, please. I just…’

‘What?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Charlie says. ‘I just don’t. I’m sorry, it’s obvious that Granny’s death has hit you very hard and I’m sure Duncan can be a little insensitive at times, but to throw out a ten-year relationship over a couple of minor incidents… I mean, really. He didn’t hit you or cheat on you.’ She says that with total confidence. ‘What do you want?’

‘Something more than, you know, not being hit or cheated on. And these aren’t just incidents. That’s what he’s like, Charlie, when other people aren’t watching. He’s cruel. You just don’t want to believe me.’

‘Well,really,’ she begins, and I hang up on her.

I have so many difficult conversations ahead. I should really get them over with, but instead I lie there – not sleeping, not quite awake but in a kind of stupor. It’s almost eleven when my phone pings with an email from Chiara.

Ciao, Tori. Attached is the draft of the contract – I’ve made some notes in English – and a list of some lawyers in Florence you might want to check out. They’re all good but the first one, Marco, is the one I know best. He’s worked for a few of my foreign clients and they’ve all been very happy with him.A presto, Chiara

‘Marco it is then,’ I mutter. My eyes hurt and my throat feels raw, and my head’s developing that warning throb that tells me I’m overdue for some caffeine. I’m not ringing anyone before I fix that.

*

I want to be authentic. I do. I sail out of the hotel into the spring sunshine wearing my best and least crumpled linen – all the Italians are in shiny padded jackets and scarves, but still – and I walk along the embankment before diving into the tangle of streets behind the Uffizi, determined to find a little bar where I can have an espresso and one of those massive pastries glazed with sugar. But as I’m dodging people with suitcases and people holding hands and people who suddenly stop to check their phones, I spot a sign, a cutesy blackboard sign advertising brunch. I peer through the big plate-glass window and see people being served with eggs and bacon and huge mugs of coffee and, oh God, that’s a pot of tea. That will do.

It’s pleasantly busy inside. I’d say the population is about fifty per cent hipsters, twenty-five per cent fashion influencers in weird ecru clothing, and twenty-five per cent athleisure-clad American exchange students. I manage to get a table by the window and, by the time I’ve had bacon and fried eggs and some toast (sourdough, naturally), and a large pressed orange juice and half a pot of English Breakfast, I’m starting to feel like I can call Marco.

He answers right away. ‘Of course,’ he says when I tell him about the flat, and the residency, and the bank. ‘I have some time this morning, as it happens. Can you meet?’

‘I’m free all day.’

‘Where are you now? I can come and meet you in around… half an hour?’

‘I’m in a place called Ditta Artigianale,’ I say.

‘Which one? Via de’ Neri or via dello Sprone?’

‘Um…’

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