Prosecco and Promises

by Prosecco

  ‘I eat pretty much everything.’

  That, apparently, was the right answer. Nicoletta’s brothers wandered through the house on their phones, nodding their greetings before their faces were back to the screens. Some lived at home still; the others just popped by to be fed. My uncle, Lucca, gave me a genuine smile and an awkward pat on the shoulder, with a nod, before backing out of the room.

  ‘Lucca doesn’t really speak English,’ Allegra said, sitting opposite me and watching me eat with a concentration I found disconcerting.

  ‘Dad doesn’t really speak at all,’ Nikki added with a grin at her mother, stage whispering, ‘it’s safer!’

  Allegra nudged her, clicking her tongue, before she focused her gaze on me once again.

  I guessed this was what people liked – being looked at like you’re something amazing, unbelievable—? Maybe that’s what love feels like? It made me feel like an animal in the zoo, or as if I’d just sprouted two heads.

  ‘So… what would you suggest I see on the island?’ I said, more to get her to stop staring at me than a need to do anything. I was good at amusing myself. Besides, it wasn’t like sitting on a beach with a good paperback was going to make me forget I was there waiting for my father’s death. ‘Forgetting’ at the moment only lasted about 45 seconds; a couple of minutes if I was lucky.

  ‘Well, we’re only little, but there’s the harbour, and the restaurants…’ Allegra seemed to be at a loss, looking at Nicoletta as if no one had ever asked the question before.

  ‘But if you eat anywhere when Mama could be cooking for you, she’ll never forgive you,’ Nikki said, her mouth full. She ate like a hungry puppy.

  ‘Nikki!’

  ‘S’true!’ she said, swallowing and meeting my eyes. ‘You could come to the bar where I work. We have karaoke on Thursdays.’

  ‘Was that meant to be a warning?’

  She snorted and nodded. ‘Yes, it was.’

  Allegra looked between the two of us, and nodded, as if she had no idea what was going on, but she was glad we had each other. ‘There’s also the shopping, the spa, maybe the archaeological sites?’

  Nikki looked at her mother like she was insane, ‘Archaeology? What does she care about old, dusty things – she’s young!’ She looked at me. ‘Well, sort of…’

  ‘Hey!’ I yelped. ‘I’m still young!’

  ‘But you studied archaeology, yes?’ Allegra frowned. ‘That is old things!’

  I nodded slowly. ‘I’ll have a look around.’

  Allegra gave her daughter a smug look, jiggling her head a little with glory.

  Nikki sighed. ‘You’ll probably like Antonio’s shop then – it’s full of dusty crap.’

  Allegra made a hissing noise, frowning. ‘Don’t be unkind. Their family have been here for a long time. He is trying to leave a legacy for his children.’

  ‘Better to sell the shop and leave them the legacy of some money instead of debt.’ Nikki twitched her lips in distaste. ‘You know Salvatore’s back? Big hot-shot fancy lawyer, and he’s working in that dirty old shop? Stupid.’

  ‘Family responsibility is stupid? Good to know where you will be when I am old and in need.’

  I watched the tiny facial tics, the looks between them as they chatted. It was so specific, their back and forth. There was frustration and clashing, but there was love too, something natural and earthy. A bond that had existed for ever.

  ‘Mama, I will be where I always am, on this tiny island, doing nothing important, and always on time for dinner.’ Nikki reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. Allegra squeezed back, shaking their hands briefly before letting go.

  ‘Still telling that poor boy you won’t marry him, too,’ Allegra said, with a small laugh.

  ‘Probably.’

  I felt a slight pang as they laughed together, and I thought it might have been jealousy. A bond I would never have, the jokes I would never share in.

  ‘I—I’m quite tired. Is it okay if I go to bed?’ My voice sounded small and childlike, not like me at all, but I did suddenly feel like a child. Like I wanted to curl up in a ball in a comfortable bed and not deal with anything, even though I knew I’d lie there awake, wondering what Dad was doing, whether his breathing was shallow or he was able to eat his food. Whether his eyes still sparkled, and if he was trying to make Marjorie join in with his ‘dark, inappropriate jokes’, as she called them. Who would he have to laugh with now?

  Allegra led me up to a room at the top of the house. It was rustic, but beautiful, the cool night air just slightly whispering through the shutters, a vase of flowers on the dressing table. I imagined myself brushing my hair out in front of that mirror, and wondered if my mother had ever done the same. This was her home too, once. Before she met my father and left them all behind.

  ‘Mia…’ Allegra’s worried brown eyes scanned mine, before she closed the door. Her voice was low and soft, but not quite a whisper. ‘I know… I know why you’re here. Your father, he told me. I haven’t told anyone else, I know it’s… well, if you’re anything like your mother, you don’t like pity. When our father died she turned to me once and said that if one more person apologized to her, or said they couldn’t imagine what she was going through, she would spit at them!’ Allegra laughed softly, sitting down on the bed next to me. ‘I will not tell anyone else. They can’t be trusted to keep a secret. On this island, everyone’s got a big mouth, and everybody knows everybody. But if you want to talk, I’m here.’ She put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me into her, before releasing me. ‘I’m very glad you’re here, you know. We have a lifetime of history to catch up on.’

  She closed the door gently behind her, and even as I thought about how I would never sleep for wondering about Dad, I noticed the fresh smell of the pillowcase as I rested my head on it. It had been dried on a line, the smell of the salty sea beaten into the fabric by the breeze. Within minutes, I was asleep.

  Chapter Five

  I made sure my phone was charged at all times, and kept it within reach, within eyesight. Even now it was on my bed, next to me. I had never been one of those people who is constantly attached to their phone– a phone was a tool, not something to waste time on, or talk away to people on. I was old fashioned: when I went away to uni I used to send Savvy letters – proper, handwritten letters. I wrote them to Dad, too, and to my old school teachers, and my uni friends when they went home for the summer. I loved watching the curlicues of my writing, feeling the smooth swish of the ink along the page. I never had anything important to say – but it always looked beautiful, and that’s what felt important, as if I was handing on to history. As if someone in hundreds of years might find the handwritten letters to my childhood best friend, talking about the guy in my Monday lecture, with the head like an egg, or the girl who always smelled like biscuits. As if anyone would care about a 19-year-old’s views on hangovers and the intense unfairness of the world. But I enjoyed it.

  I thought about writing letters now, sitting in that little bar by the water, the one my dad had mentioned, and describing it to him. But who knew if that letter would even reach him. I hated the idea that when this was all over, I would go back to my home and would find the letter, when clearing out his stuff. Whether it was unopened or opened, I would cry.

  Better to remain in the present. And I certainly wasn’t ready to down an Aperol for my dear dying dad on my first day. I had time to kill (Dad would have laughed and said something snide. Marjorie would have gasped dramatically), and I going to waste it wisely: ambling about, not spilling my guts about my personal life, and finding some interesting antiques. Maybe I could find the museum or something. Something to keep my mind active and engaged, and on anything but my parents. And their history, surrounding me.

  The ring of the phone jolted me. Panic in my chest and stomach, a lump in my throat. Then I saw the name and exhaled.

  ‘Oh, thank God it’s you!’ I flopped back onto the bed, staring at the white swirls on the ceiling.
>
  ‘Shit, you’re waiting for a bad call and I called!’ Savvy’s voice sounded close, and warm. ‘I’m so sorry! I’ll text next time.’

  ‘No, it’s good to hear from you. How are you?’

  ‘How am I? The same. Studying, saving, working, eating, drinking, worrying about my best friend who is going through some shit. Tell me about you, are your family nice?’ Savvy was the only real friend I had, and in almost every part of her life, she’d been a pushover. But when it came to our friendship, she was always just bolshie enough. It was what I needed.

  ‘They’re nice, they’re… Italian.’

  Her laugh was like bells shaking. ‘Yes, I assumed so!’

  ‘No.’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘I mean they’re loud and friendly and there are lots of them, and there’s banter and laughter. It’s nice.’

  There was a pause. ‘It’s making you sad?’

  ‘Everything makes me sad these days.’

  Savvy sighed. ‘I’m sorry, babe. Is sad better than angry?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’d rather be angry but I’m too exhausted. Sadness is tiring – who knew?’

  Savvy stayed on the phone with me, not saying much but letting me talk, poking and prodding for more details. She knew Dad, she knew our situation, she’d been here before. There was no pity, at least, no more than a usual amount from a best friend who loved you.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here, Sav. I don’t know what I’m meant to do to make this feel better.’

  ‘What would your dad be doing?’

  I paused for a moment, conjuring him up on our holidays abroad; from those years he was insistent that I wouldn’t miss out on, that it was important to have ‘very big adventures’. We had walked through the rainforest in the Blue Mountains, and seen the pyramids. He had fostered that Indiana Jones archaeology dream in any way he could, even down to sitting beside me on the floor playing Tomb Raider on my games console.

  ‘He’d be exploring. And talking to people. And learning stuff.’

  I could hear Savvy’s laugh and I knew what she was going to do. She put on a deep voice, and I joined her in the catchphrase: ‘Curiosity is key, Mia, and don’t you forget it!’

  Dad had loved that. Had. Ugh.

  ‘So, I guess I’m going to go and be curious today,’ I said simply. ‘At the moment I’m curious as to why my grandmother seems to hate me.’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. It’s probably just a shock. Your dad always said you look just like your mum, right?’

  I huffed. ‘Could you stop being so damn empathetic and rational for five minutes, please? I want to moan about how hard my life is!’

  Savvy snorted. ‘I’m sorry, go ahead.’

  ‘Nah, you’ve ruined it. I’ve not got the energy. Maybe later.’

  ‘Well, I’m here whenever you want to moan,’ she said, ‘except for now, because I’ve got to be at work in fifteen minutes. Shit. I’ve got to go.’

  I suddenly felt panicked. ‘Sav, wait! You’re… you’re gonna be there, right? When the time comes? You’ll come home? Because if I have to do this alone—’

  ‘I’ll be there, petal. You’re not alone,’ Savvy said softly.

  ‘Okay, go and cook something delicious,’ I said, pressing my lips together to stop myself getting emotional.

  ‘Go and be curious! Love you.’

  And then she was gone, off to her strange life with that man I had barely met who seemed to make her happy, and cooking and learning and living.

  Be curious. Okay.

  * * *

  Nikki was sleeping late, Allegra told me at breakfast, handing me a cup of strong coffee and a plate piled high with pastries. She always slept late: either recovering from late nights working at the bar, or late nights drinking at a different bar.

  I was surprised. It was already almost noon. There was late, and then there was actually afternoon.

  ‘Isn’t she studying as well?’

  Allegra’s face lit briefly with pride as she sipped her cappuccino, sitting at the kitchen counter with her legs crossed neatly.

  ‘She studies hard. Harder than she wants anyone to know. Spends a lot of time at the hospital training. She’s a good girl.’

  I smiled, searching for something else to say. Defeated, I sipped my coffee and sighed.

  ‘I can’t believe how much you’ve grown, Mia.’ My aunt beamed at me. ‘I know it’s silly, but you are so much like your mother. Stupid things I’d forgotten, like the way you tilt your head and raise an eyebrow. It’s funny how these things can be inherited. You didn’t look like her at all when you were born.’

  I blinked. ‘Well, all babies kind of look like Yoda, don’t they?’

  Allegra tilted her head in question. I waved it away. ‘Did Mum send you pictures when I was a baby?’

  She ran a hand through her hair, pursing her lips. ‘No, silly. I was there! Your mama called me and said, “I’m about to pop!” and so I jumped on a plane. Your father was crying, upset that your mother was in pain. Very sensitive man, your father.’

  Her lips tilted downwards suddenly, as she remembered, but she looked back up and smiled. ‘And she screamed and yelled and swore, and there you were.’ Allegra reached over and patted my hand, apparently still a fan of intense eye contact. I watched, waiting for her to blink.

  ‘How long were you there for?’

  ‘I stayed for about three weeks, to help Isabella.’ My aunt shook her head, lifting her eyes to heaven. ‘I’d been through it a few times already, eh? Your dad was hovering around like a scared bird, worried about touching you in case he dropped you. Isa was a natural, though. She just seemed to know exactly what you needed.’

  I wanted to ask for pictures, but instead I carved half-moons into my palm. What was I meant to do with any of this – stories of my birth, and parents who would both soon be gone? Be curious, he said. But curiosity didn’t just kill the cat. It damn well hurt, too.

  Allegra was about to continue, but I stopped her, a burning in my chest. I couldn’t hear any more. I couldn’t miss people any more than I already did, and missing memories was pointless.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’

  She recoiled slightly, like I’d spat at her, but that soft, unwavering smile simply said, ‘Sure, okay.’

  She handed me a key and a bottle of sun cream, tapping me on the nose. ‘Burn your nose and they’ll never accept you’re Italian.’

  * * *

  I remembered that warning, rubbing the greasy cream into my skin as I walked up the hill, away from the harbour and the neat restaurants with their chairs in the shade of huge umbrellas, the men outside smiling as tourists walked past. The buses brought people from the other side of the island, sometimes huge tour groups, all loud and crabby as they tried to sort themselves out, looking for their water bottles, fanning themselves with their guidebooks. They walked like neat lines of ants down the curving streets, seeking out sunshine and ice cream, heading towards the stretch of beach. I turned away from the madness, from the azure of the waters, gently lapping, the boats bobbing pleasantly. I wanted quiet. I wanted high up and silent, standing between trees and surveying the land. I wanted to stand above and away from everything, until I felt untouchable.

  Halfway up the dusty pavement, I got myself an ice cream, watching as the young boy behind the counter blushed at me, handing over a huge double cone of mint chocolate chip. The cool sweetness was unlike anything at home. It tasted like childhood, and even before I could fight it, I remembered swinging between my parents at the fair near our house, my mother jumping up and down and clapping her hands at the sight of the ice-cream van. ‘Come on, Mia, first one there gets the biggest ice cream!’ And, after that, being here, and holding my father’s hand, my free hand gripping a rapidly melting ice cream, watching it drip down between my sticky fingers whilst my dad stared off into the distance. Mum had been the one to share ice cream with. Dad didn’t like sweets.

  This time, I didn’t le
t it melt, but enjoyed the treat as I continued my journey up the hill. The shops were fairly similar: souvenirs and knick-knacks, corner shops for bottles of water, wine shops. I remembered this route, though; I could vaguely remember walking these streets, which was impossible. But it felt familiar. I felt as though I was both myself, at twenty-eight, and myself at seven, walking alongside myself, eating our ice creams, wondering where it all went from here. I felt so terribly sorry for that poor little girl with the melted ice cream and the dead mother. And I felt terribly sorry for myself now.

  Looking around me now, I realized I had ended up in the middle of nowhere. Dusty roads and nothing but houses. My heart raced a little with the exertion, droplets of sweat running down my back. I stared back down the hill and out at the sea, wondering where to go next, when my phone rang. That feeling of panic again. A phone call for the end.

  It was Marjorie. My heart leapt into my throat and lodged there, drumming wildly.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ The signal wasn’t great.

  ‘Mia?’

  ‘Yes? What’s going on?’

  ‘Just checking you’re okay. Your dad’s asleep and—’

  I exploded, my hands shaking with rage. ‘So you thought you’d call to panic me? Don’t you think any time the phone goes I’m going to think the worst has happened? Don’t you think I’m going to picture him dead and hear you saying the words? And then you just fancy a chat? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean – I’m sorry, I just—’ I heard her sniffling, and I knew I should feel sorry for her, but I was too angry, too red-faced, sweaty and damn pissed off with this whole situation to care. ‘Just don’t call me again until it’s the call, okay? You’re going to give me a bloody breakdown otherwise.’

  ‘Oh… okay. Can I text?’

  I sighed, closing my eyes, trying to reach for a bit of kindness and patience. ‘Yes, text is fine.’

  ‘Bye.’ Her voice was tremulous and I did start to feel a little guilty. We were in this together in a way. However, she’d supported sending me off, so if she wanted to be in it together, maybe she should have been on my side when I’d said I wanted to stay. Maybe she would have had some support then. And I suspected she secretly loved playing the martyr. The poor beautiful wife. She’d have no problem finding a younger, healthier husband after… everything.