by Prosecco
‘That wasn’t the answer you wanted, was it?’ Savvy grinned.
‘No, surprisingly, it wasn’t.’
‘In which case, do whatever the fuck you want, and don’t feel bad about it.’
I blinked at my friend. ‘The kitchen responsible for the potty mouth too, I suppose?’
‘But of course. It’s a brand new me.’
I held her hand, noticing the new burns, the rough pads of her fingertips.
‘Brand new and completely the same.’
We sat in silence watching the rest of Jacques’ act. When it was time to go home, Savvy suddenly asked me: ‘So, what are you going to do now, petal?’
The answer was instantaneous.
‘I’m going to live my life.’
Chapter Nineteen
The days after the funeral felt easier, like we could breathe again. It had been a lovely funeral, as they went. I mean, we were tearful messy harpies, Marjorie and I, clinging to each other. She didn’t play the beautiful widow in the way I thought she would: the service was punctuated by her noisily blowing her nose; her eyes were just as puffy as mine, so that we half laughed when we saw each other at the end. She had clasped one of my hands, and Savvy had sat by my side holding the other. It felt good to have her there. Afterwards, we went to the Ferret, Dad’s local, and the food was things he would have liked – nothing posh or over the top. Tiny sausage rolls and mini quiches. He always thought tiny versions of normal-sized food was hilarious.
Everyone had stories – the people from his work, the family friends. Even Savvy had saved up a few choice stories. My dad was the one who’d always picked us up at the end of the night, and however much he’d pretended to lecture us about the perils of underage drinking, or partying too hard, he’d still always take us to the 24-hour drive-thru on the way back. ‘Good dad,’ Savvy had always said, full of wonder.
When we were even younger than that, he’d set up all the tables in the garden for a birthday tea party – each table had flowery tablecloths and teddy bears and little white china tea sets. He’d dealt with groups of screaming girls, and he’d taken me camping, and played tennis with me on summer evenings.
Marjorie had some good stories, too. I’d never realized she could be funny. That she even had a sense of humour at all. That she’d collected all those quips about vegan food, yoga and her herbal teas. Even more than that, she hated half the stuff she’d been eating. She’d just been doing it to encourage Dad, hoping that some of those nutrients would help with the cancer. I actually hugged her then. Although whether it was because of how much she loved my dad or the fact that she hated matcha, I don’t know.
It went on for hours, changing from a solemn remembrance to a pretty good party. The jazz band Dad had picked was called the Dave Quartet, and despite the fact that only three out of the four of them were called Dave, they were still pretty good. The enthusiastic swaying even turned into dancing, for one song at least. People seemed to be embarrassed to be having a good time, but I knew Dad would have loved it. It was all he wanted, for people to laugh and have fun and dance.
We went home that night sad but satisfied, and I think I finally understood what my dad had given me, in sending me away, in not allowing me to be with him at the end. It wasn’t that he had thought that I wasn’t strong enough or tough enough; it wasn’t that he had been weak, or proud. It had been a gift: to be able to remember him well, and not to have seen the outline of his skull, or witness how paper-thin his skin became. Not having to deal with his anger and frustration and sickness. I got to remember him big, and lively. Marjorie hadn’t had that. He had saved that gift for me.
* * *
Now that Marjorie was drinking alcohol again, we had spent quite a few nights in with bottles of wine and movies. It was clear she had only given up to encourage Dad. And that she had more stories to share when she’d had a couple of glasses. She knew that once Savvy went back to her life I’d need distractions but, in the end, we had more than enough of those.
We started clearing out some of Dad’s things, but it was a painful, endless process. Every item, no matter how small, prompted nostalgia, a story, a few tears. We managed to clear away a bunch of old socks, clothes he never wore, books he never read… it was like we were spring cleaning alongside him, only getting rid of the things he didn’t need. It felt too soon to do anything else. We’d make it through half a day of clearing stuff, and then need to nap. In the evenings we watched movies and ate takeaways, falling asleep in front of the television. I had never been so exhausted in my life.
We couldn’t figure out what to do with the house. But we’d worked out what to do with ourselves, at least. It was too hard to stay here without him. It had been his house, and we’d both just lived here. We had to sell it, or rent it out. Could we bear to see another family start their lives here? Or would it be more painful to strip it back and rent it to strangers? In the end, we decided it was best to cut ties with the house; it was the best option.
The idea was terrifying, and everything was moving so quickly, but, for once, Marjorie and I were on the same page. It had been a slow plod towards this moment, and though we hadn’t been making plans, now we were ready. It was time to move on.
I’d been pulling strings and calling in favours with some of my old tutors, trying to get on a dig. Anything at all. After years of being out of the game, it was tough going. There were a few internships in museums in the UK who were happy to have me, but I wanted to be away. I wanted to be on site, finding things. At least once. I was ready now. I was absolutely ready.
Marjorie had signed up to be a yoga teacher at a goddess retreat in Bali for six weeks, with the chance to stay on there. The problem was that we had to find a way to sell the house and not be hanging around.
Jen, Savvy’s aunt, had said I could stay with her if there was a need. I’d spent a lot of my teen years in her house, so I appreciated the offer. It seemed to be the perfect fix, as long as we could figure out when we wanted to sell.
* * *
‘Marjorie? There was a deal on Merlot so I bought two,’ I yelled as I entered the house, slamming the door behind me. ‘I know you’re meant to be detoxing before Bali, but you only live once…’
I walked into the kitchen and found Marjorie leaning against the counter, raising an eyebrow at me.
‘We have a visitor.’
She looked amused, tilting her head to the side, as our guest stood up from his place at the kitchen table.
He looked good, so strange in clothes that weren’t summery and lightweight. He was dressed almost formally for him, in a blue shirt and black jeans, his hair swept back neatly.
The realization clenched in my chest: I had missed him. It had been so easy to focus on everything else, but when I’d lain in bed at night I’d thought about laughing with Salvatore, singing in the bar, our day in Naples whispering in museums like children. I missed all of them: Antonio, Allegra, Nikki, my nonna. I’d suddenly gone back to just being me, or me and Marjorie, and the group of people who barged into my life and were nosey and loud and interested had gone.
‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ Marjorie said, before turning to Salvatore. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’ She walked out of the room without looking at me, the briefest of smiles on her face.
Salvatore and I just stared at each other; I waited for him to make the first move, but he didn’t. He simply stood there, looking at my face.
‘So, Nikki told you?’
His lips twitched. ‘Actually, your nonna came to see me. She must have spent ages walking up the hill to the shop. After she’d rested, she told me why you were on the island and why you left. I’m sorry about your father.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.’
He stepped towards me, head tilted to the side. ‘How can it be okay?’
‘Because the pain, the anger, the sadness, the waiting… it’s gone. I’ll miss my father every day, and I still need to stop and cry when I se
e the silly joke magnets he bought on the fridge, or photographs, or the bottle of beer in the fridge he was waiting to enjoy and never did. But it’s okay.’
‘You seem different,’ he said, reaching for my hand. I let him, feeling his warmth, his thumb rubbing my palm.
‘I’m not angry any more, I guess. You met me at a weird time in my life. The cycle of birth and death and rebirth, right?’ I lifted my hand to my neck, pulling out a necklace from beneath my top. The peacock feather on the gold disc had stayed around my neck every day since I had found it in a charity shop when we were dropping off some of Dad’s clothes. It had been a couple of days after the funeral and the necklace had glowed at me. It had seemed like a sign, a symbol of Saint Gennaro and his miracles. It gave me comfort to remember we were all part of nature, that it was all part of a cycle that had been happening since the dawn of time. The most consistent and memorable thing about history.
‘So you don’t need me. I came in case you needed me, but you’re fine.’ Salvatore looked awkward, avoiding my eyes, as if he’d planned this big romantic gesture and I’d ruined it all by keeping my shit together. Not that I’d had many romantic gestures, but that sounded about right.
‘I’m glad you’re here, though.’ I squeezed his hand, offering a smile. ‘I treated you horribly at the end, and then I left. I was a bit of dick.’
‘You didn’t want me to fall for you, because of all of this.’ He gestured around the room. I assumed he meant my life.
I nodded.
‘The thing is, it’s too late.’ He stepped closer, taking my hand. His eyes were wide and solemn, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. ‘You are the strangest, angriest, most wonderful person and you confuse the crap out of me…’
‘Salvatore—’
He held up his hands. ‘And you’re stubborn and you won’t let anyone in, but you’re kind and so giving to your family and you just want to be part of something, and the way your face fell when my grandfather said he didn’t want the shop… I think that was the moment it happened.’ Salvatore lifted his head to look at me, fully. ‘You are the most frustrating person I’ve ever met in my life, but I don’t want to be without you. So, I’m here. If you need me, even just a little, I’ll be here. You want to live in London? I’ll live in London. I’ll move here and find work.’
‘What work?’
‘Any work, it doesn’t matter.’ His eyes were pleading with me, and it took every fibre of my being not to reach for him.
‘It does matter. It matters to you. That’s why you were back home, figuring out your next move. What a man does defines him, isn’t that what you said?’
‘Yes, and a man is an idiot if the woman he loves is in a different country and he doesn’t go to be with her.’
I pulled him close then, wrapping my arms around him and resting my lips on his neck. Part of me thought of my mother, how she just knew, how she let herself be swept up in a love that became more important than everything; more important than her home and her family and her history. I just couldn’t give that up when I’d only just got it.
Salvatore misinterpreted my silence. ‘You don’t always have to be strong,’ he whispered. ‘I can be here.’
I pulled back to rest my forehead against his. ‘But we’re in between. You said it yourself. Being with me, loving me and supporting me won’t make up for that lack of purpose. You’d resent me. We both know you’d hate it here. Besides, I’m not going to be here.’
‘Where are you going to be?’
‘Hopefully, on a dig. Possibly in Antigua. I’m waiting to hear back. I spent years not doing what I was trained for, what I love, and now it’s my chance. I have to take it,’ I said gently. ‘And you need to do the same.’
‘So you don’t want me here,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me. ‘You’re strong enough alone, I knew that, but I thought you might have wanted—’
‘I want you here. I want you here to stroke my hair, and to watch silly movies with me, and for us to go and be London tourists together until I find out if I’m going on my big adventure. I want you to hear stories about my dad, and see the pub I spent my teenage weekends sneaking out to. I want to be actually me, instead of the angry girl you met.’ I wanted to hold him close again, make him meet my eyes as I smiled.
‘You talk a lot more in England.’ He laughed, and I put my arms around his waist.
‘I’ve got a lot more to say,’ I said. ‘Like, how long are you here for, and where’s my coffee?’
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bag of espresso beans, just like I’d guessed he would. His love language. ‘Was the safer option.’
‘Thank you.’
He blushed slightly, and I kissed his cheek, stubbled and scratchy against my lips.
‘I’m here for three days,’ he said, then winked at me. ‘Unless you change your mind, and then I’ll stay for ever.’
I snorted, closing my eyes as I rested my head against his neck, trying to subtly breathe him in. ‘Three days will do for now, though it’s quite the offer.’
‘Three days, then. Let’s not waste them.’
Chapter Twenty
We didn’t waste them. We sat at home, curled around each other on the sofa, Marjorie sitting in the armchair, drinking wine and watching stupid TV shows and movies. Each time Salvatore tried to apply logic to a situation we’d throw a crisp at him. Who are these people, why are they doing this, it’s completely unrealistic. We wasted a lot of crisps.
Marjorie watched us with a sweet kind of joy – she was happy that I was happy. It was like I was finally allowed to let someone in. She made a joke about leaving rose quartz in my room whilst I was away, as if that was what had drawn Salvatore and I together, but she winked at me after, so I just laughed. God, all those years I’d been mad at her when I could have just laughed it off, the same way my dad did. Loving someone in spite of their different views and ideas. Not believing in something, but respecting them enough to let them get on with it. And now Marjorie was the only other person who would really remember my dad, the same way I did.
Salvatore and I went into London, and immediately Salvatore reassumed a city persona. He walked quickly, dodged people and picked up the transport with no problems. I didn’t have to guide him or move him out of the way of people like most first-time visitors. He was interested in everything, and I suddenly realized what it must have been like, to move from a big city where there was always something to do, back to a sleepy village on a small island, where half the year it was quiet, and the shops didn’t open on Sundays.
We climbed the steps at St Paul’s, looking out onto the city. We went to the aquarium, and the London Eye. Summer had almost reached London now, tentative and tempestuous. Everywhere people sat picnicking in the parks, or were running out of the rain. We walked hand in hand, sunglasses on, the way we had on the island, but now we wore jeans and bought jumpers. It was as if every day the weather changed, like London was giving us a series of seasons together, crammed into as little time as possible.
At the end of the first day, as we stood looking across the river on the Southbank, he snaked an arm around me, pulling me close to kiss me, as if he couldn’t bear it any more. Time felt like it stopped. There were people carrying on with their lives, walking along this busy pathway, and none of them would be stopped by two people kissing like they’d missed each other. Because I had missed him. And not only as a way to make me forget. The simplest thing Salvatore did was make me feel alive; like I’d been missing something for years, and now I had finally figured out what that was.
At least now we both knew the deadline. It was perfect, just wandering around, chatting, laughing. Telling stories and being happy. We took pictures together everywhere we went, and I tried not to think about how I would look at those pictures over and over when he was gone. I was saving everything up so that I wouldn’t forget.
The last night, I took him t
o the Martini Club. It was Wednesday, so quiet, but the place sparkled with the same opulence it always had: the thick velvet drapes on stage, the waiters in their shirts and braces, the waitresses in their corseted dresses. Salvatore stopped at the entrance as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then I watched as he looked around in surprise. He took in the glittery onyx table tops and the huge diamond Martini glass on stage.
I loved that feeling, surprising him with my life. I wondered what he’d imagined my world looked like when he got on the plane.
‘Jacques!’ I yelled, running and jumping at him. Luckily he had looked up and prepared himself before my arrival, or he would have dropped me.
‘Hello, gorgeous, you seem… more you.’
I waved it away. ‘I feel more like me.’
‘I’ve missed my museum buddy. There’s rumours of a new Hollywood exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and I was holding out in the hope that you’d return before the tickets went on sale. But it didn’t seem like the right time… I thought it was better to let you get on.’
I nodded, squeezing his hand. ‘I know.’
Bel slunk out from behind the bar in her usual fitted black corset and black silk trousers. She had a silver diadem resting on her head, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She looked her usual terrifying self. She could barely be a few years older than me and Savvy, and yet she ran this place herself in central London. The responsibility must have been immense.
She kissed me on both cheeks, which was surprising. ‘Hello, darling, are you here for the show?’
‘We are!’ I beckoned Salvatore over, and took his arm as he joined us. ‘Salvatore’s only got one more night in London, so I thought this was the perfect place to go.’
‘You’re in luck.’ She waved an airy hand towards the room. ‘I have endless empty tables. Apparently everyone’s feeling very prudish this summer. Or they’re off to some place tropical and London is empty. Savvy managed to get into my kitchen and change things when she came back for the… when she came back. So you’ll at least get some of her magic whilst you’re here.’