‘Tesoro. Treasure.’
‘Teh-soh-ro.’
‘Dolcezza. Sweetheart.’
‘Doll-cheh-zah. How am I doing?’
‘You’re doing great. Ti voglio baciare.’
‘Tee …’
‘No, I actually mean I want to kiss you.’
‘Like right now, right now?’
‘Si—right now.’
He leans towards me and his lips meet mine. His mouth tastes sweet, like a delicious infusion of citrus and vanilla. Any inhibitions I might have had about public displays of affection dissipate into nothing as the warmth of Luca’s mouth ignites life in me again. He gently pulls away and rests his forehead on mine. He smiles. I smile. He kisses me again. And again. And again.
We arrive back at the villa at almost one in the morning, and as our perfect-as-it-ever-could-be date draws to an end, I tell Luca to wait for me at the front door before going home. I lift the paper off my desk, swallowing the excess saliva in my mouth. If I have any chance of moving forward, of healing, I know I need to do this. Sharing my work is almost as important as trusting myself to paint again. Determined to resist the temptation to change my mind, I command my feet to move forward.
‘I made this for you,’ I say, handing him the sketch. I peek up at him, watching his eyes dart over the page. He forms the words to speak. Nothing comes out. He tries again.
‘You seriously have big talent, Mia. This isn’t something that just happens.’
When I don’t answer, he looks up at me.
‘I didn’t know whether I’d ever be able to get that part of me back.’
‘Sometimes we have to let the past go …’
‘But what if the future scares you even more than the past?’
He looks at me penetratingly, searching for clues. When he doesn’t find any, he asks, ‘What is it you’re scared of?’
‘Dying. I’m scared of dying.’
Luca’s eyes soften. He blinks, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows. Here we are, standing at my front door and I’ve quite possibly chosen the absolute worst timing to admit my biggest fear to this wonderful guy I barely even know.
‘You’re no closer to dying that anyone else is,’ he says. ‘Nobody ever knows what can happen tomorrow.’ Even his voice has softened now.
‘But it could come back. There’s a ten per cent chance I might die in the next five years if I get a recurrence.’
‘But, Mia, that means there’s a ninety per cent chance of you surviving the next five years. Those are excellent odds.’
‘I know that in my head, but I can’t stop thinking about it,’ I whisper. ‘Every day, hundreds of times a day, it’s always at the back of my mind. And then there are the nightmares …’
His eyes are intense, taking in all of my brokenness.
The words keep rolling off my tongue. ‘I don’t know if I could go through it again—the chemo, seeing my family suffer, losing my friends, my hair,’ I say, reaching for my extensions. ‘I don’t think I’m strong enough to face all that again.’
‘Who says you have to?’
He wraps his arms around me and places his hand behind my head, encouraging me to lean into him. As soon as my face nestles into that warm space on his shoulder, I come completely undone. I let myself unravel in his strong embrace, my tears flowing as though a river’s banks have burst. A series of quiet sobs from deep within release themselves onto his chest and he holds me tighter than ever. Not letting go of me, he closes the door gently behind him with his leg and he swiftly lifts me into his arms as if I’m as light as a feather. He carries me to my bedroom, shifts the curtains of my four-poster bed and places me onto the softness of my mattress. He reaches for a box of tissues on the nightstand before nestling his body against mine, stroking my face tenderly.
‘I didn’t realise I was this scared. I’m really, really scared.’
‘You can let go and relax into life now. Focus on what’s working, what’s beautiful, what makes you feel alive. Surround yourself with more of that. You know, we humans can only control a small percentage of what happens to us. The rest is … I don’t know, destiny … or stuff that just happens. Most of the time we never know why. Which is why we have to live one day at a time, Mia. Making the most of every minute.’
I lie still, trying to catch my breath, trying not to question why what happened to me did.
‘I’ll be back in a second,’ he says.
A short time later he returns with two cotton balls on a plate in one hand and a steaming hot chamomile tea in the other.
‘The world lights up when you smile, bella Mia.’
‘What are they for?’ I ask, pointing to the cotton balls.
‘Your eyes. Wild chamomile does wonders, you know. You don’t want them puffy for your interview tomorrow, right?’ He winks at me.
‘Who taught you that?’
‘An ex-girlfriend who used to cry a lot when she didn’t get her own way.’
The thought of Luca with another girl sends pangs of envy through my stomach. ‘Have you had many girlfriends?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve had enough to know that this is nothing like I’ve ever had before.’
‘But we’re only dating.’
‘I’m not really fussy when it comes to labels.’
‘Tonight was … perfetto,’ I whisper.
He kisses me on the forehead. ‘You made it perfect.’ His lips move to my neck as he guides me onto my back, the weight of his body pressing against me. His mouth gently explores mine while his hand unhurriedly travels over the curve of my waist. He slides my top up and the breath knocks out of me in response. It becomes impossible to control the reaction of my body. All of me wants this, yet something is holding me back.
‘I can’t. Not yet … not ready …’ I whisper, releasing my grip around his neck. I look up at the ceiling, sink deeper into my pillow and let out a sigh of frustration. My already flushed cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Luca shifts over to his side, rests his head on his elbow and rolls my body towards him. He blinks at me thoughtfully, as if he’s taking me in, trying to work me out.
‘Okay,’ he murmurs, a soft smile forming on his lips. ‘I’ll wait for you. However long it takes.’
Without dropping his gaze, he reaches for my hand and holds it against his chest. Before I can say a word, he closes his eyes, leaving me to contemplate the accelerated beating of his heart through the palm of my hand.
We lie on top of the sheets until morning, when we wake up to the roosters crowing and the golden sunlight streaming through the shutters, closer and more united than we were yesterday.
NINE
‘Good morning, bella Mia. Sleeping with you was the best thing I’ve done in a long time.’
I grab my pillow and toss it at Luca’s head. He retaliates. Our pillow fight is short-lived as I plead with him to be quiet.
‘Stella,’ I whisper, raising my finger to my mouth as I try to hold back the laughter.
‘Eh, it’s Stella. She’s like a sister,’ he says.
‘But she’ll think …’
‘Think what?’
‘You know …’
‘You know what?’ he teases.
‘I’m not like that.’
‘Not like what?’
‘You’re unbelievable.’ I fling the pillow at him again. He grabs me and flips me onto my back. Now he’s kissing and tickling me all over, intentionally making a heap of noise.
‘Stop! Please! Stop it!’ I beg, trying to catch my breath. The laughter feels so incredibly good.
He feels so incredibly good.
He stops only to plant the dreamiest of kisses on my mouth and I’m lost in the moment until a fleeting thought about work crosses my mind. In a panic, I pull away and Luca rakes his fingers through his hair, as though he’s trying to bring himself back to reality outside our bubble of intimacy.
‘What just happened?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling at me in surprise.
‘Whoa, settle down, Australiana. It’s five-thirty in the morning. You’ve got plenty of time.’
‘But I don’t know what I’m going to wear,’ I say, jumping up from the bed. I’m not usually too concerned about my appearance; however, my future depends on the outcome of this interview and I know I should be making an effort.
‘Relax. You’re in Italy. And in Italy, we start the day with a nice, strong caffè,’ he says, gesturing with his arms.
So Italian.
‘Seriously, what if Stella sees you here?’ I don’t know how she’ll react to someone staying the night, even if it is someone she knows.
He doesn’t answer, and instead walks out of the bedroom door, stands at the bottom of the stairs and calls out, ‘Stella! Alzati! Get up, you’re late for work!’
I giggle.
A playful grin spreads across his face.
In the kitchen, Luca gets the coffee ready while I reach for the fette biscottate. Ugh.
‘I hate those things,’ he says.
‘Me, too,’ I groan.
‘Try the third drawer. That’s where the good stuff is,’ he says, smirking. ‘I’ve raided it enough times to know.’
I open the drawer to find a stash of no less than eight boxes of Kinder Colazione brioche.
‘Told you,’ he says, popping open a packet with a single hand. He slides it out and hands it to me. ‘Try this.’ He hands me the breakfast bar.
‘I know what they are,’ I tell him. Nutella crepes for dinner and this for breakfast. My mum would be horrified.
‘Don’t throw out the boxes when you’re done. Stella saves the points. Everyone always saves the points,’ he says, pouring three cups of coffee. ‘Stella! Caffè!’
I turn the box around and find the square perforated coupons. Fifty points will get me a free toaster, and a hundred coupons will get me a set of brand-new bedsheets.
Stella enters the kitchen, her hair dishevelled. She snatches her coffee and gives Luca a light slap across the back of the head. ‘Thanks very much,’ she says.
He grins. ‘Prego,’ he replies, giving me a wink. He finishes his coffee, places his empty cup in the sink, and makes his way to the bathroom.
Stella grins broadly at me, her eyes demanding answers.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I mouth desperately.
She raises her eyebrows and steps in closer to me. ‘So was he good?’
‘Quiet!’ I warn. ‘I told you, it wasn’t like that,’ I whisper under my breath.
‘Looks like Tuscany isn’t the only thing that’s stolen a piece of your heart, bella Mia,’ she says, exiting the kitchen.
I bury my head in my hands.
Luca comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered, looking more gorgeous than ever. Stella was right when she said he and Paolo were part of the furniture. He throws a cardboard packet in the bin.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘A new toothbrush,’ he says, grinning. ‘Figured I might be needing it.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I want to make sure those nightmares don’t haunt you anymore.’
My stomach does a series of flip-flops.
‘Meet me outside the officina once you get back from Empoli,’ he says, planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘In bocca al lupo.’
In the wolf’s mouth? I must have the translation wrong. ‘Huh?’
‘You’re meant to reply crepi,’ he says.
‘Die? You want me to wish you to die?’
‘It’s a colloquial expression. It’s like saying, “good luck”, or “break a leg”, to which the person is supposed to reply crepi or crepi il lupo, which kind of means you’re wishing the wolf to die,’ he explains. ‘Actually now that I think about it, the Italian-to-English translation doesn’t work that well.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I agree on a laugh. ‘But I need all the luck I can get. So crepi!’
I reluctantly walk Luca to the front door. As he leans in to kiss me goodbye I get the overwhelming urge to apologise. ‘I’m sorry I broke down last night,’ I blurt. ‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t …’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ he tells me firmly.
‘But I barely know you. You must think …’
‘When you’re ready, I’ll tell you what I think.’
He kisses me as if he’ll never see me again and then slips his helmet over his head. And just like that, he leaves me hanging.
Stella’s gone by the time I’m showered and dressed. I manage to arrive in Empoli by train, and the interview goes smoothly until the role-play in Italian, which is followed by a language test that I’m certain I failed, given the expression of disdain from the stodgy old man who has interviewed me. He butts out his cigarette with his yellow-stained fingers and gives me my score: seventy-five per cent.
‘We need a pass rate of ninety per cent,’ he informs me, lighting another cigarette. He inhales deeply and exhales a puff of toxic smoke in my direction. By now I’m feeling defeated, albeit slightly relieved. Given the correlation between cancer and smoking, I’m not sure I would have taken the job anyway.
During the train ride home, Stella calls me.
‘Hey, girl, I have some good news for you! My friend recently resigned from her job as a nanny. I made some calls and Clara, the mother of the twin boys she was watching, wants to meet with you. Great family—she’s a top art dealer, originally from London. Her husband’s away a lot. Anyway, she wants to see you this afternoon at three if you’re available. Grab a pen, here’s the address,’ she says, before reeling off the address for me, along with some directions.
‘Okay, got it,’ I reply.
Oh gosh. Can I actually do this? Care for two kids? What on earth am I thinking?
Back at the villa, I tidy my hair, put on some light makeup and grab my bag for another stroll through the square and to the Balducci family residence. The villa and its grounds are enormous, reminding me of something out of Architectural Digest. I’m interrupted by the sound of laughter just as I ring the doorbell. I turn around to see where it’s coming from when the cold spray hits me, soaking my hair, my face, my shirt.
I frantically sift through my bag for something to wipe my face dry, hoping the little mascara I’m wearing hasn’t smudged down my cheeks. I shake the drops of water off my clothes, turning around to see if I can catch a glimpse of the tiny offenders. Hiding behind a large terracotta planter is a little guy with dark-brown hair and huge brown eyes. He’s beaming at me, proud of his efforts to drown me at the door. I expect his brother to be identical to him, but they’re complete opposites. This child’s green eyes pierce mine, his curly blond hair bouncing around his head as he jumps out from the planter, yelling, ‘We got you!’
I burst out laughing just as a woman, tall and slender with porcelain skin and shoulder-length blonde hair, opens the door. Her straight hair is so smooth and silky that she looks as though she could be on a shampoo commercial. She’s immaculately dressed, just like her boys.
‘Oh, Mia, I am so sorry,’ she says as she guides me through the front door into the safety of her home.
‘Oh, that’s fine. Kids.’ I shrug, not knowing what else to say. ‘I wish I hadn’t worn a white shirt,’ I say, trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation.
She ignores my attempt at cracking a joke and extends a manicured hand around my semi-wet one.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mia. I’m Clara,’ she says in her enchanting British accent.
‘It’s a pleasure.’ I suddenly feel far too casual and insignificant around this woman, with her perfect accent and pristine demeanour.
‘Boys, please behave while I chat to Mia,’ she says, as the twins scramble upstairs in a race to reach the top. ‘In the meantime, I’d like you to think about your behaviour.’ Her voice lacks the firmness that I was used to growing up, and her reprimand sounds more like a polite request than an order.
&n
bsp; ‘Lemonade?’ she asks, gesturing for me to sit at the rectangular wooden table in the middle of her enormous rustic kitchen.
‘Yes, please, that would be lovely.’
‘So, Mia, you’re a long way from home. What brings you to Florence?’ she asks, filling my glass with ice cubes, which she takes from a bucket with a pair of silver tongs.
‘Uh, well … I was hoping for a new experience,’ I reply. At least I’m half telling the truth.
‘Well, that you will have,’ she says. ‘Florence is an enthralling place to explore. Stella told me a little bit about you. Is it true you’re an artist?’
I should have known she’d ask me this question. I wish I’d better prepared myself. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I love art. I paint, mostly.’
‘What kind of painting do you do?’ she asks, placing her hand under her chin.
‘Mainly watercolour. Occasionally oil. I also like to sketch.’
‘How lovely. I’m intrigued. I’d love to see your work sometime,’ she says.
‘Of course. I’d love to share it with you,’ I lie. Showing a sketch to friends is completely different to sharing my artwork with a successful London art dealer, even if it is in the most casual of circumstances.
‘I look forward to it. Are you studying art here?’ she asks, eyeing me over the brim of her glass as she takes a sip of her lemonade.
I shake my head, unsuccessfully masking my disappointment. ‘Maybe one day. I mean, I’d love to. I was offered a spot back home into the Fine Art program at the Victorian College of the Arts, but I had to turn it down.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘That school has an excellent reputation. You must be good. I might be able to make a recommendation for the academy when you’re ready,’ she says.
‘That would be great, thank you,’ I say, relieved that she hasn’t asked any killer questions.
‘Mia, let me get straight to the point and tell you what I’m looking for. I need a nanny three days a week for split shifts. Nine until one and then four until seven. Cooking, washing and ironing for the boys only, and light household chores as needed,’ she says.
The Florentine Bridge Page 8