The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  I smile. I like her up-frontness.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Come for lunch. Any day. I have plenty of cheese.’ I waggle the bag and we both laugh again and swap numbers on our phones.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Ruthie. Ciao,’ says Lou. She bends and kisses me like an Italian woman, and I feel I’ve made a friend.

  ‘Ciao,’ I reply with a smile, and watch her go, pulling down her sunglasses, head held high, hair swishing, bag over her shoulder. I wonder if in time, if I stay, I’ll develop the Italian walk too.

  If you stay? Stick it out more like! says a little voice in my head.

  It’s true, there’s a huge amount to do and the Bellanuovos really don’t want me there. Yes, if I stay, I say to myself, and reread Beth’s email.

  Sometimes in life you just have to take a chance . . . Lou’s words come back to me, and I wonder if there’s any way, any way at all, I could go home.

  ‘Oh no, that’s all I need,’ I mutter under my breath as I leave the café with my bags. Marco Bellanuovo is walking this way, from the direction of the mausoleum, but he doesn’t seem to see me. He’s talking into his mobile. I bend down, pretending to look for something in my bags. He’s getting closer. A smartly dressed woman, also talking on the phone, is coming in the other direction, a small Bichon Frisé trotting at her side in a diamanté collar and lead. The dog stops just by my bags and starts snuffling. The woman continues to talk very quickly into her phone, ignoring her pet. I give the dog a nudge with my hand, pushing it away from the bags. It sniffs indignantly at me and turns a circle. Marco is stepping out into the road, skirting the woman and me. It looks like he hasn’t seen me. I realise I’m holding my breath. I’ve no idea why, but I just don’t want another difficult conversation right now. Nor do I want him to see the ridiculous shopping I’ve come back with, as if I’ve got tourist tattooed on my forehead.

  He’s passed me, thank goodness, and I breathe again.

  I can’t understand what he’s saying, but I’m sure I hear the word masseria. My senses are suddenly alerted. What? My masseria? This would all be so much easier if he’d just bought the place off his grandfather in the first place.

  I straighten up and watch his broad back in his dark suit. He seems out of place in the market. Taller than the locals who stop him to kiss both cheeks and shake his hand. And not dressed like the locals I’ve seen. Here it’s all orange and red trousers, lurid T-shirts and expensive trainers. Marco stands out in his smart and understated suit. Mind you, he is dressed for a funeral, and you’d think he’d be at the wake by now, if that’s what they do in Italy. All I know is that after my grandad’s funeral, it was back to the pub for ham sandwiches and sweet sherry. First come, first served.

  I go to pick up my bags just as the little dog lifts its leg as if to pee.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout and make a grab for them. The dog turns and yaps noisily at me. As I jump back, scooping up the bags, the smartly dressed woman turns and snaps at me in Italian whilst not taking her phone from her ear. I wish I could think of something witty to respond with, but instead I spin and turn to walk away, and as I do, red tomatoes tumble out of their bag and roll all over the pavement and into the gutter. Passers-by turn to look but carry on walking. The woman tuts, then gives the dog’s lead a tug and struts off. The dog squeaks indignantly but struts off too, head held high.

  I attempt to hide my embarrassment by bending over and grappling around in the gutter for my tomatoes. I’m picking them up and tossing them back into the bag when someone joins me and puts three in at once.

  ‘Grazie,’ I say, and look up. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  ‘Prego,’ says Marco as he picks up the last couple and I straighten up. Neither of us says anything for a moment.

  We’re both uncomfortable. I want to say that I hope the funeral went okay, but right now, I’m not sure he’ll want to hear that from me.

  ‘It’s warm,’ I say finally.

  ‘Of course,’ he replies, still not moving away, and I bristle.

  ‘I . . . I hope the funeral . . . went as well as it could.’ I move a bag into my other hand and feel balanced.

  ‘It’s a difficult time,’ he says.

  ‘Of course.’ I don’t know what else to say. I want to get back to my car and out of town.

  ‘We need answers. We have no idea why our family home has been sold to a complete stranger. If that is what you are?’ He raises an eyebrow and I feel a sudden surge of indignation rush through me.

  ‘Of course I’m a stranger. How could I have possibly known your grandfather?’ I say as people pass us and stare.

  Marco shrugs. ‘We just need answers. Why did he sell it? And . . . where has the money gone?’

  ‘I have to go.’ I don’t want to get into this speculation.

  ‘Yes, I have a meeting to attend.’ He turns away.

  I’m about to strut off like the Italian woman, but then I turn back and say, ‘Is the meeting about the masseria?’ It’s out of my mouth before I know it. See, Ed was right: I am hot-headed and impetuous.

  ‘Masseria Bellanuovo?’ He nods. ‘Si. It is. Like I say, we need answers.’

  ‘I should come with you. Look, perhaps we could sort something out between us. Perhaps you could just buy the house back off me.’

  He stops and turns to look at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about it.

  ‘I mean, you could just give me my money back. I could go.’

  ‘You would do that? I thought you were one of those who wanted to live the good life.’ He uses his fingers to emphasise the words like speech marks.

  I ignore the childish gesture.

  ‘It could work for both of us.’

  He says nothing, and then, ‘Maybe.’ He looks at his phone. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘If it’s my house you’re talking about, I should be there too!’ I blurt out, and start to follow him, trying to keep up with his long strides.

  ‘No, this is family business,’ he says, as if talking to a child.

  ‘If it’s about my house . . .’

  ‘Which you don’t seem to want now.’

  I’m passing my car and I can finally drop off my purchases. Marco is stopped by a group of short ladies who are obviously talking to him about his grandfather. I load up my boot and then turn back to see him starting to walk off again, without me.

  It’s still my house that I bought fair and square! I want to know exactly what’s going on. I slam down the boot, shove my keys into my bag and follow him.

  He heads back up the hill and I see him disappear into a tiny bar on the corner of two streets. There’s just a single table and chair outside. I follow him into the darkness.

  It takes a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. The place smells of strong coffee and cigarette smoke, despite the smoking ban. There is a man behind the counter and two other men standing drinking coffee. A large, whirring fridge holds cold drinks. There’s an ancient-looking computer where someone seems to be checking their lottery ticket, and three fruit machines next to it.

  All four men turn to look at me. I look around for Marco but can’t see him at all. Is this a wind-up? Has he left through another door? I turn to leave, cross at myself for not being faster and sticking to him like glue.

  ‘Si?’ the man behind the bar says abruptly.

  I hesitate. I can’t just walk out.

  ‘I’m looking for someone . . . Alla ricerca di qualcuno,’ I dredge up from my lessons back in Tooting.

  The men at the bar talk in a low rumble amongst themselves.

  ‘Who?’ asks the barman in English.

  ‘Um . . .’ What do I say? A friend? He’s certainly not that. ‘A neighbour,’ I reply.

  ‘Where? Where you live?’ he says.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Masseria Bellanu
ovo.’ They stare at me for a moment, and then laugh.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ says the barman, shaking his head, cleaning a glass.

  I’m not going to get any help here. I turn to go, but then hear raised voices. I recognise Marco’s. I can’t make out much, but once again I hear the word ‘masseria’, and then ‘Giovanni’. I turn back, fed up of being made to feel a fool. Behind the two men drinking coffee is a faded curtain. And behind it . . . my business! Something in me just sees red, like the time Catherine Tanner and her friends laughed at me in school when I proudly told her that Jamie Darren had asked me out after months of me fancying him. They laughed and laughed, and then Jamie joined in and told me it was a dare. Eventually I could stand the laughter no more and punched Catherine on the nose. She didn’t laugh at me again. And I didn’t care about the two hundred lines I had to write. It was worth it.

  I march past the two men drinking coffee and dismiss the protestations from the barman by holding up one hand and yanking back the curtain with the other.

  Marco is standing over a table, his palms slapped down on it. Opposite him, one man is standing and another is sitting. The barman follows me and I gather from all the gesticulating that he is apologising for my intrusion.

  The seated man holds up his hand to silence the barman. He is clean-shaven, dressed in pink chinos and a light-pink shirt. Something gives me an uneasy feeling. What have I just walked in on?

  ‘E tu sei?’

  ‘Ruthie Collins,’ I stammer, wishing I hadn’t been quite so quick to be part of this. ‘I own Masseria Bellanuovo.’

  He switches to English seamlessly. ‘Then come in. You’ve saved me a visit. I was going to drop by and introduce myself. I am Franco Pugliese. I am a local businessman. I help . . .’ He thinks for a moment. ‘I help life to run smoothly round here.’ He stands up to shake my hand, then gestures to me to sit down. ‘I like to think I can be of assistance when my friends need me,’ he says with a smile. A coffee appears in front of me, but the way my heart is racing, I decide not to drink it. ‘And I hope we can be friends.’

  Marco tuts and turns away. Franco sits back down.

  ‘Marco and I are just discussing his grandfather’s property. He has come to me to look for answers: why he sold it and where the money is.’

  Marco is looking furious: his fists clench, his jawline is taut. He’s obviously distressed, but I’m going to put that right. I’m going to tell him now. He can have the house, I’ll agree to it. It obviously means a great deal to him. His smooth jawline twitches again.

  I’m not sure who this guy Pugliese is and why he should have all the answers, but there is some kind of Mafia alert going on in my head. Ridiculous, I know. I laugh nervously to myself. Probably been watching too many films. I’m not going to be bullied out of the house, but I do know how I can sort this out.

  ‘Look, I bought Masseria Bellanuovo. It’s all above board and anything that needs to be discussed about it should be discussed with me,’ I say. I sound bold, but inside I’m shaking. It’s something I’ve done since I was a kid. After my dad left with one of the mums from the school gate, there was loads of teasing. My brother couldn’t take it and I couldn’t have that. I managed to stand up to them, told them what I’d do if they didn’t back off, but inside I was terrified, and when I was on my own, my knees and hands shook like they had a life of their own. And now here I am doing it again, letting my mouth run off before consulting my brain. What am I doing here? What on earth have I got myself into?

  ‘Quite right,’ says Pugliese in perfect English again.

  I take a deep breath and try and speak steadily. ‘But I have decided that if the Bellanuovos really want the house, I’m happy to sell it back to them.’

  He raises an eyebrow and puffs on an electronic cigarette that looks like an old-fashioned cigarette holder.

  ‘They get the house, I get my money back, we’re all happy!’ I beam, thinking about the email I can send to Beth telling her to hold the job for me, and scan Marco’s face for a reaction. ‘We all win!’ I say brightly, thinking he’s misunderstood me. But he doesn’t respond. It’s Pugliese who speaks first. ‘Marco, I can only tell you what I know, the truth. I know it’s not what you want to hear, and I’m sorry for that.’

  ‘What? That there is no money? I have to go back to my family and tell them the house has gone and so has the money?’

  I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. This isn’t my business at all. What was I thinking of, barging in here, invading this man’s privacy and his grief? I feel I’ve made things ten times worse.

  ‘Look, maybe I should . . . You were right.’ I stand up to go. Pugliese holds up his hand and I sit again.

  ‘You’re right to be cross.’ I listen carefully to him talking to Marco. ‘But your grandfather was a good man. He wanted what was best for you. There were debts. After your father and your uncle argued, the family started to fall apart. He tried to hold it together, but with your father dying, and then your uncle, he had to work hard to keep the estate going. He tried, but once it started to get carved up, there was less and less for him to make a living from. He ran up debts.’

  ‘The fool! Why didn’t he come to me?’ Marco practically spits, like he’s forgotten I’m there at all.

  ‘He didn’t want the family left with the debts when he died. If he hadn’t paid them off, if he’d left you the house, you would have been liable. As it is, the slate is wiped clean. The sale of the house has left you with no debts.’

  ‘And no heritage,’ Marco says, squeezing his fist into a ball. ‘And now it belongs to not just a stranger, but someone who knows nothing about the area, the land. Someone who thinks they can run away from their problems at home, and that a bit of sunshine and dolce vita is going to make everything all right.’

  ‘Excuse me!’ I blurt out.

  ‘Please, please.’ Pugliese puts out his hands to calm things.

  ‘And the debts?’ Marco leans towards him.

  ‘An accumulator bet. He tried to pay off what he owed. West Ham lost . . .’ There’s a moment’s silence. ‘Marco, I’m sorry I can’t give you better news. But you have your grandfather’s good name to cherish. Miss Collins, you have a house that is clear of debt too. Look after it, and if you think I can be of help at any time, please call on me. So, you’re going to rent it out?’

  ‘No,’ I say patiently, wishing I didn’t have to, ‘I’m going to live in it.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘In that case, you will need to pay me your local tax.’

  ‘Local tax? What local tax?’

  ‘We like to call it security,’ and the man standing steps forward with a card machine.

  Many euros lighter, I follow Marco out through the curtain and into the bright sunshine. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ I demand.

  ‘Like he said. He’s the businessman who makes things run smoothly round here. It’s how things are done.’ Marco turns to walk away, pushing his hands into his pockets. His shoulders have dropped. It seems the answers he’s got are not the ones he wanted to hear.

  ‘Look, Marco.’ I try and catch up with him. It’s afternoon and not as hot, but I’m boiling, infuriated by his rudeness. ‘Just for the record, I wasn’t running away!’ I shout after him, but he keeps walking and I know in my heart of hearts that he’s right. That’s exactly what I was doing. Running away from the ashes of disaster that were my life. Feeling I didn’t belong any more because I didn’t have a home of my own, feeling like a failure after Ed and I split. Well, I’m certainly never going to belong here!

  I start walking back to my car, my heart still racing as if I’ve drunk fifteen espressos, and I don’t know if it’s the meeting or the way Marco made me feel when he looked at me, hurt etched in his eyes as he realised there was nothing more that could be done. That’s it.
Even if I wanted to tear up the paperwork and hand the masseria back, the money’s gone. And with it any chance of a small flat over an art gallery and a fabulous new beginning in Cornwall.

  The market has packed up when I get back to the car, and I stop off in the café and post on Facebook telling anyone who’ll read it about my fabulous, mad new life. I describe the olive trees, the house and the courtyard; the orangery, the sun and the views. I don’t tell them about the bare rooms, the crumbling walls, the hostile goat or the even more hostile neighbours. And all the time I’m trying to work out in my head how I can leave.

  Back at the masseria, there are cars everywhere, presumably for the wake; on the grass verges, up the lane and across my drive.

  Finally it’s time to be honest with myself. Ed, my mum, my brother, they were all right. Even Morag and Elinor thought I was mad. I’ve made a mistake, a big fat spur-of-the-moment mistake, and I’m stuck with it. There’s no way out. I grip the steering wheel with both hands, put my forehead to the hot plastic and give in to big gulping sobs.

  I can hear the noise from Anna-Maria’s villa as soon as I’m out of the car, feeling worn out and eyes still stinging. I don’t want anyone to see me. There is a huge gathering there, spilling out on to the verandas at front and back. All around the house people are standing talking; some are smoking, with drinks in their hands, and I can see Anna-Maria waving her arms, directing Marco’s sister and cousin as they pass through with trays of food to be laid on the long tables at the back of the house. Men with sunglasses on their heads are helping themselves to the bite-sized morsels as they pass. Children are running in and out of the bushes down the side of the house and the olive trees at the back, and up towards the three-coned trullo. People are talking fast and expansively, children are laughing, and parents are calling them to mind their clothes in the dirt and to come and eat.

  I turn back to the masseria, silent and empty. Apart from the goat, that is, who is strutting up and down outside the front door. This time I’m ready for it and from my satchel pull out a paper napkin with the leftovers from my lunch that I saved for just this situation. I toss the food as far as I can, and as the goat’s hooves skitter on the worn flags towards the tasty treat, I unlock the front door and start to unload my shopping. When the goat trots back, I rub it between the ears and then give it a friendly shoo. It follows me to the car, where I’m pulling out a bag of goat feed I bought in the ironmonger’s. I find a bucket in the open-sided barn and pour the grain in for . . . her, I think I’ve established, judging by her teats.