The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Che cozza?’ Marco is there and grabs my hand. I’m shaking and I feel sick but we both know what’s happened.

  ‘Sit, sit. I will get you water,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You need to get the electrics looked at,’ Marco says firmly, still holding my hand. ‘I know someone. I’ll send him this afternoon. Are you sure you’re okay?’

  I nod, but I’m not sure if I am actually nodding or just turning my head around.

  ‘Come and sit down. We will have Nonna’s digestif instead.’ Marco starts to lay up a tray with glasses and the lemon cake. ‘Let’s take it outside,’ he says, and I follow obediently.

  ‘I see you paint,’ he says, looking at my work on the big plastic table as we pass.

  ‘Well, I did,’ I say, feeling like someone’s filled my head with cotton wool. ‘I trained as an artist. But these days . . . well, like I said the other day, it’s mostly commercial stuff. Design work.’ I skim over the fact that actually giving up painting was one of the hardest decisions of my life.

  I follow Marco out through the long glass door to my wooden barrel table, under the shade of an old bamboo lean-to roof.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asks, concerned. I nod again.

  ‘Really, just a bit of a shock,’ I say, wondering whether to explain about British humour again.

  ‘So, how are you finding things around here?’ he asks, pouring the green gloop.

  ‘Starting to find my way around, thank you.’ I sip my water.

  ‘You’ve started doing the place up. Do you have anyone to help you? Is there a Mr Ruthie Collins following on?’ He hands me a slice of cake and a drink and smiles.

  ‘No,’ I say simply. ‘It’s just me.’ Briefly I think about Ryan from the ironmonger’s and his offer of dinner. I take a sip of the green drink and nearly choke. It’s disgusting, the colour and texture of duck poo. I put it down and try the cake, hoping the sugar might help the shock my body’s just had.

  ‘It’s a lot of work for one person. The olive grove alone . . .’ He nods towards the trees.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to get the house sorted first,’ I cut in, keen to show him that I have plans and I’m not just here to sunbathe. ‘I’ll rent out the trullo as soon as it’s done. This is a beautiful part of the world,’ I continue, worried that we’re running out of conversation.

  ‘It is. I’ve been away too long,’ he says, crossing his long legs. ‘I grew up here, in this house. The olive grove was my playground. It is sad to see it in such a state.’

  I bristle, but then realise this is the most we’ve spoken to each other, ever.

  ‘I should’ve done something about it ages ago.’ He does genuinely look full of regret. His blue eyes are wistful. His jaw twitches under his dark olive skin, just below the little scar on his chin.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I ask quickly, keen to keep things on safe ground until the cake and drink are finished and the hand of neighbourliness has been shaken. I bite into the cake. Crikey! It’s very dry. I take another sip of the awful green sludge.

  ‘This is really good.’ I smile and try, ‘Molto bene!’ then wish I hadn’t. I don’t want to give him another reason to laugh at me. As if reading my thoughts, he hides a chuckle.

  ‘My sister’s is better. She uses more olive oil in it.’ He nods, and I realise he’s laughing not at my Italian, but at the cake. Finally we have something we can agree on.

  Marco seems tense. Like he wants to relax but something’s stopping him. Well, I’m not stopping him. In fact the sooner he tells me why he’s here and leaves, the better. After a little consideration, he answers my question.

  ‘I’m away, teaching. In a college of gastronomy. It’s like a food college,’ he explains, ‘the science of food, for food professionals. From how it is grown to the business of food. I teach about tasting and grading olive oil.’

  ‘What, like a sommelier for olive oil?’ I smile, not wanting to but trying the drink again. God, it’s awful.

  ‘Exactly that.’ He doesn’t taste his drink. ‘But I’m having some time off, for research. I write for a lot of magazines in the UK, but I have a book to start. And I need to be here for a while, to keep an eye on things, my family . . .’ He shrugs.

  ‘So you’re staying around for the time being.’ My heart sinks even further, maybe partly due to Nonna’s awful concoction, that or the electric shock. Now he’ll be here watching my efforts with a keen eye. I’ll feel like he’s waiting for me to mess up.

  ‘I’m doing up the trullo . . . it’s a good place to work. And to keep an eye on things.’ The corner of his mouth twitches, and I think it’s an attempt at a smile. See, I knew it! He’s going to be watching my every move as I try and find my way around the vegetable patch or get to grips with the goat. He’ll be there, laughing at me. I’m not sure I can live like that, knowing he’s just the other side of the wall.

  As if reading my thoughts he says, ‘Actually, I have a suggestion, something that might interest you.’

  ‘Go on, try me,’ I say, intrigued.

  ‘Well, I . . .’ He hesitates, trying to read me. ‘I want to make you an offer, to buy this place from you.’

  Without warning, the images of seagulls and Cornish beaches come rushing back into my head.

  ‘You want to buy this place? But I thought . . .’

  ‘The money from the sale of this property has gone. My grandfather should’ve come to me to help sort out the debts.’ His eyes darken. ‘It was my debt to pay. I could’ve helped, got the people he owed off his back. But he was a proud man. Too proud to realise when he’d got himself into trouble, bitten off more than he could chew.’ He stares out at the olive grove, obviously finding it very difficult to talk about himself and his family to a stranger. Then he turns back to me, his eyes the colour of the Puglian sky in September. His voice is low, slow and just a tiny bit seductive when he says, ‘Would you be interested if I were to make you an offer?’

  It must be the sun, the shock or the green digestif; something has suddenly got me all excited. Or maybe it’s the prospect of putting this ridiculous blip behind me without having to admit to my mum and Ed that I’ve made one huge fat mistake and go running home with my tail between my legs. I’m going to Cornwall after all! I must email Beth!

  I suddenly feel as if I’m on holiday and enjoying every minute of my time here, rather than stuck here trying to work out how I can make this house my home. Everything looks different. Even Marco looks as though, in a different time and place, he could be a rather appealing prospect.

  ‘To new beginnings,’ I say, holding my glass up and clinking it with his. I’m leaving, and I won’t ever have to see Marco Bellanuovo again.

  ‘How much?’ I splutter into my glass of Nonna’s green concoction while holding the cheque he’s just handed me with the amount he’s offering to pay for the masseria in the other hand. I choke, cough and swallow quickly, trying to cover up my embarrassment with my bandanna. The last thing I want is for Marco Bellanuovo to have to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on me.

  He waits until I’ve finished choking and then says calmly and evenly, ‘It’s a fair price,’ with a flick of his left shoulder. I bang the glass down with more force than I intended, and I’m not sure if he’s slightly embarrassed or surprised at my reaction.

  ‘But that’s half what I paid for it!’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not more, but I’m afraid I think that’s what it’s worth,’ he says politely. ‘In its current state and, well . . . its position.’

  ‘The position is amazing!’ I stand up, clearing away the remnants of the lemon cake and signalling the end of our discussion. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to be that simple. I let myself think for a moment that there was a way out of th
is mess. This house is stunning, its location is stunning. It’s just not where I should be. It’s a family home with no internet connection, not for one person and their internet business. But of course I’m not selling for that price.

  ‘Just because I’m a single woman, just because I bought the house . . . like I did, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid or desperate,’ I blurt out, whisking up my glass of duck poo and putting it on the tray to take in.

  ‘I didn’t think either of those things.’ Marco spreads his hands to emphasise his calmness. But I’m seething. How dare he? First of all he tries to question the validity of my contract, then he tries to track the money down in the hope I’ll take it back, and now he’s offering to buy the house from me for half what I paid for it. Honestly, this is the end. He’s worse than my brother Lance, who’d try and tuck you up as soon as look at you if he thought there was a tenner in it for him. Lance can’t wait to hear that I’ve messed up. He was always taking the mickey out of me for going to college. He’ll be delighted when he finds out I’ve bought a house and been offered half its value within weeks.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, no way,’ I say, turning to take the tray into the house. ‘I’d rather put it back on the market than take that low offer.’

  ‘There will be very few people interested in buying it, like I say, with its current position.’ Marco stands too and looks around at the overgrown land in front of us.

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s a fabulous position!’ I repeat, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave, and then I’m going to get out here with my gardening book and prune all this back. I look at the overgrown veg patch. I’ll show him.

  ‘My sister is that way, and my brother and mother . . . and of course then there’s the rest of the family, my cousins, they all have pieces of land round and about.’

  Oh I wish he’d just go now.

  ‘Look, you may not be the friendliest neighbour I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few. We once had our TV nicked as we were moving into a flat on the second floor. The lift was broken and a lad on our landing was looking for his next fix, but he did apologise later.’ I take a deep breath and try and get businesslike again. ‘But this is still a fabulous location and, I’m sorry, worth an awful lot more than you’re offering,’ I say firmly and finally. Our eyes lock on to each other’s, his as determined as mine. Neither of us wants to back down.

  ‘Take time to consider my offer,’ he says, still staring right at me, his eyes framed by dark lashes and furrowed brows. For a moment neither of us says anything, both standing our ground. The sun feels hot on the back of my neck; it’s hitting the ground around us, drying out the overnight rain.

  Suddenly there is an almighty crack, like thunder, followed by several more of them. I wonder if it’s a festa nearby, with fireworks. Very nearby. The noise cuts right through me, making my heart thump. I look around, but there wouldn’t be fireworks in the middle of the day. The cracks turn into rips and tears, then a low, deep rumble that keeps rolling and rolling. I look up and Marco looks around. But there’s not a cloud in the sky. We both stand up, knocking over the crates that were our seats, and run in the direction of the noise, round the side of the house.

  When we reach the doorway to the courtyard, we stand stock still, staring. I catch my breath. Marco is right behind me. His hand touches my forearm. I can feel his breath on my neck and his body up against mine as I block the doorway, holding on to the frame to steady myself. My stomach squeezes and squeezes and a hotness travels up my chest, my neck and into my face. I go to run towards the plumes of dust that are rising from where the trullo roof has collapsed, but the large hand grabs the top of my arm and pulls me back.

  ‘Stop! There’s nothing you can do. You have to let it finish. It happens round here. The trulli roofs are made to collapse. It’s an old way of avoiding the taxman. You had window tax, we had property tax. The story goes that when the taxman rode into town, the keystone in the top of the roof was pulled and the roof collapsed. No roof, no tax. Then later on, the trullo was rebuilt. It happens. These are old buildings now. Maybe it was the rain that caused the damage. It was very heavy.’

  I turn and glare at him and shake him off, my whole body trembling with shock, but I don’t try and run towards it again. Instead I stand and watch the plumes of dust and wait until the tumbling and rumbling has stopped. My trullo roof has collapsed, and with it all the dreams I had of it being a honeymoon hideaway.

  Marco breathes out: ‘Phoof!’ He leaves a short pause before saying tentatively, ‘You might want to reconsider my offer. It’s a specialised job getting a trullo roof rebuilt.’

  I swing round to him, my eyes searching and full of suspicion. What if someone’s done this deliberately? It wouldn’t have taken much to pull the keystone at the top of the roof. Someone who really wants me out.

  ‘Well how convenient!’ I blurt out childishly, tears brimming behind my angry eyes. This can’t be happening!

  ‘You can’t think I did this.’ He holds his hands to his chest and shakes his head. ‘It was the rain. The trullo’s needed fixing for ages. But then if you’d had a proper inspection done, you’d’ve known!’

  That stings, and my eyes are full and blurry. He’s right. I’m an idiot! Everyone told me I was. I just didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘Maybe it was the repair work on the ceiling inside,’ he continues. ‘Like I say, they are skilled craftsmen, the trulli men. And expensive unless you know someone who can do it.’

  I feel totally beaten. I tried. I tried to make a new life for myself. Take a bold step, strike out on my own, step out from Ed’s shadow, but I blew it. I completely blew it.

  ‘It would make sense to do a deal,’ he says quietly and actually quite kindly. ‘The house now, it’s worth even less. Do you want to shake on it?’

  So that’s it. He wins. He wants my house and now he’s going to get it, because if I have to have that roof repaired, it will take every bit of my savings. I’ll have nothing left to live on.

  ‘Take your time, think about it,’ I hear him say as I turn and push past him into the house. I slam the door shut with him on the outside and then promptly run through the house to the table outside where he’s left his untouched green sludge. I pick it up and take a huge gulp, and then another. It’s still disgusting, but it’s no more than I deserve. Ed’s words are ringing in my head: ‘You’ll never be able to do it. It’s just a dream. That’s your problem: you always were a dreamer.’

  I ignore the first couple of knocks on the front door and then finally on the third knock I yank it open, ready to tell Marco to leave me alone and stop harassing me.

  ‘I really hope you don’t mind me popping over like this. I tried to ring . . .’

  ‘Oh, um . . . no signal,’ I say, trying to recover myself and waving the phone from my pocket weakly at Lou. ‘Only out the front on the wall, or on the balcony upstairs. Come in,’ I add. Lou’s standing on my front doorstep with armfuls of goodies. She comes into the big dining room and goes straight to the pictures on the table.

  ‘Oh, you’re a painter?’

  ‘Not really. I design greeting cards – well, I hope I still do. My boss is finding it hard getting hold of me and I may just have burnt my last bridge.’

  ‘It can’t be very easy not having good internet access, what with you needing to work. It’s pretty shocking round here. The café’s your best bet, but I don’t know how much longer we’ll be there.’

  ‘No! Why? What happened?’

  She takes a deep breath as if this is the first time she’s said it. ‘The tourists are going home,’ then she chokes a little, ‘and the landlord has put the rent up.’ Another big breath. ‘My husband can’t afford it.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I say, feeling bad about my own worries. These people have a child to support. I can go home and sleep on my mum’s settee if need be. What
will they do?

  ‘We still have my job at the school, but it’s only part time.’ She looks different from last time. Worried.

  Today is just getting worse. I want to hug her, but we really don’t know each other that well. I put my hand on her forearm.

  ‘Look, I won’t stay if you’re . . .’ she looks at me and she must notice my swollen eyes, ‘busy,’ she says tactfully. She runs her eyes up and over the ceiling, taking in the fabulous stonework and maybe distracting herself from her own worries. Then she looks back at the table, my computer, and the few designs I’ve produced. I was sure they would’ve been perfect for Brandon, but apparently he wants gondolas and Tuscan landscapes. I’m nowhere near gondolas or Tuscany!

  ‘Look, I’ll just leave these and go.’ She unloads the contents of her arms and puts the gifts on the table. ‘Just some lavender soap I made, sun-dried tomatoes and some of our olive oil, of course. Just to get you started,’ she says quickly, looking like she’s feeling she’s imposing.

  ‘Gosh, that’s so kind! No, please do stay,’ I say quickly. ‘In fact, you’d be doing me a very big favour.’ It’s my turn to take a deep breath. ‘I’m beginning to think I haven’t seen a friendly face for what seems like forever.’ My mind flicks back to Marco’s determined one when I told him his offer was too low. I push it out of my mind and smile at Lou.

  ‘Well, only if you’re sure,’ she says, putting her basket on the floor.

  ‘Absolutely. I’m really sorry about . . . when you got here. I thought it was someone else,’ I say, rubbing nervously at the tiny diamond stud in my left nostril.

  ‘Been a bit tough, has it?’ Lou looks as if she can feel my pain. I nod and don’t trust myself to speak.

  ‘Look, you grab the glasses and the cheese and show me the bottle opener,’ she says, waving a bottle of rosé and the jar of sun-dried tomatoes at me and scooping up a loaf from her basket. ‘This way?’ She points to the shaded patio out the back and I smile widely and nod, happy to let her organise us. I run into the kitchen to grab a tray with cutlery, plates and glasses.