Page 28 of Sunrise By the Sea

Marisa started to lean in to the rhythms of her grandmother’s life. She rose early, even with the one-hour time difference, and was always dressed and busy before Marisa hit her first coffee of the day. She took her old much battered shopping trolley out into the blinding sunshine of the Imperia morning, headed down to the market at the old port to discuss fish and fruit with the sellers, and came back and started preparing herself a little lunch – fresh sardines, perhaps, and salad, while Marisa toasted herself yet another sandwich. Then Nonna would take her siesta and wake at five, ready for a chat, just as Marisa was winding down her day, and Marisa would go to bed long before her grandmother, who would play her old opera records; a more comforting kind of music, and so quiet as to be practically imperceptible.

It was surprisingly companionable. Not, of course, that either of them would admit, in a million years, over a thousand miles, and two generations, that they were . . . lonely.

Eventually, in the evening, hernonnastarted squinting at Marisa’s television and demanding that Marisa put on the Italian subtitles to whatever she was watching, and even when Marisa suggested that she could get Netflix herself and watch alongside, she shook her head at that completely outlandish suggestion and preferred to squint through the bad camera on Marisa’s laptop and watch that way, so Marisa would stick the laptop next to her on the sofa, feeling slightly ridiculous, as if she had a robot friend, and they would watch together.

The noisy music had stopped at night. Now she never heard him play at all, only his students throughout the day, and some growled phone calls. Apart from that, nothing.

Marisa felt terrible about this. It wasn’t fair. They should have found a time when he could play and she would just put up with it.

‘Well, you discuss it, you build a compromise,’ Nonna pointed out, but of course saying things was easier than doing them, and Marisa couldn’t bear to make the first move.

‘No more notes,’ said Anita, at their next session. ‘But you got out?’

‘I stood on the steps! For a bit.’

‘Okay. Bottom of the steps next week. And, ideally, a sensible conversation with your next-door neighbour, but I realise that’s a lot to ask.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘How did it feel, when you went out?’

Marisa thought about it.

‘You know that filmBeetlejuice? The really old one.’

‘Where Winona Ryder has really cool hair?’

‘Reallycool hair.’

Both Anita and Marisa were pleased that, for once, they appeared to have landed on something they both agreed upon.

‘Well. That’s what it’s like,’ said Marisa more quietly.

‘Stripy ghosts?’

‘No . . . you know. When she tries to leave the house. The mother.’

‘Geena Davis! God, she was gorgeous. What happened to her?’

‘That’s not really the—’

‘Do you remember Brad Pitt inThelma and Louise?’

They both went quiet for a moment.

‘Cor,’ said Marisa at the memory.

‘I mean, I don’t care how old he is.’

‘Why isn’theliving next door?’

They both smiled rather soppily at each other.

‘Sorry,’ said Anita, snapping out of it and becoming professional again.

‘No, don’t worry. I think thinking about Brad Pitt might be the best therapy I’ve ever had.’

‘I’m going to write that down.’

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