Page 99 of Sunrise By the Sea

‘Oh no, don’t do that.’

‘Too late,’ he said. And he led her to the door. And carefully, and for the very first time, wrapped his huge arms around her and gave her the biggest, gentlest, sweetest hug. And she closed her eyes and leaned in to it, realising it was so long – so long, such an endless, endless winter – since someone had hugged her like that, had had their arms fully and wholeheartedly around her, a deep embrace so close she felt joined to his body. She rested her head against his chest – she only came up so far – thinking how wonderfully comforting it would be to stay there for ever.

‘I shall keep candle burnink for your grandmother.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said Marisa dreamily. ‘A fiery inferno is absolutely the last thing we need right now.’

And she held on to the hug for longer than would have been normally seemly or even necessary but it was necessary, and Alexei was steady and gentle and didn’t move or pull away, but happily stood with his arms around her, his huge hands stroking her shoulders in a comforting rhythm, his jumper growing wet with her tears.

Chapter Fifty-nine

Nonna had a busy night. She had given herself a nasty bang on the head and they were doing MRIs and looking for brain damage and other difficulties.

Marisa too had not paused. Finally, at two a.m. she had accepted that nobody was going to be able to know any more that night and had tried to get to sleep but anxiety and Champagne were churning round her gut and she didn’t have a hope of dropping off. She stared into the starry night, praying to her grandmother’s God that he would spare her even though she couldn’t help thinking that her grandmother’s God would probably want to call her home as much as she did.

At five-thirty dawn started creeping in over the sea to the left of her window, and the stars started to fade and disappear. As if somehow tacitly giving her body permission, now that night was over, insomnia loosened its grip and she fell into a deep sleep, not waking till well after ten, less thick in the head than she thought she would have been and extraordinarily grateful to Alexei for postponing his lessons that morning; even more grateful when she went to the balcony to open the window, to see placed on the table and chair outside a croissant and a glass of orange juice.

‘Thank you,’ she shouted out, but got no reply. The croissant was hard; he must have fetched it from Polly’s hours ago.

Nonetheless, she gnawed on it and made herself a coffee, glancing at the empty room, now bathed in sunlight, and calling her mother, who was, understandably, perpetually engaged.

Lucia was packing, and Gino was heading down from Switzerland.

‘She won’t need you,’ Lucia was saying, trying to sound positive, but coming over as brisk and making assumptions about Marisa that made her bristle. ‘She might not even recognise us.’

Her mother sounded nervous, of all things.

‘Are you . . . ? I mean . . . Are you better?’

Marisa was surprised. That her mother would even acknowledge her illness.

‘I . . . I am definitely getting better,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to come,’ said Lucia. ‘If it’s too hard. It’s not like you’re close.’

‘We are quite close actually,’ said Marisa. ‘We’ve been talking on Skype.’

‘Your grandmother on Skype?’ said Lucia. ‘Darling, are you absolutely sure? She thinks women priests are sent by the devil. God knows what she’d make of Skype.’

‘Mum, that’s how we found her, remember?’

‘I thought she’d just got startled by the ringing noise of her big square telephone.’

‘Well no, that’s not what happened.’

Her mother sighed. ‘Well, I’m flying out of Bristol today to Genoa,’ she said. ‘If you can make that flight? It’s in two hours.’

‘You didn’t even ask me,’ said Marisa.

‘Darling, she’s a grandmother you haven’t seen for ages, never particularly got along with and barely mention, and you, as you keep telling me, have a serious disease which means you can’t leave the house or be with your family! You can hardly blame me for this one!’

‘No,’ said Marisa. ‘You’re right, I can’t. Have a safe trip. Call me as soon as you’re there.’

She hung up and looked at the computer thoughtfully.

Even the airport website made her feel terribly anxious. The thought of all those people . . . the queues, the anxiety you could always taste in the air at airports, of panic and mislaid documents and screaming children and worry and . . .

She felt her breathing speed up. What if she got there and Nonna was dead? What if she didn’t leave now and was too late? But if she went now, what if she had a panic attack on the plane and they had to land it halfway over or not take off and everyone would be so furious and scream at her and she wouldn’t get there anyway, she’d have such a meltdown it would be impossible to continue . . .

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