Page 2 of Livia in Rome
Nina.
Or rather, her toes. They’re edged with traces of red nail polish and poking out of a heavy-duty splint that’s rigged up to a pulley system. My gaze travels upwards to an elegant, fully made-up face and a nose that’s just as ‘important’ as mine and Ma’s. Her skin istextured with sun damage and age spots, but plump and wrinkle-free thanks to the fillers and injectables Ma’s told me not to mention. As if I would.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my denim cut-offs, aware of how icky and crumpled I am after travelling, and move to her bedside, my smile slipping slowly off my face the closer I get. Why isn’t she smiling back? Why isn’t she holding her arms out for a hug? Why isn’t she saying anything? I want to stop, but my legs keep moving as if I’m stuck on autopilot. I lean in to kiss her cheek, but Nina shifts slightly and my lips end up brushing the pillow instead. Then my face bursts into flames. That’s what it feels like anyway.
‘She speaks our language?’ Nina asks in Italian, addressing Ma instead of me. I’m still reeling from my botched greeting so this hits me like a double blow. Won’t she even speak to me directly?
Pa gets this a lot back home; people talkingabouthim and nottohim, and it makes my blood boil. It’s like they think his Italian accent makes him stupid, as if being able to speak a whole other language doesn’t count if it’s not English. Ma’s accent is even stronger, but as long as the cats get their gourmet chicken yoghurts on time she could speak like a Minion and they wouldn’t care.
‘Capisci perfettamente, vero, Livia?’ Ma’s voice ismeasured. I nod at Ma. At Nina. Because Idounderstand perfectly. It would be impossible not to. Even the background noise in our house is Italian, what with Ma and her shouty political debates and Pa editing wedding pics to Italian prog rock from his teenage years – bands with dubious names likeI PoohandDik Dik. I understand Italian all right. More than I’d like to, sometimes.
But speaking is . . . trickier.
I’m fine with the day-to-day stuff of family life – what to have for dinner, how much make-up is too much, explaining film plots to Ma – but anything more in-depth is a mash-up; a third language that belongs to my family alone. Even the names I call my parents are a compromise – with Mamma and Papà being too Italian, and Mum and Dad too Scottish.
Nina X-rays me with her espresso-brown eyes, seeing right through me to the fraud inside. ‘Eh sì,’ she says softly. ‘It is as I suspected.’
For a second, I wonder if I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud. But nope, I haven’t said a single word, which is NOT a good look when you’re trying to convince your grandmother you’re worthy of your Italian blood.
Nina tuts at Ma. ‘You have kept her away for too long, Caterina.’
‘And it’s wonderful to see you too, Mamma,’ Ma deadpans, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze before she sits back down with a long-suffering sigh. I realize it’s not just the cattery and my education that have kept her away all this time.
I should say something to break the tension, to show Nina I’m not some nodding idiot who can’t say a word in Italian. It’s all I ever speak with Ma and Pa. And it’s not like I have to give a presentation on astrophysics. But in front of Nina, my mouth is glued shut. I awkwardly drift over to the window, my movements self-conscious, and stare out at the soupy green waters of the river Tiber gushing past on either side of the building.
‘We’re here to help, you know,’ Ma says in a clipped voice.
I watch their reflections in the glass. Nina folds her arms across her chest.
‘Help?Uff!Be honest, Caterina. You’ve come to tell me I’m too old to run the bar.’
Ma gestures to Nina’s suspended leg. ‘Well...you can’t deny it’s become too much for you. You’ll be seventy-five years old next month—’
‘Which means I’m still seventy-four,’ Nina cuts in coolly, smoothing her platinum-blonde hair.
Is it my imagination or did Nina look at Ma’spatchwork bob and shudder slightly? Thankfully, Ma hasn’t noticed. She’s too busy flailing her hands about.
‘Fractures take longer to heal when you’re older.’
‘Ah!Bene!’Nina exclaims. ‘So now you are a doctor? You should have told me, Caterina.’
Ma throws her hands in the air one final time. ‘Dio, you just never change, do you, Mamma?’
Yikes. We’ve been here all of twenty minutes and the gloves are OFF.
I get the sudden urge to leave the room; the coins Pa pressed into my hand when we said goodbye at the airport – leftover euros from an Irish wedding shoot – give me the perfect excuse.
‘Ummm...’ I turn to Nina, practising the Italian word for vending machine in my head before I say it out loud, then stop dead in my tracks.
Nina is smiling at me, actually smiling with her teeth and eyes and everything. My heart lifts as I bask in the warmth of it. Then plummets as if I’ve missed a step.
Because the smile is aimed at someone else. She’s looking past me, not at me.
I follow her gaze to the doorway, where a guy in dark glasses and a moped helmet is walking into the room with a stack of foil-covered food containers and an easy smile.
Ican’t see much of the delivery guy’s face, but I’m around enough teenage boys at school to recognize the lanky puppy walk when I see it. A rich, nutty aroma and the comforting hint of cooked pasta wafts into the room alongside him. I hope Nina’s ordered food for Ma and me, too – lunch was seven hours and 1,500 miles ago.
Nina sits up and reaches for the containers . . . No, wait . . . she’s reaching for—
