Page 22 of Livia in Rome
Like Ma and Pa, I think. Their English isn’t fluent, but they can communicate well enough for their jobs. I wish I could spend more than one summer here – find out what it really means to be woven into the fabric of this city, instead of just a loose thread.
Kenzi wiggles in her seat. ‘Actually, I’ve just had an idea. It’s my English that needs improving. Why don’t you and I do a language swap here after class? Give us both some real practice?’
I hesitate, remembering my vow not to speak a word of English this summer outside of my phone calls with Isla. But Kenzi’s helped me with my Italian without even knowing it.
I smile. ‘We could definitely do that.’
Ren nods enthusiastically, his hand resting on my shoulder for a moment. ‘Moi aussi, I want to talk about food in ItalianandEnglish. And I can bring snacks in exchange.’
Sofia, who’s been quietly observing the bar, bites her lip. ‘I would like to come too. But I do not know what to offer. I am good at social media...or...’ Her voice drops, becoming suggestive. ‘I could chat toGiulio...find out more about him?’
I feel an unexpected twinge in my chest, as if the thought of Sofia liking Giulio is...uncomfortable. It’s the same twinge I felt seeing him and Flaminia together. It’s because Sofia and Flaminia are both so nice, I tell myself. And I don’t want them falling for someone who can’t be trusted.
In Scotland, storms have names. In Italy, heatwaves do. This one’s called Caronte – after Charon, the boatman who ferries the dead to Hades. Accurate, because it’s been slowly draining me since it swept in last night. Giulio and I are back on the lunch run and I’m peeling my shorts away from the backs of my thighs after our Vespa ride when I catch sight of myself in the little rear-view mirror attached to the handlebars. My hair has stayed in the shape of the helmet, clinging damply to my scalp in a round, frizzy mess, and my horrified expression says it all.
Giulio, of course, isn’t wafting his shirt or tugging at his clothes. And because he bumped us over every pothole on the way here, to the point where I’m convinced he was doing it on purpose, I crashed into him so often I know he even smells good – a herby mix of mint and basil with a hint of the coffee roast we use at the bar. It’s like he’s been coated in some kind of heatproof spray. The sheer injustice of it must show on my face, or maybe he thinks I’m sufferingfrom heatstroke, because he knocks his shoulder gently against mine and asks, ‘You OK, Scotland?’
I speed-walk into the trattoria ahead of him so I don’t have to fake-smile my way through his inevitable dig about me not being cut out to survive an Italian summer, but I’m suddenly face to face with the person behind the counter, waiting for me to order with a smile that says both ‘welcome’ and ‘hurry up’ at the same time.
I turn to Giulio, but he’s in blank-faced unhelpful mode...the one he defaults to when he’s waiting for me to mess up. This time, it’s choosing the right meal. I hate that he knows Nina’s tastes better than I do. But then I remember Ma telling me about Ferragosto – a public holiday on the fifteenth of August where everyone in Italy takes the day off. Nina always took her to the beach at Santa Marinella with lasagna orpasta al fornoas picnic food. Nina’s motto being ‘if it’s not hot, it’s not lunch’ – which, come to think of it, must be why Giulio brings her meals.
Those dishes aren’t on today’s menu, though, so I choose the next best thing.
‘Pasta e fagioli, per favore.’I’m clammy at the mere thought of this hot, soupy pasta. And even more so because Giulio hasn’t reacted at all; his face gives nothing away.
I’m still second-guessing myself as we join the steady stream of visitors ferrying foil containers to the hospital, like a trail of ants bringing food to a nest – one that’s filled with high-maintenance food snobs. The heat radiating from the takeaway bag is unbearable, and I must look ridiculous, marching down the corridor with my arms out, trying to keep the scalding warmth away from me.
Giulio raises an eyebrow. ‘Interesting choice, Scotland.’
My smile verges on smug when, hands full, I turn to nudge Nina’s door open with my hip and find myself face to face with him. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, have I spoilt your fun?’
He looks confused.
‘It’s spoons all round today, Giulio. You won’t get to make your favourite little joke.’
Giulio’s laugh follows me into the room; a warm, genuine chuckle that leaves me momentarily stunned, aware just how much I like the sound of it. But more than that, I realize, I’m weirdly pleased to have been the one to coax it out of him.
Nina looks up from her bed, catching the exchange between us. Her smile is warmer than I’ve ever seen it, like she’s approving of something more than just our food delivery. Maybe Isla’s right. Maybethe way to Nina’s heart really is through Giulio.
Before I can take another step, I notice someone at Nina’s bedside – a familiar face I wasn’t expecting to see here. Signora Pedretti is sitting on a plastic chair, a bag of oranges clasped in her lap.
‘We brought lunch,’ I say, setting it on the small table over Nina’s bed. ‘But if we’re interrupting...’
‘No interruption,’ Nina says quickly, her smile vanishing. ‘We’ve finished here.’
With a weary sigh, Signora Pedretti gets to her feet, only slightly taller now that she’s standing. ‘Just think about what I said, Adelina,d’accordo?’
Nina pouts. ‘You mean, whatshesaid.’
Signora Pedretti’s lips barely move as she mutters, ‘Dio, give me strength,’ before leaving the room with a brief nod in Giulio’s and my direction.
Nina lifts one of the foil container lids and peers inside, inhaling deeply. ‘Ah! Bene!Proper food at last.’ She smiles again, not quite the Botox-busting crinkly ones she reserves for Giulio, but she’s slowly defrosting towards me – maybe it’s my regular visits, or maybe because I’m saying more each time.
‘So...’ I clear my throat. ‘What was Signora Pedretti talking about just now? Does she visit often?’
Nina’s expression tightens, and I immediately regret asking.
‘Not as often as she visits Caterina, it seems.’ She practically snatches the bowl Giulio’s offering her, and I notice the absence of the usual twinkle she gives him.
