Page 3 of Livia in Rome
Huh? My jaw practically unhinges itself when she pulls the delivery driver towards her, grasps his helmet in both hands, and plants noisy kisses on his cheeks.
Now, Iknowthe kissing thing is totally normal in Italy, sometimes even when you meet someone for the first time, but...Really? Some guy from Uber Eats gets a kiss and I don’t?
An indulgent smile lifts the corners of Nina’s lips and the pulley creaks gently as she adjusts her position to create a space beside her on the bed. She pats theblanket with one slim, brown, liver-spotted hand. ‘Siediti qui, caro.’
Caro? Dear?A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach. This isn’t some random food delivery person. And it isn’t the arrival of her lunch that’s making Nina light up like a glow stick. It’s this...boy. This boy who’s removing his helmet and sunglasses as if he plans to stick around. This boy who’s getting the warm welcome that should have been mine.
I expect to see my own confusion mirrored on Ma’s face, but she’s on her feet – correction, on her tiptoes – and...ommioddio...nowshe’skissing him too!
‘Ma non è possibile!’Ma pulls back to study him. ‘It can’t be you...but you’re exactly like your mamma with those big cow eyes!’
Cow eyes? Really, Ma? And how can she know what he looks like when she’s smooshing his face in her hands, like he’s one of her kitty clients? She’s even using her ‘cat voice’ – all fast and high-pitched and babyish.
I shrivel inside. Ma’s cringe-rate is off the scale when she’s free to speak her native Italian and not her halting English.
‘You remember Giulio, don’t you, Livia?’ Ma steps back a little, as if she expects me to get in line and kiss him too. I stay where I am, ignoring Inner Isla’ssuggestive snigger and slyI will if you won’t.Isn’t it enough this Giulio person already has two generations of my family fawning over him? And is enjoying every second of it.
Ma turns to me, her voice coaxing, like she’s trying to entice a nervous cat out of its hidey hole. ‘Giulio’s mamma and I were best friends growing up. She brought Giulio to the bar every time we visited. We even joked you’d get married one day. He was soadorabile! But now...he isfigo.Isn’t that what the young people say? Like that English word Isla always uses...Hot? No?’
I bury my face in my hands; this moment will haunt me for ever.
Nina tuts. ‘Giulio has no interest in learning English. And how can they remember? It was ten years ago, Caterina. I barely remember it myself.’
There’s an edge to Nina’s voice, a sharp one that finds its mark judging by the way Ma slumps back into her seat, her legs immediately twisting together like a rope.
But then she smiles sweetly at Nina. ‘Perhaps your memory isn’t what it used to be, Mamma.’
Ding ding. Round two!
Giulio clears his throat and, taking cutlery and paper plates from Nina’s bedside locker with the easeof someone who’s done it a million times before, starts dishing out the pasta. The delicious smell of melted pecorino romano cheese and freshly cracked black pepper fills the room. I groan inwardly –cacio e pepe, one of my Top Ten! My traitorous stomach actually gurgles.
Nina’s eyebrows twitch. ‘What on earth are you feeding her, Caterina? It can’t be Italian food. Look how thin she is...and pale.’
I bite back a growl of frustration. I just can’t win. Here I’m too pale, but in Scotland, when Isla and I go make-up shopping, she matches the first cheap bottle of foundation she picks up, while I have to use all my cash on expensive brands that bother to make deeper olive shades. Or how the other girls in my PE class side-eye me when I’m trying to fight my thick wavy hair into a ponytail. I can tell they’re thinking I should just straighten it down. And then there’s my nose...well, let’s just say I’ve tried contouring, but it’s still the first thing people look at when they talk to me, before they ask the dreaded question – ‘Where are you from?’ A question I just don’t know how to answer, at least, not with the same conviction Ma and Pa can – Italy. Or Isla can – Scotland. But me? The answer has slipped down the crack in between.
At Nina’s insistence, Giulio passes me a doublehelping of bucatini and our eyes collide over the saggy paper plate. Reluctantly, I concede Ma is right. Cow eyes. Definitely cow eyes – all big and dark and shiny with a fringe of poker-straight lashes. The opposite of his hair, I realize, which has rippled waves like the fur of a Devon Rex, and is that sun-kissed shade of brown that probably turns darker in winter.
Staring much?Inner Isla’s dry jab pulls me from my thoughts and I snap my eyes shut. I am NOT going to be the swooningstranieraMa and Pa think I am. Not in front of Nina. Nuh uh. No way.
After all, I’ll probably never have to see this boy again after today. Nina hasmenow. I can bring her lunch, dinner and anything else she needs from now on. And maybe then, she’ll like me as much as she likes him.
‘I almost forgot!’ Giulio takes a spoon from a small plastic bag and hands it to me. ‘I brought you this.’
My fingers flex and I almost take it so I can hurl it at his head. I’ve been twirling pasta longer than I’ve been able to hold a pencil. Is he actually being serious?
I stab my fork into the creamy dish. Giulio’s face is blank and emotionless but I look him dead in the cow eyes as I raise a perfectly coiled forkful to my mouth. Or it would have been perfect, if Nina hadn’t pickedthat precise moment to tell Ma I’m starting Italian classes next week.
When I stop coughing and spluttering, I utter my first full sentence in Italian as the pasta unspools into a gloopy mess in my lap. ‘Errr...who’sgoing to Italian classes?’
Nina winces, and I don’t know if it’s because of my accent or my table manners.
‘Lessons are only in the afternoons, and you have time to settle in first,’ she says. ‘Giulio found a language school close by so it will be simpler for you.’
Giulio, huh? And what, I’m aturistawho won’t be able to find her way around?
Golden Boy, true to his oh-so-helpful self, hands me a wad of paper napkins for the congealing mass of cheesy pasta in my lap. And – surprise, surprise – he’s sneaked the spoon inside them. What is it with this guy?
I gather my courage and attempt another sentence in Italian. ‘But I’m here to work at the bar and—’
