Page 32 of Livia in Rome
As we head out, the sun has fully set, but the air is only slightly cooler. Ma slows near the octagonal fountain. There’s already music playing and she looks at the young people sitting on the ledge and the steps surrounding it with a fond smile. ‘This is where your Pa and I had our first kiss.’
Ommioddio.I scramble for the Italian way to say TMI but, unsurprisingly, it’s not a phrase Ma or Pa have ever taught me. I make a mental note to ask Giulio, almost losing my footing when I realize thingsreally have changed between us if I’m prepared to go to him for language advice.
I wonder if Ma’s noticed too, because she nudges an elbow into my ribs.
‘It’s a nice spot, no? You know, in case you’re thinking of starting a new family tradition.’
The city is still in the grip of a heatwave when we open the bar on Sunday morning and though I’m dying to turn the air conditioning on, I know better now. The regulars would be back faster than you can say ‘head cold’, handing over their chiropractor bills and moaning about the Arctic conditions. But that’s not the only progress I’ve been making. Not one customer has asked me where I come from and, even better, they drink their coffee without that nervous little pause first, like they’re worried I’m going to poison their taste buds.
Giulio’s just finished setting out olives and bite-size pieces of pizza and focaccia for the post-Mass rush but, as it’s a lull right now, he’s watching me froth the milk for his cappuccino – a cappuccinoheaskedmeto make for him. Is it a trap? A test? Probably...which is why I am determined to make this the best cappuccino. Ever.
I tilt the cup as I pour in the milk, focusing on creating a simple leaf pattern. It’s basic, but I’ve finallygot the hang of it. I slide it along the counter, struggling to keep the smugness out of my smile. ‘For you!’
Giulio reaches for the cup, then presses his hand to his chest instead. ‘Per me?Are you trying to tell me something, Scotland?’
Confused, I glance at the foam, my stomach dropping when I see my carefully crafted leaf has bloomed into a perfect heart shape – so perfect I couldn’t have made it if I tried. ‘No, cavolo!That’s not...I mean...’ I jab the cup, hoping to muddy the design, but the heart only grows bigger. I groan. ‘It’s supposed to be a leaf.’
Giulio raises one dark brow, and I curse our eyebrow Morse code.
‘You know that spoon you’re always going on about? I think I need it after all.’ I reach for the teaspoon on the saucer, but Giulio catches my hand just as I grab it, a grin spreading across his face.
‘Oh no you don’t, Scotland. Your heart is mine now.’
‘Never!’ I hold on tight, deliberately raising my voice a few notches. ‘Giulio, let go! My burn—’
He lets go of me. Instantly. ‘Oddio!Did I hurt you?’
I plunge the teaspoon into the cup. ‘Nah! Just kidding! That stopped hurting ages ago.’ I stir until the foam dissolves into a beige swirl – but before I can gloat properly, Ma comes through the connectingdoor and I jump back as if I’ve been caught in a romantic clinch, even though Giulio is on the other side of the counter.That’s because you’re worried she can read your thoughts, Liv.
Inner Isla’s timing is as inconvenient as Ma’s.
I shake my head, as if ridding myself of a persistent little mosquito, and turn gratefully to the customers who are trickling in. But I stay buoyant for the rest of the morning.
It’s my most successful day yet. Over half the tables are occupied and my croissant-recognition skills are improving with every order. But, best of all, I’m actually contributing, instead of causing problems with my ‘foreign ways’.
It stays busy right up to lunchtime, until the mouth-watering smells of Sunday specials waft out of every open window in the street, luring customers away like children by the Pied Piper.
Giulio dumps a tray of dirty cups on the counter, the clash and clatter loud in the now-empty bar. ‘You did well today, Scotland.’
A bubble of hope grows inside me. ‘It was so busy! This could make a difference, right?’ I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘To Bertolli, I mean.’
Giulio shrugs. ‘It was busy last Sunday too, remember? And the one before that. It’s always our bestday...but it doesn’t make up for the rest of the week. This afternoon it will all be back to normal.’
My little bubble bursts. He’s right. But this was my first time seeing it from behind the counter, rather than behind a tray of dirty cups.
Ma unlatches one of the wooden doors and pulls it shut, casting shadows that mirror the sinking feeling in my chest. Silly, really, to think one busy morning could change anything.
She helps load the last of the cups into the washer, then dries her hands on a towel, her expression unreadable. I’ve been badgering her for days to have Sunday lunch with Nina again, like she’d planned to in the beginning, but now that she’s agreed, I feel more like I’ve cornered her than convinced her.
‘Can you go ahead and pick up lunch, Giulio? Livia and I will meet you at the hospital.’ Her tone is flat, like she knows this won’t be a cosy visit.
Ma and I take a bus this time, the streets strangely quiet with the restful Sunday feeling I don’t see in Edinburgh. And even though we’re above ground, she doesn’t point out a single landmark or offer any ‘fun facts’ about Rome like she usually would. In fact, the closer we get to the hospital, the more she sinks into the hard plastic seat.
Giulio is already there, dishing out plates ofpasta alforno, fighting with the long strings of melting mozzarella that threaten to drag across the table. We exchange quick looks, and I know he’s as on edge as I am.
‘Ciao, Mamma.’ Ma takes a plate of baked pasta and sits on one of the visitor’s chairs. Same as last time, she faces Nina, but her body and feet point towards the door like she wants to bolt.
Nina’s eyes analyse Ma, calculating. ‘Caterina, how lovely of you to come in person...instead of sending Signora Pedretti to do your bidding.’
