Page 4 of Livia in Rome
‘Giulio can do that,’ Nina interrupts, crinkling her eyes at him, her affection stronger than Botox. ‘School closes for three months in summer and he’s been helping out since June, haven’t you,caro?’
Nooooo. Not the bar. Pleeeease not the bar! Doesn’t Giulio have a family of his own to suck up to? And Idon’t want to go to Italian lessons, not after the whole exam prep frenzy of the last few months, and worse to come in sixth form.
I shoot Ma my bestdo somethingface.
She puts down her fork. ‘You really should have spoken to us before doing that, Mamma.’
Nina chews, swallows, and pauses to take a dainty sip of water. ‘If Livia wishes to reject my gift of the language of art and history. The language of Michelangelo and Da Vinci. If she does not wish to learn...orimprove,’ she says, her voice rising over Ma’s protests that Idospeak quite a bit of Italian, ‘then, so be it.’ She rests a hand on Giulio’s forearm. ‘Can you inform the school,caro? A refund will be impossible now, but perhaps they can offer the place to someone who appreciates it...’
Ugh. Nina is about as subtle as a sledgehammer. But even though I know what she’s doing, it doesn’t stop the cold spread of panic in my chest. I don’t want her to think badly of me, to think I’m ungrateful.
Giulio’s blank expression has morphed into one of pure entertainment. He’s enjoying this. And I know without a doubt that, whileIdon’t want Nina to think badly of me, this grandmother thief clearly does.
I take a deep breath and try to smile. ‘It’s not thatI don’t...I mean...Of course I want to...That is...’ Nina’s eyes bore into me and I stumble over my words, hating that she’ll think I’m proving her point. ‘I suppose...if it’s only afternoons?’ I finish pathetically.
‘Dio, Mamma. I won’t let you manipulate my daughter the same way you try—’
A nurse in lilac scrubs walks into the room just as Ma rises angrily from her seat. She freezes in a guilty half-sitting, half-standing position while Nina presses the back of her hand to her forehead and groans weakly.
‘I believe it’s time for Signora De Angelis to rest now.’ The nurse holds the door open, his voice as cool as the air conditioning. ‘Perhaps you could make your way outside?’
I get to my feet, mortified by the epic fail of my reunion with Nina...and by the rogue strands of bucatini that, having escaped my hasty clean-up, are now slipping on to the floor in a soft, humiliating splat.
Giulio wrinkles his nose at the unsightly stain on my shorts. ‘You should probably go and freshen up, anyway.’
As I move towards the door, the reek of drying sheep’s cheese trailing behind me, I catch Nina liftingher hand to beckon him closer. She leans towards him, her lips moving in a whisper I can’t hear. Whatever she says makes his eyes flick briefly to Ma – quick, sharp and deliberate.
‘Livia?’ Ma’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
I hurry after her into the hallway, trying to shake off the embarrassment of Giulio’s comment and the unease of their closeness.
Ma thinks I’m being paranoid about Giulio’s spoon offensive.
He was just being helpful. Our families go back a long way. He lost his own nonna recently.
But it’s hard to be sympathetic when Signor Giulio zipped off on a Vespa as cool as a cucumber while I swelter on the Metro, nose glued to a stranger’s armpit.
I’m so exhausted when we finally emerge from the underground that I barely appreciate the Instagrammable beauty of Rome’s Monti district as we walk through it; the flower-filled balconies, the arty independent shops, the pastel-coloured palazzos and, yep, even a view of the Colosseum at the bottom of the street.
Ma is practically vibrating beside me, dying to point it out.
I put her out of her misery. ‘I see it, OK?’
She grins for the first time since leaving Nina and, grabbing my free hand, pulls me around a corner and into a vibrant open space. ‘This is Piazza dellaMadonna dei Monti.’ She says it like she’s introducing me to an old friend.
A beautiful octagonal fountain sits off-centre, close to the road. And for one ridiculous second, I imagine dunking myself in it, clothes and all. But that’s what a badly behavedturistawould do.
A group of young people sit on the steps around it – talking and laughing, half-listening to a musician playing an acoustic set – and I wonder if that could ever be me.
‘I spent my teenage years on those steps,’ Ma murmurs, almost to herself. But instead of oversharing like she normally would, her eyes go wide and unblinking like a cat startled by a sudden noise.
I follow her line of sight and spot a vintage Vespa on its kickstand. It’s blue, like Giulio’s, and my stomach drops.Dio, no!Don’t let him be here, too! But then I let out a small laugh. This is Rome,idiota! There are a million Vespas. And, anyway, Ma’s looking at—
Oh! My laughter cuts short. She’s looking at the bar beside it. It’s so different from my childhood memories that I check the street sign to be sure. Via dei Serpenti. Yes, it’s Nina’s bar. But even in the waning light, I can see the once-shiny chrome tables and colourful woven chairs are now dull and tarnished. Faded and fraying.
‘I knew things were bad, but...’ Ma quickens her pace, leading me to an arched wooden door that’s rotten and uneven around the edges, the wood blistered and peeling. Above it, a faded sign simply reads BAR.
She wrestles a key into the lock and we pause on the threshold, taking it all in – the mismatched tiles patching up the broken floor like sticking plasters, the cracked leather on the stools, the tarnished mirrored shelving lined with rows of dusty bottles, their labels curling at the edges. The bar looks old – and not in a retro or vintage way, either.
