‘That’s the last of it, then,’ he said sadly, looking into the boot of the small hire car loaded with pillows and chairs, vases and lamps. ‘Everything that’s most important to you, packed and ready to go.’
What he meant was: me. Take me. Ask me to go with you. I’m important. I’m yours, too.
‘Great,’ she replied, not meeting his eye. She said it too loudly, too brightly. She was over-compensating. ‘Thanks so much. That was a lot. I’m knackered already!’
What she meant was: I don’t know how to say goodbye. I wish things were different. I’m scared.
Francesco Cipolla and Penny Bridge stood looking at anything but each other, both wishing they were back in the flat together, making brunch to sit with knees knocking and tasting food off each other’s forks, like yesterday morning, or in bed, twisting the sheets around them as they giggled, like last night.
It had only been three weeks. How could this all be ending after only three weeks? It was like leaving a play at the interval, or stopping after the first sip of a salt-rimmed margarita. They were wasting themselves, wasting the potential of what they had. They could be drunk on each other, they could finish falling all the way until they were in love. They were almost there anyway, and god knows Penny had searched hard enough for a man that could make her feel like this. But she couldn’t see how she could physically leave and mentally stay with him – and she really did have to leave. She owed it to her uncle. Trying to stay in a relationship with Francesco was a set-up for failure.
No, she reasoned with herself. I’m ripping the plaster off. Long-distance doesn’t work, and no way will he leave London for the countryside. I don’t even want to leave London for the countryside. She thought of his touch, his nimble fingers exploring her, how he tasted. He was so, so hot. And kind. And thoughtful. And he listened when she talked and made her laugh and didn’t treat her like a delicate doll that might break, and all of that made him even hotter.
No, she repeated to herself. We can’t.
Francesco cleared his throat.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay driving?’ he forced. ‘Shall we get coffee first, or snacks …?’
Take me with you.
‘Nah,’ Penny replied, knocking her shoulder against his and focusing on the edge of the pavement. ‘I think I’ll get upset if we go back in there to be honest. And I don’t want to have to stop for a wee until I’m at least at the Watford Gap.’
‘But you will stop,’ he said.
‘Yes, Francesco. I will stop.’ She was amused at his caring, and so finally looked up at him, halting the world on its axis.
Francesco couldn’t fully explain why he’d be willing to give up his life to go with her, but he would. Penny had no reason to believe he’d be different than every other man who’d left her when things got hard, though. They were in a stand-off. Francesco could only prove he’d stick around by being able to show up for her in the first place, and Penny was holding him at arms’ length, denying him the chance to try.
‘Well,’ she said, eventually. ‘I suppose I’ll see you when I see you.’
‘This is so weird.’
‘Nah,’ intoned Penny, inwardly screaming the opposite. ‘Just give me a hug and that’s that.’
Francesco obliged, holding her tight. Even the way she smells turns me on, he thought. Maybe friendship would be impossible after all.
‘Here’s to what’s next, then,’ he said into the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her.
Behind them Stuart appeared, lingering in the doorway of the café. He scowled a bit, a way to ask Francesco if he should interrupt or hang back. Penny sensed him, though, and so squeezed Francesco’s waist twice, a little morse code of release, and then pulled away.
‘Don’t ruin my café whilst I’m gone,’ she mock-taunted Stuart, who stepped forward to issue his own hug.
‘You have my word, boss,’ he smiled, doing a captain’s salute at her. ‘I’ll send updates all the time, and you can look at the accounts whenever you want.’
‘You’re a legend, Stu. Thank you for this.’
She opened the driver’s door and started the engine. As she slammed the door shut, she could see Francesco panic that that was it, that their goodbye was over and she would be gone. She laughed through both her tears and the glass, winding down the window.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ she insisted. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’ She wiped her eyes, all pretence of not crying disappearing. Then: ‘Tell me it’s all going to be fine.’
‘It’s all going to be fine,’ Francesco nodded, his own eyes stinging, his own vision blurring.