It wasn’t entirely cynical, to rustle up a plate of antipasto, roasting some sweet peppers and onions in the oven with the best oil, slicing the salami thinly, chopping squares of tiny salty white goat’s cheese. She toasted yesterday’s bread, which still turned up golden, and spread it thick with salty butter, then added an ice-cold Peroni—it was the most beautiful day outside—and went up and stood at her flung-open balcony door. It didn’t take long.
“How is she, your nonna? She better, she fine?”
“Here.” She went to hand over the tray. He looked at it and frowned.
“Take it! It’ll drop down the cliff.”
“She is so well you can make me lunch?”
He took it in one big paw, still eyeing her suspiciously with those narrow brown eyes.
“I have a proposition for you,” said Marisa, nervously. Then she was cross with herself, she should at least have waited till he’d drunk his beer. Sure enough, those disconcerting eyes looked at her steadily.
“Huh,” he said.
“Um,” she said, staring at the floor. “I was thinking. Maybe . . . um. I thought. You might like to . . . take a trip with me. To Italy? It’s so beautiful there.”
Her face flushed.
“I have heard it is very beautiful,” he said gravely.
“Have you been?”
“To Milan, yes . . .” His voice sounded faraway and Marisa cursed herself for asking. His girlfriend was probably dancing at La Scala or something.
“But not the Riviera?”
He shook his head.
“You’ll love it.”
She pointed to a dark cloud on the horizon. “And look. The forecast for the next week is horrible. And there are lots of bedrooms in my grandmother’s house and I can buy your ticket and it’s . . . I mean, the food is amazing and . . .”
She realized she was gabbling and this had come out completely the wrong way, even more so as he didn’t change his calm restful expression. He put down his beer.
“Marisa,” he said. “You want me to come with you to visit your grandmother?”
“Um. Yes.”
“You should just ask me.”
Marisa blinked. “Would you come with me to visit my grandmother?”
There was a long pause.
“No,” he said.
* * *
She looked at him, stricken, aware that the hurt and sadness would be showing in her face.
“Fine,” she said, making to turn away.
“Marisa!” he said. “Wait!”
She half-turned back in case he was going to say he was only kidding but his face was as solemn as ever.
“It is hard,” he said, “to go by yourself, yes? To get there?”
She nodded.
“And you think I will make it easier?”
She felt ashamed, that he had seen through her so clearly. He frowned.
“And then what? I go everywhere with you?”
“No!” said Marisa, feeling annoyed and ashamed. “I thought you might like to come with me.”
“Very much,” he said. “I would like nothing better than to be eating ice cream on a beach with you, Marisa, kotyonok.”
“But you won’t.”
He looked pained. “You are doing . . . look at how well you are doing. When I meet you you are terrified. You are mouse. And now, you work with Polly, you go out, you make friend . . .”
Marisa couldn’t bear to ask him if he meant himself.
“You are doing well. You can do it. But you have to do it yourself. It is no use having . . .”
He mimed something which she didn’t get.
“You are so terrible at miming,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat.
“Things for helpink your legs.”
“Crutches.”
Her heart fell. Was that really how he saw her? Last night? Truly?
“You need to go be with your family,” he said. “You have come so far. You cannot stop now.”
“But—”
“I have pupils with exams, I have end of term concerts, I have busy things to be doink also.”
She nodded.
“But mostly, I think this is for you. Can you do it?”
His eyes looked at her.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I do.”