Eighteen

Amy heaves her body to its feet.

It is raining heavily. The trees sigh with relief. Rivulets of water bubble down the path, crawl between the stones.

Amy is soaked. Her hair hangs flat against her neck, her shirt clings to her breasts.

Her father says, “Where are you going?”

She looks down at him. He squats in the hedgerow like a giant toad.

“Terra Firma. I believe that’s where I live.”

“Amy?”

“What?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve no idea . . . Think . . . Smile and be polite.”

“But – ”

“We have guests. Jules and Chris. They’ll be waiting at the house.”

“But – ”

Amy screams, “But what? What do you want from me?”

There is a terrible long quiet moment.

Her father says, “Forgiveness.”

“Wow! That’s a very big word!”

“Yes. So is compassion. And understanding.” He struggles to his feet. “Please.”

Father and daughter face each other in the pouring rain, across the river path. “You must believe me. It was an accident. A terrible mistake.”

Amy says, “Shut up! Just shut up and get out of my life!”

“But my darling little girl . . .”

“Don’t ever call me that again.” She feels like spitting in his face. “Crawl under a stone. That’s where you belong.”

She turned and walked away.

She did not look back. She could hear her father behind her, the squelch of his shoes, the sharp intake of his breath. She kept up the ruthless pace, though she knew he was flagging. She could feel his exhaustion but she steeled her heart.

She raced ahead of him.

Knowledge is power . . . I feel powerful . . . A different person . . . I feel whole again. Whatever I decide to do, I’ve managed to remember my bit of what happened.

That’s what matters.

I’ll have to believe my father’s told me the truth, just like I had to believe Marcello.

And now I must decide what I’m going to do . . .

Amy dashed into the house.

She glanced at the note from Hannah on the kitchen table:

Darling, Where are you? I’ve gone back to my flat to make myself beautiful for tomorrow. Ring me tonight. Sweet dreams. Love you the most. Hannah

Amy clawed at the piece of paper with her wet hands, tore it to shreds and threw it in the bin. She emptied the teapot over it, squashing the tea leaves into a dark stain, wishing Hannah’s face lay beneath: just like her father had wanted Marcello to lie under his poker, prodding at the letter in the fire.

She snapped the lid shut and dripped her way into the hall. Jules’s and Chris’s bags sat on the stairs. She pushed at the living-room door, poked her head around it.

Chris stood up. “Hi!” His eyes had a dazzling light to them.

Amy blew him a kiss.

Jules said, “Sis! . . . Where have you been? Talk about a drowned rat!”

Dad stood at Amy’s elbow, his breath heaving. “Julian! Christopher! Welcome home! My fault she’s so wet!”

Amy moved away from him.

“Dad and I,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “we’ve been having a little father-and-daughter chat. Before his big day and all.” She looked him squarely in the eyes, seeing in front of her a very frightened man. “Haven’t we, Dad?”

“That’s . . . that’s right.”

“Jules and Chris and I,” Amy said casually, “we had such a wonderful time in Florence . . . Didn’t we, Jules?”

Her brother looked startled and then alarmed.

Dad’s mouth dropped open. “What d’you mean?”

“Oh, it wasn’t planned. You could say we met by accident.”

Her father’s face paled. “How very nice,” he squeaked.

“And now,” Amy grinned at the three men in her life, “would you excuse me? I simply must get out of these wet clothes before I catch my death.”

They ate supper in the kitchen.

Julian cooked rice with wild mushrooms. Amy made a salad. Dad and Chris stood around and drank white wine. Dad swallowed half a bottle very fast and opened a second. Julian carved a cooked chicken, cold, straight from the fridge.

Everything tasted like soap.

Amy sat next to Chris. They didn’t say much to each other, but every so often Chris’s foot would gently nudge hers. Tyler took a shine to Chris and squashed adoringly against his legs.

Nobody mentioned Florence. When the conversation flagged, Julian brayed on about Rome. Dad got steadily drunk.

At the cheese and biscuits stage, Amy stood up. “Would you all excuse me again?”

“Where are you off to?” Her father’s eyes flickered warily over her.

“There’s something I need to do.”

“I hope you’re not going out this time of night?”

Amy ignored him. She looked at Julian. “You can clear up, can’t you? I won’t be a minute.” She turned at the door. “In fact, you’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

She pounded up to her room, sat at her desk, scrabbled between the files for the thick, creamy notepaper with its sepia crest. She read its handwriting three times. Then swiftly, decisively, she wrote:

Dear Marcello

I’m sorry to have taken so long to answer your letter. My father is getting married again. The ceremony is planned for tomorrow. So we’ve all been very busy at Terra Firma getting ready for the big day.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you and the Villa Galanti. And about your book in the chapel. I now know that my mother wanted you to publish it.

I’d like to come back to Fiesole. I want to see you again. To read the book. To persuade you to publish it.

Amy Grant

Her heart thumping with impatience, Amy wheeled her bicycle out of the garage.

The road stretched shiny with rain, thick with wet leaves; the sky black, without moon or stars. She flicked on the bike’s front and back lights and cycled to the post box. The letter thudded irrevocably into its mouth.

One down . . . Two more to go . . .

She changed direction and set off for Grayshott village. For the small, friendly police house, where she hoped their police officer, Philip Bradley, would be waiting.

She rings the bell.

A light flicks on in the hall. The door opens. Philip peers out.

“Hello! Isn’t it Amy Grant?”

“It is.”

“Good evening! This is a nice surprise!”

“Is it?”

“I don’t often get calls from you this time of night. Come to think of it, I don’t get calls from you at all!”

“No.” Amy swallows. “Things have changed . . . There’s something you need to know . . .”

Get on with it!

“I’ve something to tell you.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“No.” Amy takes a deep breath. “This won’t take long.”

Philip settles into his listening position: head on one side, eyes wide, arms folded across his policeman’s shirt, fingers thrumming.

“It’s about my father . . . It’s him I’ve come about.”

“Dr Grant?” Philip’s eyes light up. “Such a lovely man! When my sister was dying, Dr Grant sat with her all night long. Aren’t many doctors you can say that about.”

“You don’t understand,” Amy says wildly. “My father isn’t what he seems.”

“How d’you mean?”

“My father,” Amy says slowly. “The accident. When my mother died.”

“Ah, yes. That was unfortunate.”

“He kkk . . .” The verb sticks in her throat. She tries again. “He’s a mmm –”

The telephone peals in Philip’s office. “Would you excuse me a minute? I’ll be right back.” He trots off.

Amy kicks the doorstep. She hops up and down. She flicks at her hair and hugs her body. The night air smells thick with early autumn.

Philip pops his head round the office door. “Got an emergency on my hands . . . Would you like to come back in the morning?”

“But my father’s getting married in the morning.”

“I see.” Philip grins. “That’s what you’ve come about.”

Amy grabs her bike and wobbles furiously down the road.

The lights are on in Hannah’s flat. She leaves the bike sprawled across the pavement, thunders on Hannah’s door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Amy . . . Let me in!”

Hannah opens the door. Her hair is smeared with conditioner, her face covered in mud pack. “Amy? This is not a good time to call!”

Amy pushes past her. “Good time, bad time, what the hell does it matter?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve remembered everything.” Amy clenches her fists, screws up her eyes, bites her lip. “Every single bloody little moment.”

A silence hangs between them.

Hannah sighs. “Ahhh . . . I see what this is about.” She draws her robe more tightly around her. “You’d better come in and sit down.”

Amy flings herself into a chair. She looks up at Hannah. “It was my father on the Common that morning. It was him.”

Hannah slides gracefully on to the sofa. “I know.”

“What?”

“He told me everything. When we were in Wales. When he asked me to marry him. I know the whole story.”

Amy scrambles to her feet. “I don’t believe it. You mean, you knew but I didn’t?”

“He was only trying to protect you. You’d been traumatised. What good would it have done to go over all that old ground?”

“What good!”

“Look, Amy. It was an accident. It’s over and done with. There’s nothing anyone can do about it, not now, not ever.”

Amy wobbles across the room. She stands by Hannah’s slim body, seeing the outline of her bare breasts under the robe, her mud-packed face, her gleamy shining hair.

“I hate you,” she says.

Hannah flinches.

“I won’t be at your wedding tomorrow. I don’t want to see you again. You can have my father. I hope you both rot in hell.”

She marches out of the room and down the hall.

Hannah calls, “Wait! Amy, please, don’t leave like this.”

Amy slams the door behind her and races for her bike.

She throws it back in the garage. It hits the trampoline, shudders to a halt.

Inside the house, Tyler barks.

Dad says, “Ahh, Amy . . . You did go out.”

Julian flings an arm round Dad’s shoulders. “I’m taking Dad for a quiet drink . . . An orange juice. He’s already got through several bottles of wine.” He looks pointedly at Amy. “This is supposed to be his stag night, after all.”

“Thass’s sright. S’my thstag night . . . Here’s to all thstags.”

Amy looks at Chris. “That’s fine by me.”

Dad holds on to Julian. “You can keep Chrisss entertained fra while, can’t you, my darlin’ liddle gurl?”

“Oh, yes.” Amy slips off her coat. “I can do that all right.”

The door slams.

Julian’s car drives away.

Tyler curls into his basket and snuffles into sleep.

Chris leaps across the hall.

He takes Amy in his arms.

Amy clings to him, to his gentle, comforting warmth.

Tears begin to rack her body.

They catch in her throat and sting her eyes.

They taste dark as the starless night.