‘Any news on the job front?’ asks Stella, joining me on the sofa where I’ve been spending the early evening amusing myself with Italian game shows and barely dressed ballerinas who break out into dance routines before every commercial break.
‘Nope, but I’ve got an interview tomorrow. I actually meant to ask you: where’s Empoli?’
‘You sure you want to travel that far each day? It’s over an hour away.’
‘You’re kidding! Maybe I should cancel the interview.’
‘Something has got to come up closer to home.’ She glances at her watch. ‘We better make a start on dinner.’
‘Stella, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about the other night. You know, the nightmare I had. I just need you to not make a big deal about it.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m in remission from cancer—lymphoma.’
‘What? You’re okay now though?’
‘I’m okay now.’ I nod, reassuring her.
‘Does Luca know?’
‘Yeah, he knows.’
‘All right, so if and when you want to talk about it, I’m here.’ She gives me a gentle smile.
‘I know, but I don’t think I need to talk about it again. I just want you to know.’
‘Okay,’ she says in a kind of dismissal. ‘Let’s get dinner ready.’
‘Oh, I already prepared something for you,’ I say, following her into the kitchen, where I open the pot of ribollita, letting the odour sweep through the room. ‘Just thought I’d try a typical Tuscan dish.’ I smile proudly. Earlier today I’d dusted off an old recipe book and mastered this tomato- based bean-and-vegetable stew, to be served with bread. For dipping, of course.
‘Smells delicious! I’m impressed. Hey, where did those flowers come from?’ she asks, pointing to the windowsill.
‘Um, well …’
‘Mia!’
‘I know, I know. We’re going out again tonight,’ I say, my lips forming a timid smile. I have no power over the physical responses that overcome me the second I think about Luca.
‘What about dinner?’
‘I guess I’ll eat something in town,’ I say, biting down on my smile.
‘You’re falling hard, girl!’ she teases.
There’s no use denying it. Just then, someone knocks on the door.
‘No, you go,’ she says, ushering me out of the kitchen.
‘Too nervous. Please, Stella.’
She chuckles and then bounces through the living area, while I follow behind. I race into the main bathroom to fix myself in the mirror. In a frenzy, I apply some lip gloss and smack my lips together, and when I glance up I notice Luca’s reflection, standing behind me. Grinning.
Oh, God. I bet he saw all of that.
‘I knew that dating an Australian girl was going to be fun,’ he says, smiling.
That smile undoes me every time.
‘You look perfect. Ready?’ he asks, as he gives me the customary kiss on each cheek. I assume he’s going for the left, but he goes for the right and our lips almost meet in the middle. My mouth twists into a nervous smile as our eyes meet. He smiles affectionately, as if he’s enjoying this. He squeezes my hand and we make our way to the front door.
‘Bye, Stella!’ I call. She licks the back of a wooden spoon and beams at us from the doorway of the kitchen like a proud mother hen.
‘Ciao, amoretti,’ she calls. ‘Don’t be home too late!’
‘Ciao, Stella!’ calls Luca, closing the door behind us.
‘Amoretti?’ I ask.
‘Cupids.’
‘Oh,’ I murmur, suddenly feeling shy.
‘Oh?’ he asks, tilting his head to the side.
‘You’re having way too much fun teasing me, you know.’
‘Can’t help it. You couldn’t be more adorable if you tried.’
It’s a cool summer evening, and I’m glad I’ve opted for a pair of jeans. I mount the scooter, and this time, when my arms wrap around Luca’s body, he brushes his hands over mine before starting the ignition. Approaching the city centre, we make our way through the Porta Romana, which once formed part of the city gate around Florence. We park near Piazza Santa Croce and I ask him to wait while I admire the Franciscan basilica.
‘Michelangelo’s tomb’s inside there,’ I say. ‘And in the Bardi Chapel there are these incredible frescoes by Giotto that depict the life of Saint Francis. I mean, I haven’t seen them yet—only in photos, but—’
‘You really do love art, don’t you?’
I nod, running my fingers along the pink, green and white marble facade of the basilica. I explain there are supposed to be tidemarks on its walls that date back to the 1966 flood of the Arno River. ‘They lost so much precious artwork in that flood …’ My voice trails off when I notice he’s stopped nodding and is now gazing at me in an admiring stare. ‘You’re not really that into art, are you?’ I ask, embarrassed at my rambling.
He shakes his head. ‘Not really, but I’m really into you.’ He moves closer to me, planting a series of soft kisses on my mouth. My stomach flutters in response. We kiss as if we’re the only couple in the buzzing square, and I wish this feeling would never end. When our lips finally part, he asks me, ‘Now, what was that you were saying about destroyed artwork?’
‘Oh, so you were listening?’
‘To every word.’
He waits for me to finish my story. Once I stop talking, he doesn’t say a word, just kisses me tenderly on the head. He takes my hand, intertwining his fingers between mine.
‘Well, I did some sketching … and I guess the highlight of my day was when this charming guy I recently met gave me a bunch of the prettiest flowers I’ve ever seen.’
‘Oh, really? You need to be careful of charming, random strangers in Italy, you know. They prey on breathtakingly gorgeous Australian girls.’ He stops in his tracks to kiss me again. As we continue walking, Luca asks me how the job hunting is going.
‘Not so great,’ I reply. ‘If I don’t find a job soon I’ll have to go home in six weeks.’
He stops walking and his expression turns serious. ‘But you can’t go home anytime soon.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because … us. This is only the beginning.’
I take a deep breath, my stomach summersaulting.
Can it be possible for something that is moving so quickly to be real?
As if reading my mind, Luca interrupts my train of thought. ‘There’s something about you, painter girl. And whatever it is that I’m feeling right now, it’s very real.’
I retreat into my safe space, eyes fixed on the horizon, confused by the flurry of conflicting emotions that are swirling through me. I don’t want to think about how logical this is. It doesn’t make sense, yet the rightness of it all is what makes it so darn special.
‘We barely know each other, Luca,’ I say in a weak attempt to appease the left side of my brain into thinking it’s in charge. As soon as I speak the words I regret them.
‘That doesn’t matter to me,’ he says, not fazed in the least. ‘Want to know why?’
‘Because I decided that time is overrated.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since you.’
I start fidgeting with my watch, my eyes now fixed on a group of illegal street sellers packing up their wares as the carabinieri stroll through the square.
‘What does your head say?’ he asks.
I snap out of the zone as quickly as I drifted into it and look up into his perfectly rounded chestnut eyes, knowing there’s no way I can lie.
‘That it’s too quick.’
‘What does your heart say?’
‘That …’
He nods with a half-smile, knowing what I’m going to say.
‘… it feels right.’
‘Then it’s right. And it’s real,’ he says, raising his eyebrows, flashing his gorgeous smile, which quickly turns into an intense gaze.
I study his face, contemplating his beautiful mind, when he winks at me.
‘So, what did you sketch today?’ he asks.
‘Uh, it’s a surprise,’ I say, deciding that I should wait for the right time to show him my work.
He moves my hand around his waist, where my fingers slip through the loop on the side of his jeans. He places his arm around me and we stroll down a small cobblestoned street. The faint smell of leather drifts through the air; the hallmark scent of Florentine craftsmanship. Soon we are in Piazza della Signoria, passing the replica of the statue of David. Further ahead, near the entrance to the Uffizi Gallery, Signor Fiorelli is packing up his paintings.
‘Buonasera, signorina,’ he greets, smiling. ‘Nice to see you again.’ He turns to face Luca and reaches out to shake his hand. ‘Luca, da quanto tempo. Tutto bene?’ He’s happy to see Luca, though I can still sense a loneliness in Signor Fiorelli’s voice. I quickly try to translate the words into English. It’s been a while. Is everything well with you?
‘Signor Fiorelli,’ says Luca, smiling. ‘Good to see you again. This is my amica, Mia.’
‘We’ve already met,’ says Signor Fiorelli. ‘Aah, Mia. You’re in good company with this young man.’
We’re interrupted by a French couple who want to buy some of Signor Fiorelli’s paintings before he packs them away. As they contemplate their selections, he asks us what we’re up to tonight.
‘Luca’s giving me a tour of Florence. We were on our way to the Ponte Vecchio.’
‘Make sure he shows you the padlocks,’ he says. ‘Young love. Precious young love.’ He winks at the couple, who smile fondly at us.
‘See you soon, Mia. Luca, send my regards to Stella.’
Luca nods and we say goodbye.
‘How do you know Signor Fiorelli?’ he asks.
‘I met him the other day when I came to paint. His work’s impressive.’
‘Do you recognise it?’
‘Recognise it? From where?’ I pause to think about where I could have seen Signor Fiorelli’s work before. The loose and expressive brush strokes seem familiar. Then I remember I have seen them before—in the three paintings in my bedroom.
‘Signor Fiorelli is Stella’s uncle?’
‘Yes, he is. Didn’t you notice the paintings? Amelia’s in every one of them.’
Luca’s right. The same woman appears in each painting.
‘I thought he didn’t paint anymore.’
‘Well, apparently he picked it up again,’ says Luca, shrugging his shoulders.
Signor Fiorelli intrigues me and so do his paintings: the way he can no longer live in the home he shared with his wife because there’s so much pain attached to it; the way he breathes life into her with memories and brushstrokes. I suppose that’s what true love does. It carves a space so deep in your heart that it can never die. Once one person goes, the other, in some capacity follows. It dawns on me that my own fear of dying is becoming more complicated.
Unsettling thoughts float through me during our short walk to the Ponte Vecchio, which is illuminated by the city lights in anticipation of sunset. Gold bracelets and charms glisten through the windows of jewellery stores, their wooden shutters bearing the decorative emblem of the Florentine fleur-de-lis.
‘Have you heard of the love locks?’ asks Luca.
I shake my head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, tradition has it that when two lovers fix a padlock to the bridge and toss the key into the Arno, they’re locked together by their love … for eternity.’
‘Really? That’s like the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. It’s beautiful.’
‘Just like you,’ he whispers, tucking some loose strands of hair behind my ear. I shift uncomfortably, worried that he might notice the hair extensions.
‘Everything okay?’
Without meaning to, I momentarily drop my gaze. ‘Everything’s perfect.’
He continues telling me about the bridge. ‘This is the only Florentine bridge that wasn’t destroyed during the Second World War bombings.’ I study the way Luca’s eyes come to life, the way his mouth smiles ever so subtly as he talks. ‘So if you’re ever going to attach a love lock to a bridge in the hope your love can withstand anything, I’d say this bridge would be a good one.’
‘That is so utterly romantic,’ I say as I crouch down to admire the impressive number of padlocks fixed to the railings that surround a statue of Benvenuto Cellini, who, according to the plaque at his feet, was an Italian goldsmith and sculptor. Everlasting love. So romantic. So Romeo and Juliet.
We stroll over to a space on the side of the bridge where the lovers that I painted yesterday were standing. Our timing is perfect, with the pink-orange sun just minutes away from setting. Luca wraps his arms around my waist from behind and nestles his chin in between my neck and shoulder as we wait for the light to change over the horizon before it disappears completely. Being held this way feels safe. Right. Meant to be. I argue internally about whether I can actually let this be. I don’t know if I can do it to him. He doesn’t deserve to see a girl he cares about wilt away and die any more than I deserve to be that girl.
Ninety per cent survival rate. Ten per cent recurrence rate. Ten per cent recurrence rate. Ten per cent recurrence rate.
Two small tears escape from my eyes. They glide down my cheeks, past my nose, tickling my skin on their way down. They eventually drop off my chin onto his hand. He turns me around and wipes away the residual tears.
‘It’s okay, Mia. You can feel safe here.’
‘Sorry, I’m just a bit emotional.’
‘Shh,’ he whispers, placing his finger on my mouth. ‘No need to explain.’
‘Bet you think I’m a basket case.’
‘No … just a bit emotional,’ he teases. ‘Let’s go. I know what can make this better.’
I desperately want to tell him the things that overwhelm me, but Luca’s kiss washes away every thought, rational or irrational.
Ninety per cent survival rate. I have to focus on the ninety per cent. I have to survive the next five years. Because. Us.
Tables at the piano bar are filled with locals sipping aperitifs, singing along to live Italian classics. Luca hands me a menu. ‘I should have told you they don’t actually serve dinner here. Although they do amazing Nutella crepes,’ he says, grinning.
‘Great!’ I say, folding my menu. ‘Perfect cure for volatile emotions.’
He laughs, watching the ice cubes slide over each other in his glass as he takes a slow sip of his Rosso Antico. Then he says, ‘So, I’ve just shown you my favourite place in the world, where’s yours?’
‘After I got the news of my remission, my mum took me to see a musical at the Regent Theatre, because that’s what we did whenever we had something to celebrate. Afterwards, we had dinner at the Langham Hotel, where the city was glittering below us and piano music was playing the whole time and you could see the most incredible view of the Yarra River, which was painted with the reflection of the skyline. Maybe I’ll take you there some day.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. Before we even get to that, though, we’d need a padlock first,’ he says, raising his eyebrows and breaking into the most irresistible of grins.
We polish off our crepes and spend the next few hours chatting, lost amongst the melodies of the piano, alternating between periods of comfortable silence and meaningful and not-so-meaningful chatter. Luca teaches me how to make a rolled r sound, and once he’s satisfied with my intonation, he teaches me a string of terms of endearment in Italian.
‘Tesoro. Treasure.’
‘Teh-soh-ro.’
‘Dolcezza. Sweetheart.’
‘Doll-cheh-zah. How am I doing?’
‘You’re doing great. Ti voglio baciare.’
‘Tee …’
‘No, I actually mean I want to kiss you.’
‘Like right now, right now?’
‘Si—right now.’
He leans towards me and his lips meet mine. His mouth tastes sweet, like a delicious infusion of citrus and vanilla. Any inhibitions I might have had about public displays of affection dissipate into nothing as the warmth of Luca’s mouth ignites life in me again. He gently pulls away and rests his forehead on mine. He smiles. I smile. He kisses me again. And again. And again.
We arrive back at the villa at almost one in the morning, and as our perfect-as-it-ever-could-be date draws to an end, I tell Luca to wait for me at the front door before going home. I lift the paper off my desk, swallowing the excess saliva in my mouth. If I have any chance of moving forward, of healing, I know I need to do this. Sharing my work is almost as important as trusting myself to paint again. Determined to resist the temptation to change my mind, I command my feet to move forward.
‘I made this for you,’ I say, handing him the sketch. I peek up at him, watching his eyes dart over the page. He forms the words to speak. Nothing comes out. He tries again.
‘You seriously have big talent, Mia. This isn’t something that just happens.’
When I don’t answer, he looks up at me.
‘I didn’t know whether I’d ever be able to get that part of me back.’
‘Sometimes we have to let the past go …’
‘But what if the future scares you even more than the past?’
He looks at me penetratingly, searching for clues. When he doesn’t find any, he asks, ‘What is it you’re scared of?’
‘Dying. I’m scared of dying.’
Luca’s eyes soften. He blinks, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows. Here we are, standing at my front door and I’ve quite possibly chosen the absolute worst timing to admit my biggest fear to this wonderful guy I barely even know.
‘You’re no closer to dying that anyone else is,’ he says. ‘Nobody ever knows what can happen tomorrow.’ Even his voice has softened now.
‘But it could come back. There’s a ten per cent chance I might die in the next five years if I get a recurrence.’
‘But, Mia, that means there’s a ninety per cent chance of you surviving the next five years. Those are excellent odds.’
‘I know that in my head, but I can’t stop thinking about it,’ I whisper. ‘Every day, hundreds of times a day, it’s always at the back of my mind. And then there are the nightmares …’
His eyes are intense, taking in all of my brokenness.
The words keep rolling off my tongue. ‘I don’t know if I could go through it again—the chemo, seeing my family suffer, losing my friends, my hair,’ I say, reaching for my extensions. ‘I don’t think I’m strong enough to face all that again.’
‘Who says you have to?’
He wraps his arms around me and places his hand behind my head, encouraging me to lean into him. As soon as my face nestles into that warm space on his shoulder, I come completely undone. I let myself unravel in his strong embrace, my tears flowing as though a river’s banks have burst. A series of quiet sobs from deep within release themselves onto his chest and he holds me tighter than ever. Not letting go of me, he closes the door gently behind him with his leg and he swiftly lifts me into his arms as if I’m as light as a feather. He carries me to my bedroom, shifts the curtains of my four-poster bed and places me onto the softness of my mattress. He reaches for a box of tissues on the nightstand before nestling his body against mine, stroking my face tenderly.
‘I didn’t realise I was this scared. I’m really, really scared.’
‘You can let go and relax into life now. Focus on what’s working, what’s beautiful, what makes you feel alive. Surround yourself with more of that. You know, we humans can only control a small percentage of what happens to us. The rest is … I don’t know, destiny … or stuff that just happens. Most of the time we never know why. Which is why we have to live one day at a time, Mia. Making the most of every minute.’
I lie still, trying to catch my breath, trying not to question why what happened to me did.
‘I’ll be back in a second,’ he says.
A short time later he returns with two cotton balls on a plate in one hand and a steaming hot chamomile tea in the other.
‘The world lights up when you smile, bella Mia.’
‘What are they for?’ I ask, pointing to the cotton balls.
‘Your eyes. Wild chamomile does wonders, you know. You don’t want them puffy for your interview tomorrow, right?’ He winks at me.
‘Who taught you that?’
‘An ex-girlfriend who used to cry a lot when she didn’t get her own way.’
The thought of Luca with another girl sends pangs of envy through my stomach. ‘Have you had many girlfriends?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve had enough to know that this is nothing like I’ve ever had before.’
‘But we’re only dating.’
‘I’m not really fussy when it comes to labels.’
‘Tonight was … perfetto,’ I whisper.
He kisses me on the forehead. ‘You made it perfect.’ His lips move to my neck as he guides me onto my back, the weight of his body pressing against me. His mouth gently explores mine while his hand unhurriedly travels over the curve of my waist. He slides my top up and the breath knocks out of me in response. It becomes impossible to control the reaction of my body. All of me wants this, yet something is holding me back.
‘I can’t. Not yet … not ready …’ I whisper, releasing my grip around his neck. I look up at the ceiling, sink deeper into my pillow and let out a sigh of frustration. My already flushed cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Luca shifts over to his side, rests his head on his elbow and rolls my body towards him. He blinks at me thoughtfully, as if he’s taking me in, trying to work me out.
‘Okay,’ he murmurs, a soft smile forming on his lips. ‘I’ll wait for you. However long it takes.’
Without dropping his gaze, he reaches for my hand and holds it against his chest. Before I can say a word, he closes his eyes, leaving me to contemplate the accelerated beating of his heart through the palm of my hand.
We lie on top of the sheets until morning, when we wake up to the roosters crowing and the golden sunlight streaming through the shutters, closer and more united than we were yesterday.