‘Good morning, bella Mia. Sleeping with you was the best thing I’ve done in a long time.’
I grab my pillow and toss it at Luca’s head. He retaliates. Our pillow fight is short-lived as I plead with him to be quiet.
‘Stella,’ I whisper, raising my finger to my mouth as I try to hold back the laughter.
‘Eh, it’s Stella. She’s like a sister,’ he says.
‘But she’ll think …’
‘Think what?’
‘You know …’
‘You know what?’ he teases.
‘I’m not like that.’
‘Not like what?’
‘You’re unbelievable.’ I fling the pillow at him again. He grabs me and flips me onto my back. Now he’s kissing and tickling me all over, intentionally making a heap of noise.
‘Stop! Please! Stop it!’ I beg, trying to catch my breath. The laughter feels so incredibly good.
He feels so incredibly good.
He stops only to plant the dreamiest of kisses on my mouth and I’m lost in the moment until a fleeting thought about work crosses my mind. In a panic, I pull away and Luca rakes his fingers through his hair, as though he’s trying to bring himself back to reality outside our bubble of intimacy.
‘What just happened?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling at me in surprise.
‘I need to get ready for my interview!’
‘Whoa, settle down, Australiana. It’s five-thirty in the morning. You’ve got plenty of time.’
‘But I don’t know what I’m going to wear,’ I say, jumping up from the bed. I’m not usually too concerned about my appearance; however, my future depends on the outcome of this interview and I know I should be making an effort.
‘Relax. You’re in Italy. And in Italy, we start the day with a nice, strong caffè,’ he says, gesturing with his arms.
So Italian.
‘Seriously, what if Stella sees you here?’ I don’t know how she’ll react to someone staying the night, even if it is someone she knows.
He doesn’t answer, and instead walks out of the bedroom door, stands at the bottom of the stairs and calls out, ‘Stella! Alzati! Get up, you’re late for work!’
I giggle.
A playful grin spreads across his face.
In the kitchen, Luca gets the coffee ready while I reach for the fette biscottate. Ugh.
‘I hate those things,’ he says.
‘Me, too,’ I groan.
‘Try the third drawer. That’s where the good stuff is,’ he says, smirking. ‘I’ve raided it enough times to know.’
I open the drawer to find a stash of no less than eight boxes of Kinder Colazione brioche.
‘Told you,’ he says, popping open a packet with a single hand. He slides it out and hands it to me. ‘Try this.’ He hands me the breakfast bar.
‘I know what they are,’ I tell him. Nutella crepes for dinner and this for breakfast. My mum would be horrified.
‘Don’t throw out the boxes when you’re done. Stella saves the points. Everyone always saves the points,’ he says, pouring three cups of coffee. ‘Stella! Caffè!’
I turn the box around and find the square perforated coupons. Fifty points will get me a free toaster, and a hundred coupons will get me a set of brand-new bedsheets.
Stella enters the kitchen, her hair dishevelled. She snatches her coffee and gives Luca a light slap across the back of the head. ‘Thanks very much,’ she says.
He grins. ‘Prego,’ he replies, giving me a wink. He finishes his coffee, places his empty cup in the sink, and makes his way to the bathroom.
Stella grins broadly at me, her eyes demanding answers.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I mouth desperately.
She raises her eyebrows and steps in closer to me. ‘So was he good?’
‘Quiet!’ I warn. ‘I told you, it wasn’t like that,’ I whisper under my breath.
‘Looks like Tuscany isn’t the only thing that’s stolen a piece of your heart, bella Mia,’ she says, exiting the kitchen.
Luca comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered, looking more gorgeous than ever. Stella was right when she said he and Paolo were part of the furniture. He throws a cardboard packet in the bin.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘A new toothbrush,’ he says, grinning. ‘Figured I might be needing it.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I want to make sure those nightmares don’t haunt you anymore.’
My stomach does a series of flip-flops.
‘Meet me outside the officina once you get back from Empoli,’ he says, planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘In bocca al lupo.’
In the wolf’s mouth? I must have the translation wrong. ‘Huh?’
‘You’re meant to reply crepi,’ he says.
‘Die? You want me to wish you to die?’
‘It’s a colloquial expression. It’s like saying, “good luck”, or “break a leg”, to which the person is supposed to reply crepi or crepi il lupo, which kind of means you’re wishing the wolf to die,’ he explains. ‘Actually now that I think about it, the Italian-to-English translation doesn’t work that well.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I agree on a laugh. ‘But I need all the luck I can get. So crepi!’
I reluctantly walk Luca to the front door. As he leans in to kiss me goodbye I get the overwhelming urge to apologise. ‘I’m sorry I broke down last night,’ I blurt. ‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t …’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ he tells me firmly.
‘But I barely know you. You must think …’
‘When you’re ready, I’ll tell you what I think.’
He kisses me as if he’ll never see me again and then slips his helmet over his head. And just like that, he leaves me hanging.
Stella’s gone by the time I’m showered and dressed. I manage to arrive in Empoli by train, and the interview goes smoothly until the role-play in Italian, which is followed by a language test that I’m certain I failed, given the expression of disdain from the stodgy old man who has interviewed me. He butts out his cigarette with his yellow-stained fingers and gives me my score: seventy-five per cent.
‘We need a pass rate of ninety per cent,’ he informs me, lighting another cigarette. He inhales deeply and exhales a puff of toxic smoke in my direction. By now I’m feeling defeated, albeit slightly relieved. Given the correlation between cancer and smoking, I’m not sure I would have taken the job anyway.
During the train ride home, Stella calls me.
‘Hey, girl, I have some good news for you! My friend recently resigned from her job as a nanny. I made some calls and Clara, the mother of the twin boys she was watching, wants to meet with you. Great family—she’s a top art dealer, originally from London. Her husband’s away a lot. Anyway, she wants to see you this afternoon at three if you’re available. Grab a pen, here’s the address,’ she says, before reeling off the address for me, along with some directions.
‘Okay, got it,’ I reply.
Oh gosh. Can I actually do this? Care for two kids? What on earth am I thinking?
Back at the villa, I tidy my hair, put on some light makeup and grab my bag for another stroll through the square and to the Balducci family residence. The villa and its grounds are enormous, reminding me of something out of Architectural Digest. I’m interrupted by the sound of laughter just as I ring the doorbell. I turn around to see where it’s coming from when the cold spray hits me, soaking my hair, my face, my shirt.
I frantically sift through my bag for something to wipe my face dry, hoping the little mascara I’m wearing hasn’t smudged down my cheeks. I shake the drops of water off my clothes, turning around to see if I can catch a glimpse of the tiny offenders. Hiding behind a large terracotta planter is a little guy with dark-brown hair and huge brown eyes. He’s beaming at me, proud of his efforts to drown me at the door. I expect his brother to be identical to him, but they’re complete opposites. This child’s green eyes pierce mine, his curly blond hair bouncing around his head as he jumps out from the planter, yelling, ‘We got you!’
I burst out laughing just as a woman, tall and slender with porcelain skin and shoulder-length blonde hair, opens the door. Her straight hair is so smooth and silky that she looks as though she could be on a shampoo commercial. She’s immaculately dressed, just like her boys.
‘Oh, Mia, I am so sorry,’ she says as she guides me through the front door into the safety of her home.
‘Oh, that’s fine. Kids.’ I shrug, not knowing what else to say. ‘I wish I hadn’t worn a white shirt,’ I say, trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation.
She ignores my attempt at cracking a joke and extends a manicured hand around my semi-wet one.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mia. I’m Clara,’ she says in her enchanting British accent.
‘It’s a pleasure.’ I suddenly feel far too casual and insignificant around this woman, with her perfect accent and pristine demeanour.
‘Boys, please behave while I chat to Mia,’ she says, as the twins scramble upstairs in a race to reach the top. ‘In the meantime, I’d like you to think about your behaviour.’ Her voice lacks the firmness that I was used to growing up, and her reprimand sounds more like a polite request than an order.
‘Lemonade?’ she asks, gesturing for me to sit at the rectangular wooden table in the middle of her enormous rustic kitchen.
‘Yes, please, that would be lovely.’
‘So, Mia, you’re a long way from home. What brings you to Florence?’ she asks, filling my glass with ice cubes, which she takes from a bucket with a pair of silver tongs.
‘Uh, well … I was hoping for a new experience,’ I reply. At least I’m half telling the truth.
‘Well, that you will have,’ she says. ‘Florence is an enthralling place to explore. Stella told me a little bit about you. Is it true you’re an artist?’
I should have known she’d ask me this question. I wish I’d better prepared myself. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I love art. I paint, mostly.’
‘What kind of painting do you do?’ she asks, placing her hand under her chin.
‘Mainly watercolour. Occasionally oil. I also like to sketch.’
‘How lovely. I’m intrigued. I’d love to see your work sometime,’ she says.
‘Of course. I’d love to share it with you,’ I lie. Showing a sketch to friends is completely different to sharing my artwork with a successful London art dealer, even if it is in the most casual of circumstances.
‘I look forward to it. Are you studying art here?’ she asks, eyeing me over the brim of her glass as she takes a sip of her lemonade.
I shake my head, unsuccessfully masking my disappointment. ‘Maybe one day. I mean, I’d love to. I was offered a spot back home into the Fine Art program at the Victorian College of the Arts, but I had to turn it down.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘That school has an excellent reputation. You must be good. I might be able to make a recommendation for the academy when you’re ready,’ she says.
‘That would be great, thank you,’ I say, relieved that she hasn’t asked any killer questions.
‘Mia, let me get straight to the point and tell you what I’m looking for. I need a nanny three days a week for split shifts. Nine until one and then four until seven. Cooking, washing and ironing for the boys only, and light household chores as needed,’ she says.
‘That … it all sounds great,’ I reply, thinking that it sounds perfect.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘How old are the boys?’
‘Five. And I should warn you—they’re a bit of a handful. The last six months or so have been particularly challenging. What they need is some … stability, shall we say.’
‘I understand,’ I reply, thinking that I don’t really understand what she means at all.
‘You do plan on staying for a while?’
‘Right. Well, Stella spoke very highly of you, and I trust her judgement. This is what I’m proposing for a weekly salary,’ she says, grabbing a fountain pen and scribbling down some dates, times and a figure. ‘Thoughts?’ she says, turning the paper around to face me.
I scan the page and nod. ‘That all looks great.’
‘Could you start by doing a trial morning shift tomorrow?’ she asks, her hands clasped on the table.
‘Really? I mean, of course, I can’t see why not.’
‘Wonderful,’ she says, the slightest hint of a smile spreading across her lips. She reaches out to shake my hand as though she’s performed some kind of business transaction in a boardroom meeting.
‘Let me introduce you to Massimo and Alessandro.’ She calls out to them from the bottom of the staircase. ‘Bambini! Come down, please. I want you to meet your new nanny!’ A minute later, looking dishevelled and extremely guilty, the boys tumble down the stairs.
I stand up from the table. ‘Hi, I’m Mia. Now, which one of you is Alessandro?’ I ask, trying to sound as bubbly as possible.
‘Me!’ replies the dark-haired boy.
‘Massimo!’ barks Clara. ‘That’s Massimo, and this is Alessandro,’ she says, motioning to the green-eyed boy as she keeps a tight grip on the boys’ shoulders in an effort to still them. I want to laugh at Massimo’s mischievousness, but I hold every muscle in my face tight in an effort to stop myself.
‘Nice to meet you, Mia,’ says Alessandro, piercing me with his emerald eyes. I smile back.
Clara nudges Massimo towards me, her glare sharp enough to still him for all of ten seconds.
‘Nice to meet you, Mia,’ he says, eyes on his feet.
‘Can we go now?’ asks Alessandro innocently. I already have a soft spot for this gentle soul.
‘Don’t you think you owe Mia an apology first?’ asks Clara, the sternness in her voice now more apparent.
‘Sorry, Mia,’ says Alessandro, fidgeting.
‘Yeah, sorry, Mia, but it’s just water,’ says Massimo. As much as I feel like laughing at his response, I hold myself back. Clara sighs deeply.
Without waiting for another reprimand from his mother, Massimo takes off up the stairs, Alessandro trailing behind him.
‘It’s the attention … or lack of it,’ she says, sighing again. ‘Bert, my husband, who you may get the chance to meet before Christmas if his job permits, isn’t around much these days. I suppose, to some degree, the boys miss their father.’
Christmas is six months away. Clara briefly drops her gaze before she asks whether she can drive me home. I tell her I prefer to walk.
‘Well, it’s been lovely meeting you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,’ she says.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I say, meeting her eyes.
She returns a gentle nod and closes the door behind me.
I text Luca.
I got a job. I get to stay.