It is late afternoon by the time Owen arrives back at the market with Sean’s package.
‘Oh, well done,’ he thanks him, sliding it quickly into his trouser pocket. ‘You met Catherine?’
‘Yes. She’s nice.’ Owen recalls the dazzle of her red hair in the sunlight, the uncertainty of her pale-green eyes, his heart beating against the press of her head. ‘And the baby, as well, I saw her too.’
‘She’s a darlin’, isn’t she so?’
‘Mm . . . yes, she’s lovely. She’s got your eyes.’
‘She has,’ he crows. The market is winding down for the day. Stallholders are packing away stock, putting up their wooden shutters. A few disparate shoppers wander the aisles, resentfully watching as their choices are limited.
‘What did those men want earlier?’ Owen asks casually.
‘What men?’ Sean dodges. ‘It’s been a good day. We took a small fortune.’ He unzips the purse in his money belt, rifles inside it and produces a twenty-pound note. ‘That should cover your fares to Hounslow, Owen. And a bit of a bonus besides.’
‘Thanks. But you don’t have to. I was happy to go.’ Sean is leaning back against the counter, eyes unfocused. Owen stands beside him, beset by needling anxieties. ‘It was Blue, wasn’t it? That’s what they call him. And one of his minders? They were here this morning, wanting to talk to you. What’s going on, Sean?’ He is careful to keep his tone mild, his posture relaxed.
Sean shrugs. ‘A bit of business, you know. They’re influential, good connections to have, altogether.’
Owen sighs. ‘I don’t think you should get mixed up with them.’
‘Oh Jesus, the kid’s giving me advice now,’ he laughs wryly, landing a mock punch on Owen’s shoulder. ‘Well, thank you for that, but I think I can handle myself,’ he adds, striking a sour note.
‘It’s nothing to do with me, I know. Everyone enjoys a flutter occasionally, but you don’t want to end up in debt, having to borrow off some loan shark.’
‘What the fuck are you on about now?’
Owen refuses to meet his eyes. He is stepping onto unstable ground. He takes a deep breath. ‘Gambling. Aren’t you gambling? So long as it doesn’t get out of hand.’ Sean’s pale face suffuses with an angry red.
‘If I were you, I’d shut the fuck up!’ His hand finds the sore on his neck and he picks it viciously.
‘I’m concerned, that’s all.’ Owen begins clearing the counter. ‘No offence intended.’
‘How old are you, Owen?’ Owen is on his knees now, pushing bags into the shadowy recesses of the under-counter cupboard.
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Half your life, half your life, Owen. That’s how much older I am than you. Don’t you be after lecturing me. Don’t you dare lecture me. You know shit. D’you hear me, Owen? You know shit.’ He is leaning over him, spitting the words out. Owen waits, counts in his head, clambers to his feet slowly and turns.
‘I told you, I didn’t mean to offend.’ As they eyeball each other the music suddenly stops. They finish up without conversation, both observing the enforced silence. Owen is late leaving.
Enrico is at the flat when he gets back. He pushes through the bead curtain and there he is, lying on the settee, beer bottle in hand, propped on his chest. The sausage waft of pot hangs on the stagnant air. If the music has ceased in the market, it is in full swing here. The record is spinning on the turntable. The guitar is strumming to the easy slide of Bob Dylan’s drawl. ‘Tangled Up in Blue’. Owen glances down at the album cover slung on the floor. Blood on the Tracks. Bob, in profile, dark glasses, mass of curly hair, fuzzy focus. In the kitchen Naomi is also drinking beer. She is wearing skimpy black shorts and a coral and camel-brown bikini top. A small mother-of-pearl star is threaded on a maroon choker at her neck. Barefoot, she moves her body in serpentine waves. One hand is flat, pressing on her once more concave belly. When she sees him she halts, and with the other raises her bottle. Her smile is loose and he judges that this is not her first drink of the day.
‘Owen, come and join us. Would you like a beer?’ she cries. Without waiting for a reply, she starts burrowing in the fridge. A second later and the cap comes off with a sizz. Bottle in each hand, she goes to the settee, then jerks her chin up at Enrico. Lazily, he lifts his feet from the seat and swings into an upright position. He is wearing worn grey jeans, Jesus sandals, no shirt, his belt unbuckled. The top metal stud of his jeans is undone. His belly is flat, toned. Over it, wisps of dark hair glisten with sweat.
‘Come and sit with us,’ Naomi says, perching next to him.
‘Actually, I thought I’d take a bath, a cold bath.’
‘Do you want company?’ Naomi flirts tipsily. ‘Another time,’ Owen parries, smiling at her easy coquetry. He is thinking that if Sean finds out about Enrico being here it will cause more aggravation.
‘Sit down. Have your beer first,’ Enrico insists. ‘We have something to talk over with you.’
Owen lowers himself onto the settee arm, accepts the beer and sips it gratefully. The icy bite of it on his parched throat is sheer heaven. Naomi seems much brighter, and yet he senses that her shift of mood is ethereal. The record has moved on. The track ‘You’re a Big Girl Now’ is playing. ‘Enrico has had an idea,’ she opens. ‘He thinks we should take a holiday.’
‘We?’ Owen queries. Who does she mean? Her and Enrico? Or all three of them? Perhaps, he hazards, the surreal impinging on his thoughts after the tension of the day, the invitation includes Sean, Catherine, and even baby Bria.
‘You and me,’ she qualifies.
Enrico lounges back, beer in one hand, the other curling about Naomi’s shoulder. He plucks at the shoulder strap of her bikini top. ‘She’s not been well. She told me. A virus. She needs to recuperate. I can’t get the time off at the moment, but you two could go.’
‘It’s the peak of the tourist season,’ Owen protests. ‘We can’t just drop everything and leave Sean in the lurch.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Naomi pouts. ‘It will do him good to put in some solid hours at the market.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘You never know, it might keep him out of mischief.’
Enrico takes a couple of gulps of his drink and wags his head. His orange rat’s tail jiggles impudently. ‘I’ll see he’s okay. If necessary, I have some cousins over here this summer. They can lend a hand.’ He puts his empty bottle on the floor and thumps his chest with a closed fist, suppressing a belch.
‘You’d like a holiday, wouldn’t you, Owen?’ Naomi pleads, her eyes imploring.
It is unlikely, Owen broods, that Sean will want his rival’s support, so he stalls. ‘Well, yes, of course. But what about the cost? I’ve a little saved, but not much, not enough for an expensive holiday.’
He sees her and Enrico exchange a conspiratorial look. ‘That’s just it, Owen. It won’t cost you anything, except petrol. Naomi says that you mentioned you had a car?’
Visualizing his Triumph Spitfire, under wraps in the garage at home, Owen nods. Naomi blows into the neck of her beer and it gives a ghostly whistle. ‘Enrico says we can go to his village in Tuscany, Vagli Sotto. We can stay in the cottage his father and his brother have renovated, for free. We’ll see the lake where the other village was drowned,’ she entices. Owen flinches and drains his beer.
‘I’ve spoken to my father. The cottage is not let for the next few weeks. He is happy for you to go.’ Enrico gets up and pads off to fetch another bottle.
‘I want to see it so much. I’ve pictured it in my head often.’ She flicks a finger playfully on Owen’s bare arm.
‘I don’t know—’
‘Why not? What’s stopping us?’ Her eyes shine with impetuosity, while her bitten nails pinch his arm. ‘It’ll be so much fun.’
He lowers his voice, humiliated. ‘Naomi, I’m . . . I’m nervous around water.’
She leans closer to him. ‘I’ll be with you,’ she flutes. He scratches his head, rakes back his hair. ‘Only one week. That’s all. We can go to Florence. I really need this, Owen.’
Enrico is crouched over her record collection, selecting the next album to play. ‘Moondance, Van Morrison?’ he murmurs.
‘Do you really think it would make a difference?’ Owen’s head is close to hers now. ‘Would it help you to . . . to recover?’
‘Yes,’ she says decisively.
He conjures cypress trees, tall and swarthy, tickling a sky streaked with violet. He sees fields felted with scarlet corn poppies, and sucks in air clotted with spiky, black and cream, swallow-tailed butterflies. He sees villas stained the colour of the ochre earth, hugged by lemon trees. The soporific scents of rosemary and wild thyme assail him, along with the lulling drone of drowsy bumblebees. He does not see the sunlight diluted in the gloom of Lake Vagli, dappling the moss-cloaked walls of the drowned village.
‘All right. I’ll speak to Sean, square it with him.’
She is on her feet, stooping, sliding her hands behind his neck. The palms and fingers are wet and cold from the beer bottle. ‘Thank you.’
‘Crisis? What Crisis? Supertramp?’ Enrico says over his shoulder.
‘If you like,’ she agrees, her hypnotic lapidary eyes fixed on Owen’s.
‘Is it all settled then?’ Enrico wants to know, lifting the record out of its sleeve and fanning himself with it.
‘Yes,’ replies Naomi. And her lips as they brush Owen’s cheek are cool and determined.