Miss You (49 page)

‘It tastes like an apricot Danish!’ I exclaim. Then, feeling like an idiot, ‘Except peach.’

‘And Italian?’ he says.

But in a nice way. Not how Sue or Graeme would say it.

‘Do you fancy a coffee when I get off work?’ he asks.

‘I can’t drink coffee at night. Maybe I’ll have a soft drink?’ I add quickly.

‘Rendezvous in the bar when we’ve cleared up?’

Rendezvous!

It’s only when I open the wardrobe door that I catch a view of the back of my shorts reflected in the mirror on the wall. By the time I’ve changed, washed my face,
deliberated about putting on make-up, decided against, and squirted myself with duty-free Chanel No5, the bar has packed up and the villa is shrouded in darkness and the profound stillness you only
get in the countryside.

GUS

I understand that restaurant kitchens have to be spotlessly clean, but this is a holiday that Nash paid money for, and it seems a bit of a con that the villa only employs two
chefs and a kitchen porter, and the people on the cookery course have to do most of the preparation, cooking and clearing-up. By the time I’m through, the cafe’s deserted and the
butterfly woman has given up and gone to bed.

In my room next to the pool, I lie awake listening to the cicadas and the occasional untimely crowing of a cockerel on a distant farm, smiling in the darkness at the thought of her sleeping
somewhere nearby.

I wake from a dreamless sleep to the clatter of cutlery and the buttery-sweet smell of warm croissants.

As I wander towards the terrace for breakfast, I notice that there’s a minibus waiting on the gravel outside the main door of the house. Her face stares at me through the window as it
pulls away. She waves, just as she did from the back of the ambulance, then suddenly frowns, as if she’s just remembered something.

‘Where’s the minibus going?’ I ask the course director, Lucrezia.

‘A cultural tour of Firenze.’

‘And they’re coming back . . . ?’

‘Tonight, yes.’

TESS

Outside the railway station where the bus drops us, a guide with a red umbrella is waiting to take the Culture group on a tour. I tell her that I’m going shopping, in case
it sounds rude to say that I want to follow my own itinerary.

In my memory, the other stops on our Interrail holiday are like postcards: the floodlit amphitheatre in Verona against a navy-blue sky; the bay of Naples; the view across the lagoon to San
Giorgio, Venice; but that last, carefree day Doll and I spent in Florence, the day before my life changed, I can remember hour by hour, footstep by footstep almost, and, for sentimental reasons, I
want to retrace it.

I take the bus to Fiesole, standing by the open window, feeling the movement of air on my face. When the bus deposits me at its final stop, belching a cloud of diesel as it turns around to
return to the city, the square is suddenly peaceful and a whisper of mountain breeze cools my bare arms. In the Roman amphitheatre, I sit on one of the warm stone tiers, my memory so acute I can
almost hear my younger self shouting, ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!’ from the stage.

I take a photo and send it to Doll with the message.
Miss you!

In the cafe, I sit under a shady vine, drinking sparkling mineral water. I eat spaghetti
al pomodoro
without basil while gazing at Florence, a miniature city in the distance, like the
background of a Leonardo painting.

GUS

The chef is teaching me how to make
vitello tonnato
, which is a dish I’ve never tried because I’ve always thought it would taste strange. I’m not crazy
about veal or tuna, but together? How is that ever going to work? Chef assures me that it will be
buono
if I follow his recipe carefully.

First, I have to roast the joints of veal, making sure that they are cooked but not dry. And then they must rest and cool, because the dish is served cold. Next I make a mayonnaise from egg
yolks, lemon juice and olive oil, and flavour it with capers, diced very fine, and with a small amount of chopped chervil and chives from the garden. To this I add a few pounded, salted anchovies,
and a drained, mashed tin of tuna. Then I slice the cooled veal on the machine and layer it with the flavoured mayonnaise. It doesn’t look promising, but it tastes divine.

‘
Perfetto!
’ says Chef, with a little nod of approval.

Kurt, who has been on the pasta and desserts, has the kitchen cleaned much more quickly and efficiently than me, and at three o’clock I find myself with a free afternoon ahead.

The pool is fairly crowded, and as my skin is not designed for sunbathing, I decide to explore the area in my hire car.

The first sign I see says that Florence is only fifty kilometres away so I take the slip road on to the Fi-Pi-Li motorway and arrive in the unpromising outskirts of the city in less than forty
minutes. Signposts direct me to Parking at Piazzale Michelangelo. As the Fiat Panda climbs the zigzag road to the top of the hill, I begin to recognize where I am.

The heat hits like a blast furnace as I step out of the air-conditioned car into what must be the most beautiful car park in the world. The view of the Duomo against a vivid blue sky is so much
like a postcard, it looks unreal. I head to one of the souvenir stalls loaded with football shirts and plastic replicas of Michelangelo’s
David
, and buy a bottle of Factor 50 and a
map, which I don’t really need because I can see exactly the route I ran up from the city through incongruously rural landscape when I was last in this place.

First, just a little way along the shady main road, I seem to remember that there will be steps leading to the jewel of a church that I spotted from the rooftop pool of our hotel all those years
ago.

TESS

There must be a bus to San Miniato al Monte, but people keep telling me different stops, or I don’t understand their directions, so I decide to do what Doll would do if
she were here and take a taxi. The road swirls through suburbs that look like those of any other town, then up a wooded hillside dotted with elegant villas standing coolly aloof from the jumble of
medieval streets in the
centro storico
. The taxi drops me at the foot of the stone staircase that leads up to the church. I am the only person mad enough to be climbing steep flights of
steps in boiling sunshine. I have to stop twice to get my breath, but I don’t allow myself to look around until I reach the top terrace.

The view is so shockingly beautiful, my eyes brim with tears, just like they did all those years ago. I don’t know what my problem was then, with my whole life in front of me, and no
inkling yet of what was to come. I remember thinking it would be a great place to get married, which is peculiar because I wasn’t one of those girls who pictured themselves in a white
dress.

Inside the church, it’s so dark after the bright sunlight, I can’t see anything at all for a moment. Even when I’ve taken off my hat and raked back my sunglasses, my eyes take
a little time to adjust. I walk up the steps to the raised chancel, acutely aware of the irreverent flap of my sandals, and drop a euro coin into the slot machine which floods the apse with golden
light.

Staring at the huge, judgemental face of Christ, I have a powerful urge to say sorry to Him.

‘It’s not that I don’t believe in You,’ I tell Him silently. ‘It’s the Church I don’t like, and to be honest, I don’t think You would Yourself, if
You were around today.’

The light goes off with a sudden clunk, punishing me for heretical thoughts.

But, after the briefest pause, it comes on again, and I spin round.

The tall guy from the Villa Vinciana is standing beside the machine. In the golden light, his hair is the colour of amber.

We stare at each other for a couple of seconds, and then we both exclaim, simultaneously, ‘You’re the one!’

‘I
thought
I recognized you from somewhere!’ I cry. ‘You were here, the day I got my A-level results!’

‘You were here. And then you spoke to me on the Ponte Vecchio!’ he says.

‘You took that photo of me and Doll. We were just looking at it the other day!’

‘You told me about the Gelateria dei Neri,’ he says.

‘Did I?’

An image stored deep in my memory suddenly clicks open. We were on our way to catch the overnight train to Paris when I spotted him standing in the queue for the rip-off ice-cream place beside
the bridge. I don’t know what possessed me.

And Doll said, ‘What are you like?’ as we walked on, because usually she was the flirty one.

‘Did you go?’ I ask.

It’s an odd conversation to be having in church.

‘Twice,’ he replies.

The light timer goes off again. He puts another euro coin in.

We stand beside each other gazing reverently at the solemn face of Christ, and then he says, ‘Do you think it’s still there?’

‘What?’

‘The
gelateria
.’

GUS

The marble terrace is radiantly white after the dim interior of the church.

My companion strolls over to the balustrade and leans against it, staring distantly at the view. There’s an aura of wistfulness around her.

‘That day I was here before,’ she says, quietly. ‘I vowed I’d come back, you know, like you do when you’re eighteen?’

‘I promised myself that too,’ I confide. ‘I thought it would be impossible to be unhappy surrounded by such beauty.’

She turns and gives me a smile that makes me want to throw away caution and tell her how beautiful
she
is, but the only word that comes out of my mouth is, ‘Ready?’

The marble is slippery smooth. I offer her my hand as we walk down together, careful not to press too hard on the big plaster covering her palm.

‘I fell over yesterday,’ she says, her flip-flops clapping loudly against each step.

‘I saw you.’

‘It was you hiding in the tomatoes?’

‘Yes. I wasn’t hiding, by the way.’

At the bottom, we both cast a glance back up at the basilica, then, no longer needing my steadying hand, she lets go. We amble along the road, which is now busy with late-afternoon traffic. As
we pass the entrance to the campsite, she says, ‘This is where we were. Where did you stay?’

‘A hotel. In Piazza Santa Maria Novella. I was with my parents. I’d have preferred to stay in a villa with a view of rolling hills.’

‘Like the Villa Vinciana?’

‘I suppose so!’

She smiles that transformative smile of hers, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and I can leave it no longer.

‘You’re Tess, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ she says. ‘How d’you know my name?’

‘Guess . . .’

Her nose crinkles with concentration.

‘You saw it on Lucrezia’s register?’ she suggests, as we start walking down shallow steps that will take us back into the city.

‘Wrong!’

‘How many guesses do I get?’

I pick a number out of the air. ‘Five!’

‘You heard me telling someone at breakfast?’

‘I wasn’t at breakfast! Three left.’

‘You saw it on the front of my notebook?’

She stops and takes an exercise book out of her shoulder bag, pointing at the panel where she has written, in looping letters.
Teresa Mary Costello. If found, please call
. . . then puts
it back before I have a chance to memorize the mobile number.

‘No! Two left!’

I wish I’d given her more guesses. I should have made it ten, or twenty, or as many as there are steps down to the city, because I don’t want this to end.

‘Hang on, how do I know you’re telling the truth?’ she suddenly demands.

‘Trust me, I’m a doctor!’

As if the word has triggered a distant memory, she looks at me with an intense curiosity.

‘What’s your name, then?’ she asks.

I hesitate.

‘I’m Gus.’

We both stop in the shade of a tree.

‘Gus?’ she repeats.

‘Look, I know it’s a bit strange, but I was at the Stones concert on Saturday, and you passed out, and I am actually a doctor.’

‘You’re the Gus who came to see if I was OK and brought me pink and blue flowers?’ she asks, incredulously.

I nod.

‘I’m so sorry but I had to leave them at the hospital because of getting my flight out here. In thirty-four years, I’ve never got a bouquet. And the one time I do, I
can’t even . . . wait a minute . . . but they were white roses . . .’ She stops herself and looks earnestly into my eyes. ‘Thank you, Gus. They smelled gorgeous.’

She believes that it’s a coincidence that we are both here. Which, after all, it is.

I smile back at her, and then we both look quickly away, returning to the awkwardness of people who have just met. The air between us dances with silent questions.

‘So, you’re a Stones fan, are you?’ she finally asks as we start walking again.

‘Not especially,’ I say.

I remember Nash’s phrase.

‘It’s one of those bucket-list things, isn’t it?’

‘You’re not about to die, are you?’

‘I hope not!’ I say. ‘What about you?’

The crinkly frown.

‘I wanted to feel what it was like to be in one big crowd all singing along,’ she finally says.

‘Amazing energy, wasn’t it?’

‘It was,’ she agrees.

The sunshine is a little more clement now, and the road down to the city half in shade.

‘Why were you unhappy?’ she says. ‘The last time you were here?’

‘How d’you know I was?’

‘Back there!’ She points up the hill. ‘You said you wanted to live here because it would be impossible to be unhappy. I just thought . . .’

We walk a couple more paces.

‘My brother had died a few months before, in a skiing accident.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She touches my arm for just a second, but the tenderness of the gesture lingers on my skin.

‘We were all raw with grief, but, in our very English way, trying not to let it spoil the holiday. Ridiculous, really.’

I’ve spent so much of my life not telling people, but now, with a stranger, the words begin to flow. ‘There’s such a taboo about death, isn’t there?’