Everything was perfect. She put a note up on Skype to say so, and to say thanks, and to her extreme surprise got back an emoji of a person with their mouth zipped shut.
Then she turned the heat down, grinding a few sharp turns of pepper in the top.
Next door, the women with the curly hair was leaving.
‘Oh, that smells amazing,’ Marisa could hear her say, close as anything. ‘Is that your dinner?’
There came a long sigh.
‘No,’ said the deep voice sadly, as if he was starving to death which was clearly very far from the case (although he had already eaten all the asparagus tarts, but he had underestimated the ability of small children to sniff out a strawberry tart, then make beseeching eyes at their piano teacher). There was a pause on the other side of the wall.
‘Oh, dear. Hey, you must come down and eat with us sometimes. We like to be neighbourly round here.’
Marisa felt a sting at that. Neighbourliness.
The woman lowered her voice. ‘Be nice to have some company, actually. It’s tough being a single mother sometimes.’
Maris frowned. Now he was being hit on?
‘Thank you,’ said Alexei, and she heard the heavy tread as he moved towards the door.
‘It’s such a friendly village!’
‘Good, good. Thank you, Vivienne. I see you next week.’
The door closed behind them and once more, Marisa heard that heavy sigh.
Oh, for goodness’ sake. She went back to stirring the sauce that was reducing so beautifully on the stove. She was a perfectly neighbourly person, thank you very much.
It hadn’t occurred to her that she might not be the only lonely person in Mount Polbearne.
The wind outside was growing chill, and she went to close the balcony window. As she did so she realised that he was standing out on his own balcony, separated from her by a wooden fence, with a gap in between, and a precipitous drop down the cliff side.
It was a tremendously lovely view when you looked straight ahead out to sea; a slightly concerning one when you looked down.
He was smoking one of those strong-smelling cigarillos. He hid it immediately when he saw her.
‘This is bad too?’ he said, unsmiling.
‘No. It’s fine,’ said Marisa timidly. He nodded stiffly. She glanced back at the oven.
‘That is smellink very good,’ he said, just as she moved to the door.
She blinked rapidly, trying to play down the panic response.
‘It’s just dinner.’
‘Ah, dinner.’
She blushed shyly, just at having the conversation.
‘You don’t have any dinner?’
‘I have dinner. It doesn’t smell good like your dinner.’
Something in her softened – perhaps it was not having to go outside, and the fact that he didn’t seem quite so scary when he was a far drop away.
‘Well,’ she said, wondering if she dared be so brave. But he didn’t seem angry any more. Just hungry.
She thought about what Anita had said, and what Nonna would say.
‘Would you like a plate?’
He thought about this for a moment. His narrow dark eyes looked serious, as though this was a very complex suggestion. Finally, he came to a conclusion.
‘I could not take your food.’
‘I have enough. Bring me a plate.’
‘How you get food on my plate from there.’
They both eyed the gap.
‘You throw spaghetti? Is high risk.’
‘How did you know it was spaghetti?’
‘I can hear it roll over. It roll over.’
Maria glanced around. It was indeed rolling over – boiling over, of course, was what he meant – and with a quick gasp she leapt to save it. She couldn’t find a colander anywhere, and shouted, ‘Colander!’
‘What is this?’
‘Thing . . . holes . . . sieve . . . water . . . pasta . . .’ she shouted, breathless, until eventually a colander came flying onto her balcony and she dashed over and grabbed it. His colander was sky-blue. These houses were ridiculously colour-coordinated. Well, she had to give him some now.
She drained the pasta and tossed it with the light garlicky pastasciutta sauce in the pot, then quickly unbagged a small rocket salad. She filled a plate, added a glass of wine and, carefully took it over to the balcony.
‘Aha!’ said Alexei excitedly, reaching out his big bear arms to grab it over the barrier. Amazingly, he could reach.
‘Don’t drop it!’
‘If I drop it I go after it,’ he said. ‘Thank you very million times.’
‘Um . . .’ Marisa blushed again. ‘It’s nothing.’
Then there was a pause and she retreated into her house to eat her own meal, odd as this felt.
She had forgotten, she realised. She had forgotten the taste of real food, made properly. There was nothing complicated about it; it was just superb ingredients, handled properly. The garlic was soft and sticky and aromatic and delicious. She practically licked the plate. She called her grandmother back over to the computer halfway through. Her grandmother ignored her the first four times. Then she limped over, making a fuss of her back and her arthritis as if it had been agony to come the four steps from the parlour.
‘You are calling to tell me I was right.’
‘Yes,’ said Marisa. ‘You are always right.’
‘I am,’ said her grandmother in satisfaction, straightening up.
‘Thank you,’ said Marisa. ‘It was the kindest thing to do.’
‘Your nonno, he loved my cooking.’
‘We all did.’
‘Yes. I should have been worse then I wouldn’t have had to do so much of it.’
They both smiled. Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, came a quiet little noise.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marisa.
The tinkling noise continued and Marisa realised it was a very soft, sweet rendition of a tune that even she knew on the piano.
The tiny noise played in little ripples, tinkling like a waterfall. It was absolutely like nothing else she’d ever heard emanate from next door before. She and her nonna both fell silent to listen.
‘“Claire de Lune”!’ said her nonna, happily. ‘I love it! I thought you said he was terrible!’
‘He normally is,’ said Marisa. ‘Huh.’
The sweet, soft piece played – and then finished. And there was no more noise, even as Marisa worried suddenly that this truce in manoeuvres might result in the hammering starting up again.
But no. He played it, as a little benediction – perhaps he thought it was a tiny thank you, Marisa wondered, and then left it in peace.
‘You have dinner and now you have music,’ said Nonna. ‘I do not think maybe that everything is as bad as you think.’
She paused momentarily.
‘Perhaps next you will even cut your hair.’
Chapter Twenty-two
The walls really were incredibly thin. So it was two days later, when she could hear the twins plonking at either end of the piano, that she heard another noise, from the other side of the house. Confused, she moved towards it.
It was – definitely, unmistakably – a sob. Marisa crept closer to the wall, where there was a little window above the cupboard that held the washer dryer and the mop.