– that my body is yours
Il mio labbro sia tuo
– that my lips are yours
Il tuo cuore sia il mio
– that your heart will be mine . . .
But her voice remained true, and then Alexei took up the melody again, played it faster and faster till it sounded like an old-fashioned fairground ride, and she leant against him as he finished with a flourish and turned round, grabbing her and sitting her down on his knee.
‘Thank you. You haff cheered me up very much,’ he said.
‘We are two survivors clinging to a life raft,’ said Marisa, smiling. ‘I suppose we have to cheer each other up. That’s what friends are for.’
But, she thought. But I want to be so very much more than that. I planned so much more than that. Her heart had even leapt when the ballerina had looked to see if she was the person Alexei must have mentioned.
But then she had seen him. In the very depths of despair, completely cast asunder by love for somebody else.
As soon as she said the word ‘friends’ he let her go, as if she was burning him.
‘Yes,’ he muttered ‘Friends. Of course. That is what we are. Thank you. My friend.’
She was standing up.
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I’m just off the plane.’
‘Yes! Oh no! Your nonna! Oh, my zaichik!’
He gave her a huge hug and she allowed herself, just for a moment, to feel totally lost once more in his arms, even if she contrasted it sadly with the last time she had stood there: when her nonna was still alive; when she had had so much hope.
‘I am so sorry. We shall cling to this life raft together, no?’
‘Yes.’
Chapter Seventy-one
At least she was busy, throwing herself back into the job. Polly was delighted to see her, and she happily spent several evenings working just with Jayden, who had a seemingly infinite capacity for both eating and discussing pizza.
She had expected the black clouds to descend, had known to expect it, once the reality of a world without her grandmother in it really hit home. And she had, of course, been sad to see the laptop, put back in place by Alexei, showing the interior of the kitchen.
But two odd things had happened. Firstly, the black dog did not descend. She found she mourned her grandmother, of course she did. But it wasn’t eating her up from the inside out. She had been there. They had shared her last moments; it had been a good death. She had been present, and her grandmother had not been alone. The absence was sad, the passing was not.
The other thing was, of all things, the ancient laptop. Her mother had still never turned it off. She and Ann Angela were in there every day, cleaning up, bustling around.
They were theoretically getting the place ready to sell, but houses sell slowly in Italy, and from the tone of their bickering they were moving towards a place where the house would perhaps not be sold, and Lucia would stay there and rent out rooms and care for it, so progress was slow – and Marisa knew this because she could hear, all hours of the day and night, when she came in and when she went to bed, comforting Italian chatter and a view of the changing lights of the land far south. It was unimaginably comforting to cook with her mother sometimes, or just say good morning, and Marisa knew that having re-established their connection, neither of them were in any mood to give it up. So neither of them even mentioned it was there.
And if she was sad about Alexei, well. She had a lot of practice in being sad.
Of course, the day of Lowin’s party was beautiful. His birthday was actually at Christmas time – on Christmas Day, in fact – but Reuben had decreed that this was rubbish, and that he must also get a half-birthday which meant that Lowin got a birthday, a Christmas and a half-birthday each year, and his birthday invitations had to be sent out stipulating that he already had all the Playmobil ever made and could they check with the Lego shop before buying Lego, thank you.
The twins had been impossible to get to sleep, both insisting on getting a present each for Lowin rather than one between them as there was – they were both firmly of one mind on this issue – nothing worse than giving a shared present, regardless of whether or not people told them that the shared present was worth more than two individual ones, it was still a sorry state of affairs.
Polly and Huckle had exchanged looks – what could they possibly get an eight-year-old whose father regularly took him in a helicopter and had a Rolex?
In the end they had settled for a pizza-making kit from Avery and a set of differently coloured baby sparkly nail polishes from Daisy, who had sensibly pointed out that Lowin would have every single thing from the ‘toys for boys’ department and why was nail polish only for girls anyway? Polly was just congratulating herself on having such sensible children and raising them to be so tolerant and open when Avery had shouted ‘Because nail polish is SO STUPID and FOR GIRLS’ and Daisy had leaned over and whomped him one which had made Huckle laugh when he should have looked disapproving. As World War Three looked about to break out, Polly announced they were getting changed for the party RIGHT AWAY even though it was three hours away and, as any parent knows, getting a five-year-old to keep an outfit clean for three hours is a feat beyond mortal means.
However, this wasn’t Polly’s problem, as she was already off in Nan the van with Marisa to get things sorted out onsite, at Reuben’s private beach on the other side of Cornwall, its beautiful wild north shore, perfect for surfing.
Reuben’s beach was a haven of peace and serenity, or it would be if he didn’t have the most ridiculous Tony Stark house on the top of it and a constant stream of comings and goings.
‘How are things?’ she said as they drove, giving a sideways glance to Marisa. Marisa was looking terribly well, actually. She looked brighter, more alert, more in the world; still quiet, but not the person she’d been when she arrived. ‘Did I ever tell you,’ she said, ‘how I came to live here?’
Marisa shook her head.
‘Well. Life had done a number on me,’ said Polly, talking about how she’d been practically made bankrupt and lost everything.
‘And you met Huckle here?’ said Marisa eagerly.
‘Yes,’ said Polly, giving her the side-eye. ‘Why, have you met someone?’
Marisa squirmed.
‘I . . . I thought I had but . . . I think he was only in it for the sandwiches.’
Polly stared straight ahead as the van trundled on. They were going slowly so Lowin’s ridiculous four-storey birthday cake didn’t get bashed up.
‘Local boy, then?’
‘Not exactly.’
But Polly was only teasing.
‘I know,’ said Marisa. ‘It’s ridiculous. It was just when I was unwell.’
Polly politely said nothing.
‘And he was the boy next door . . . but there’s nothing there. He’s really hung up on his ex.’
‘Hang on – the literal boy next door? Not the twins’ piano teacher?!’
‘Oh God, I know,’ said Marisa. ‘I feel so stupid.’
‘Ha! You do know he’s really a bear?’
Marisa smiled.
‘Well, he’s a very sensitive bear,’ she sighed. ‘Too sensitive. He’s still in love with his ex. Ballerina,’ she added.