Page 14

I prop myself in the doorway as Ma eases herself on to the saddle of the Vespa – a saddle she gets entirely to herself.

I push away the memory of how tricky it’s been sharing that tiny space with Giulio on our daily hospital visits – clinging to him as we bump over potholes and uneven streets paved in sampietrini , the cube-shaped cobbles that are so distinctly Roman.

She turns the key in the ignition and revs the handle, and I can’t help being secretly impressed. I even sneak a quick video of her driving off and send it to Pa.

He replies immediately.

Bellissima! A real classic. The Vespa’s not bad either...

I groan at his reply – and the winky face at the end of his message – but I shouldn’t complain after what Giulio (reluctantly) shared earlier.

I might cover my ears when they blow kisses to each other on their nightly calls.

..but it’s sweet, really. Not that I would EVER admit it to their faces.

The bar is quiet for a while after that, so I’m able to keep a close eye on Giulio. He spends most of his time by the till, either peering into the street as if he’s looking out for his precious Vespa, or on his phone.

I watch his fingers flying over the screen in bursts as if he’s messaging back and forth. A weird prickly feeling takes hold: is it Flaminia messaging for advice? But then another thought edges in – what if it’s the same person he was talking to on the rooftop? The one who sent that letter?

‘So...’ I run a cloth along the countertop, my tone casual. ‘Who’s that you’re messaging?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Giulio doesn’t even glance up as a new message pops on to his screen, but his soft chuckle indicates it’s not the person from the roof. I tell myself I’m disappointed because I’d wanted to catch him red-handed...but I’m not entirely sure that’s true.

I’m grateful for the distraction when an elderly couple come in for a panino al prosciutto and a cappuccino – even if it does prompt Giulio to flash me one of his teasing smirk-smiles and say, ‘You’re up, Scotland. Go and serve your people.’

I roll my eyes out of habit, but his comment – though clearly a dig at how only tourists would ask for that particular food and drink combo – doesn’t annoy me like it would have on day one.

Maybe Isla’s on to something with this ‘pretend friends’ thing.

It’s definitely giving me an extra layer of protection against his little jabs.

I make the cappuccinos next and even attempt a simple leaf shape with the steamed milk, following the steps of the video I saw online. But it comes out more blobby than botanical. And, of course, Giulio has abandoned his phone and is now watching my botched attempt at coffee art.

‘You might want to master the basics first, Scotland. The froth should be creamy, not foamy.’

I grit my teeth and try again, determined not to let him get to me. But as he leans in to show me the ‘correct’ way to steam milk, the warmth of his breath near my ear makes me fumble the jug. The jet of hot steam scorches the back of my hand and I yelp.

Giulio reacts instantly, gently grabbing my wrist and guiding my hand under the cold-water tap. His touch is confusing – firm, yet kind. I’m left both grateful and irritated because, if he’d just minded his own business, I wouldn’t have burnt myself in the first place.

Triggered by her boy-proximity radar, Ma comes back from her lunch run to find Giulio and me with our heads together at the sink.

‘I had an accident with the steamer, OK?’ I know I sound defensive, but I wish she wouldn’t keep looking at us like that. I pull my hand away from Giulio, as if his touch is another kind of burn, and show Ma the red streak developing below my knuckles.

She switches to concerned mode. ‘ Aspetta . I saw some aloe vera upstairs.’

She returns with a small, crumpled tube and gently dabs the cool, soothing gel on to the back of my hand. Her head is bent to the task and I notice the circles under her eyes are darker than usual. Her eyelids are red too, as if she’s been rubbing them...or crying?

‘How was lunch?’ I ask, trying to gauge her mood.

She hesitates before answering, her voice soft. ‘You don’t have to work in the bar, you know. I hadn’t realized business was this slow. You should be out seeing the sights. Giulio and I can manage without you.’

Turista. I draw in a sharp breath.

‘Oops, sorry, did I hurt you?’

She did, but not in the way she thinks. It hurts more knowing Ma sees me as a tourist in my own family rather than someone who belongs behind this bar.

Giulio’s attention splits between us and the street outside, and when he hurries out I think he’s trying to intercept the post again.

But then I see a man loitering near his precious Vespa, motioning to the bike.

People are always stopping to admire it, although they’re usually tourists, and this man looks nothing like one.

Still, I’m glad Giulio can’t hear me when I say, ‘I want to help, to properly be a part of this.’

Ma caps the tube of aloe vera, and sighs. ‘I know, tesoro . But...it’s Rome! You could see—’

‘I’m not here as a turista , OK? And this is Rome too, isn’t it?

’ I gesture around the bar, my voice loud even to my own ears.

I want to say more – say it louder still – but.

..how can Ma possibly understand? She knows exactly where she comes from, where she belongs.

I turn away and run to the connecting door, my throat thick with brewing tears.

..because if I don’t belong here, where do I belong?