Page 17

I n Scotland, storms have names. In Italy, heatwaves do.

This one’s called Caronte – after Charon, the boatman who ferries the dead to Hades.

Accurate, because it’s been slowly draining me since it swept in last night.

Giulio and I are back on the lunch run and I’m peeling my shorts away from the backs of my thighs after our Vespa ride when I catch sight of myself in the little rear-view mirror attached to the handlebars.

My hair has stayed in the shape of the helmet, clinging damply to my scalp in a round, frizzy mess, and my horrified expression says it all.

Giulio, of course, isn’t wafting his shirt or tugging at his clothes.

And because he bumped us over every pothole on the way here, to the point where I’m convinced he was doing it on purpose, I crashed into him so often I know he even smells good – a herby mix of mint and basil with a hint of the coffee roast we use at the bar.

It’s like he’s been coated in some kind of heatproof spray.

The sheer injustice of it must show on my face, or maybe he thinks I’m suffering from heatstroke, because he knocks his shoulder gently against mine and asks, ‘You OK, Scotland?’

I speed-walk into the trattoria ahead of him so I don’t have to fake-smile my way through his inevitable dig about me not being cut out to survive an Italian summer, but I’m suddenly face to face with the person behind the counter, waiting for me to order with a smile that says both ‘welcome’ and ‘hurry up’ at the same time.

I turn to Giulio, but he’s in blank-faced unhelpful mode.

..the one he defaults to when he’s waiting for me to mess up.

This time, it’s choosing the right meal.

I hate that he knows Nina’s tastes better than I do.

But then I remember Ma telling me about Ferragosto – a public holiday on the fifteenth of August where everyone in Italy takes the day off.

Nina always took her to the beach at Santa Marinella with lasagna or pasta al forno as picnic food.

Nina’s motto being ‘if it’s not hot, it’s not lunch’ – which, come to think of it, must be why Giulio brings her meals.

Those dishes aren’t on today’s menu, though, so I choose the next best thing.

‘Pasta e fagioli, per favore.’ I’m clammy at the mere thought of this hot, soupy pasta. And even more so because Giulio hasn’t reacted at all; his face gives nothing away.

I’m still second-guessing myself as we join the steady stream of visitors ferrying foil containers to the hospital, like a trail of ants bringing food to a nest – one that’s filled with high-maintenance food snobs.

The heat radiating from the takeaway bag is unbearable, and I must look ridiculous, marching down the corridor with my arms out, trying to keep the scalding warmth away from me.

Giulio raises an eyebrow. ‘Interesting choice, Scotland.’

My smile verges on smug when, hands full, I turn to nudge Nina’s door open with my hip and find myself face to face with him. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, have I spoilt your fun?’

He looks confused.

‘It’s spoons all round today, Giulio. You won’t get to make your favourite little joke.’

Giulio’s laugh follows me into the room; a warm, genuine chuckle that leaves me momentarily stunned, aware just how much I like the sound of it. But more than that, I realize, I’m weirdly pleased to have been the one to coax it out of him.

Nina looks up from her bed, catching the exchange between us. Her smile is warmer than I’ve ever seen it, like she’s approving of something more than just our food delivery. Maybe Isla’s right. Maybe the way to Nina’s heart really is through Giulio.

Before I can take another step, I notice someone at Nina’s bedside – a familiar face I wasn’t expecting to see here. Signora Pedretti is sitting on a plastic chair, a bag of oranges clasped in her lap.

‘We brought lunch,’ I say, setting it on the small table over Nina’s bed. ‘But if we’re interrupting...’

‘No interruption,’ Nina says quickly, her smile vanishing. ‘We’ve finished here.’

With a weary sigh, Signora Pedretti gets to her feet, only slightly taller now that she’s standing. ‘Just think about what I said, Adelina, d’accordo ?’

Nina pouts. ‘You mean, what she said.’

Signora Pedretti’s lips barely move as she mutters, ‘ Dio , give me strength,’ before leaving the room with a brief nod in Giulio’s and my direction.

Nina lifts one of the foil container lids and peers inside, inhaling deeply.

‘ Ah! Bene! Proper food at last.’ She smiles again, not quite the Botox-busting crinkly ones she reserves for Giulio, but she’s slowly defrosting towards me – maybe it’s my regular visits, or maybe because I’m saying more each time.

‘So...’ I clear my throat. ‘What was Signora Pedretti talking about just now? Does she visit often?’

Nina’s expression tightens, and I immediately regret asking.

‘Not as often as she visits Caterina, it seems.’ She practically snatches the bowl Giulio’s offering her, and I notice the absence of the usual twinkle she gives him.

And Giulio...he’s shifting about on his mattress perch like a scolded schoolboy.

‘She loves our coffee,’ he offers weakly.

‘She loves to meddle, you mean. And now Caterina’s got her doing her dirty work.’

Dirty work? The only dirty work Ma does involves kitty litter and a scoop.

I search Nina’s face for clues as she chases a cannellini bean around the tomatoey broth.

I want to know what she means, and why Ma hasn’t been back since her impromptu lunch trip on Giulio’s Vespa – not even on Sunday – but my relationship with Nina still feels fragile, and I’m afraid it will shatter if I press too hard.

I’ve only just started getting smiles. So I swallow my questions and focus on my food.

Only, a few spoonfuls in, the heat of the dish starts to hit me, and I think I might melt on to the floor.

What was I thinking, ordering pasta e fagioli during a heatwave?

Nina notices. ‘Have you been outside at all, Livia? You will never get used to the sun if you hide away from it.’

I’m reminded of our first conversation, and how pale she thinks I am. I shift so the overbed table hides my arms from her judgemental stare. ‘I’ve been...busy. Language classes...the bar...’

Nina waves her spoon at Giulio again. ‘ Caro , perhaps you can show Livia around a little?’ Then, after a pause, she adds, ‘When the bar is closed...so Caterina is not working alone.’

Is it my imagination, or is Nina eyeballing Giulio like she’s trying to zap a secret message straight into his brain? Or maybe there are so many secrets flying around that I’m seeing them even where they don’t exist.