Page 6

M a tiptoes back behind the counter a short while later like a nervous cat coming into the cattery for the first time, eyes darting. Her shoulders visibly relax when she sees the place is empty.

‘It’s OK, she’s gone,’ I tease.

‘Hmm...who’s gone?’ She acts clueless but I see the flush creeping up her neck.

‘Signora Pedretti...’ I gesture to where she’d been crawling on the floor twenty minutes earlier. ‘You know, that whole thing.’

Ma’s phone screen starts flashing, and relief washes over her face – saved by the bell. Only the bell is a loud, repetitive meowing sound. I still can’t believe Isla set that ringtone for her.

I drop my hands from my ears as Ma answers, and Pa’s face appears on the screen. I lean in so he can see both of us.

The comb-over Pa denies having is blowing about in the wind like an inflatable tube man, the strap of his beloved Leica camera bright against the black shirt he wears to wedding shoots.

He’s in a field somewhere and strong gusts are playing havoc with the phone’s microphone.

The whole Italians-talk-with-their-hands thing is in full swing as they try to hold a conversation.

Giulio’s been scrolling through his own phone by the counter, but I notice his hand stilling when Ma launches into a rant about the state of the bar and how Nina can’t be coping, financially or otherwise.

My nostrils flare. He’s definitely eavesdropping.

I’m about to call him out on it, when the dying sputter of a moped engine has him bolting outside to intercept the postal worker. He takes a bundle of letters directly from her hands and quickly rifles through them.

‘I’ll take those,’ I say, fed up with him acting like he owns the place.

But he sidesteps me without even looking up. ‘It’s just junk, Scotland.’

I turn to stare daggers at his back, and that’s when I spot a brown envelope peeking out of his back pocket. The beginning of Nina’s name just visible on the fold.

I point an accusing finger. ‘Hey, what’s that?’

Giulio turns, a smirk tugging at his lips. ‘That? That’s my backside, Scotland.’

‘That’s not...I didn’t...’ Heat rushes to my face, and Inner Isla chooses that moment to mutter something about it being worth a second glance – traitor.

Ma puts her phone down and leans her elbows on the counter. ‘Play nice, tesoro. Giulio’s just being helpful.’

‘It’s OK, Caterina. I’m sure Livia didn’t mean to be abrupt. It’s easy to get muddled when Italian’s not your first language. That’s what the lessons are for.’

Ooft! A double dig – not only reminding me about my Italian lessons, but insinuating I need them too.

I spread my hands towards Ma in silent appeal – See what he’s like?

But Ma, missing the subtext as usual, shakes her head fondly. ‘I’m afraid you’re being too generous, caro .’

I bite back the retort on the tip of my tongue and glare at Giulio instead. Generous? Not the word I’d use.

‘Aren’t we closing for lunch?’ I ask, keen to get rid of him.

Many bars here shut during the hottest hours of the day, and I know Nina does too, but Ma shakes her head. ‘I need to do a stocktake and see what’s what. We may as well stay open.’

But even with the doors flung wide, no one comes in.

And as the afternoon drags on, I get a clearer picture of how Giulio’s been managing on his own while Nina’s been in hospital.

The place is dead. So dead, it’s only 7 p.m. when Ma announces we’re closing early – early for Italy, that is.

Back in Scotland, we’d already have shut the doors.

And while I’m glad to see Giulio leave, taking his smug comments and irritating smirk with him, I get why Ma’s wondering how Nina’s getting by.

Ma pushes some buttons on the till and it spews out a receipt. ‘It won’t take me long to cash up. Want to eat on the terrace tonight?’

‘The terrace?’ I echo, surprised. I didn’t even know there was one.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t been yet? You were desperate to get up there when you were little. We had to watch you like a hawk.’

Memories flash through my mind of a staircase behind a door, and of Nina turning a key and pocketing it.

I climb the steps and find myself on a tiny roof terrace crowded with luscious potted plants and mismatched bits of outdoor furniture.

But it’s the view that really grabs my attention.

I finally get why Pa’s so obsessed with Golden Hour.

The sun is low in the sky over Rome, its warm light hitting the red rooftops and mustardy-coloured palazzos that are crammed together like Tetris pieces.

If it weren’t for the intense heat and the sounds of voices and traffic around me, I’d think it was a painting.

A free-standing hammock in striped deckchair colours sits off to one side.

It sways invitingly at my gentle push, so I tentatively hoist one leg only to end up doing a bad impression of the splits.

It swings sideways as I hop closer with my standing leg, then it’s a full thirty seconds before I’m properly inside.

It could be the sun, but I am suddenly hot all over and worried that someone in the neighbouring palazzos has seen my awkward moves.

But when I’m finally lying down, my weight supported by the strong fabric, the worries of the day lift away too.

Cocooned, one finger poised to Face-Time Isla, I smile to myself.

I’ve found my first Roman happy place – which is good, because I’m not entirely sure I know how to get out of this thing.

I wriggle deeper. Could I sleep out here? Better this than a collage of Giulios staring down at me. My own little escape, far away from that smug, annoying—

‘Don’t post any more letters to the bar, OK?’

Is that...Giulio? At first, I think I’m hallucinating – it’s still so hot, and I’m frazzled to the max after spending the whole day with him – but then his voice drifts over again.

‘I told you. I’m not alone any more...and the daughter mustn’t find out.’

My heart thunders in my chest, so loudly I’m afraid the sound will carry like Giulio’s disembodied voice. I peer over the edge of the hammock, confirming what my sinking stomach already knows. Giulio’s apartment has access to the adjoining roof terrace.

And . . . ommioddio . . . what daughter? Does he mean me . . . or Ma?