during the night and the following morning whilst she was on her run. As she was drinking cold water and black coffee in Starbucks afterwards, her phone pinged. A message from Will saying he would be back from football about seven. A sigh escaped her as she slid the screen back and stuffed the phone back in her pocket. At the tables surrounding her, young couples and family groups seemed to be looking on with pity.
‘Of course I have a life,’ she screeched under her breath, pulling out her phone again and willing it to ring and hitting Chiara’s number when it didn’t. It went straight to voicemail.
The problem was, the only people she could talk to about the photos just weren’t available. Like most Saturdays, there was no Will to hang out with until later, much later, and when he was still likely to be in his football coma. Her friend Chiara would be taxiing Sophia to some activity or other.
Olivia felt she would really value another opinion right now. But no other friends knew her as well as Chiara. It was times like these when she really wished she had someone else close, particularly family, but unless she counted a runaway hippy mother somewhere in northern Italy, she was on her own.
Their last tête-à-tête ended in tears after she’d asked for help with – and invited her mother to – her Granny Nora’s funeral. Not only did the inebriated Roz tell her to pull herself together, but she also refused to come on the grounds that she’d barely known her, and couldn’t even bring herself to send a spray of flowers. Sometimes she just wished her mum could be a proper mum and at least offer a friendly ear when she needed one. She swore the woman didn’t have a heart. Olivia’s mood was sinking.
She folded her arms, hugging them in to support herself. Maybe staying at Nonna’s villa in Tuscany without Will would give her some space, a proper chance to deal with her grief, and maybe, clearing out the villa would give her the opportunity to discover more about her nonna and her mum. It was their home, and the place where her mother grew up. An insight into a woman who could abandon a child and then thrust responsibility for both grandmothers’ funerals and property on that child could prove interesting.
Trying to muster up enthusiasm for the dreaded task of sorting through Nonna’s things, Olivia opened her phone and tapped on to the newly created schedule for ‘Trip to Italy’, on her Diary app. There was so much to fit into eleven days and if Will was adamant he couldn’t make it, she had double the workload.
Already listed was her meeting with Signor Ricci, the real-estate agent, at four o’clock on the Friday afternoon she arrived at the villa. Being the pragmatist she was, she added a scheduled stop at two-thirty at the co-op supermarket in the village on the way – just to gather supplies; although she was sure Gabriella would leave a few essentials.
She then blanked the first two days specifically for cleaning the three-storey villa, in preparation for a viewing booked in already on the Monday, possibly two. It would be hard work and it had crossed her mind to employ cleaners and house clearers even, but she figured it was better to assess what was important first.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a woman approached asking her if the chair beside her was taken.
‘No, take it,’ she said.
The woman lifted it across to the table close by and Olivia observed as the woman was joined by a younger woman carrying coffee. Probably mother and daughter, she thought with a sigh of envy. How nice to just call your mum and meet up for a coffee or shopping. Even have an adult conversation with her. Why was her mother so different, so distant and cold? Maybe when she cleared the villa she would uncover something about her. She figured there must be some remnants of her mum’s childhood within its walls.
Thinking she was sounding like a detective, hunting clues as to why her mother was so estranged, she chuckled to herself. Although she saw her two or three times a year, she was still curious about her and her elusiveness. It was possible there were personal journals she kept as a child, or diaries. Somewhere she wrote down her thoughts – schoolbooks, even.
In her teenage years, she had discovered quite a collection of her father’s schoolwork when she had helped her gran clear out the loft. In fact, growing up in his home in Bermondsey had given her some comfort at least. Her grandma Nora had everything neatly boxed and took great pleasure in talking about her son. Unlike Nonna Elena in Italy who seemed to close down when she asked questions and treated Olivia’s mum with contempt.
As a little girl, Olivia remembered crying on occasions when she visited her nonna’s Tuscan villa, because her mum could only stay a day or two. Each time she said she had to get back to work. It made sense as an adult, but as a child, Olivia resented it and now she was more curious as to why her mother was like she was and why they never spent much time together. She could only hope there would be something to give her more of an insight into the woman; maybe she could even find out where her mother lived now.
As they had always stayed at Nonna’s to see one another, Olivia was now eager to discover where her mother currently called home. Was she living in some hippy commune or moving from one to another? It was never discussed, although she was sure she had enquired on a few occasions but was told only that she lived north of Tuscany. Regardless, once the villa and farm were sold, she would still want to visit her mother and needed to know her address. Yes, this could be her raison d’être.
She opened another heading on her app, the one with her ‘To do’ and ‘Lists’. She added a new heading: ‘Mum’s history’. There were several she used constantly, the ‘House’, the ‘Work’, the ‘Italy’ the ‘favs’, the ‘wish’ list, all the daily functional stuff, then there was the ‘Wilting Will’ list she’d begun in the early hours this morning when she had woken up, the images from the photos stamped on her mind. The list of cons on this far outweighed the pros. The top one being no great love or passion.
Why was she still with him? she had asked herself. He didn’t exactly cut the mustard. The only two things on her list in his favour were his pretty face and barbecuing skills. Like those before him, any spark that she may have once imagined had undoubtedly failed to ignite. Love just didn’t seem to feature in her genetic make-up. And to add insult to injury, Will – knowing how necessary it was for her to go to Italy next week – was as ever too wrapped up in his all-consuming football and job to accompany and support her.
Should she blame herself for buying him the season ticket? Probably. The mortgage on his London flat was extortionate; but then, the choice was his, and he could at least be there when she needed him. He clearly didn’t give a damn and, if she was totally honest with herself, neither did she.
Life could be far more exciting as a forty-year-old singleton. She needed to widen her circle of friends perhaps. At least she would get out of the habit of sitting around weekends waiting for Will to turn up in his football-induced drunken stupor, only to watch him splayed across the sofa, snoring it off.
‘Best to speak to Chiara and get her opinion, then go with it,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Bloody well set myself free.’ In a determined frame of mind, she ordered another coffee and, seeing some people leave, curled her feet up on the comfy two-seater sofa, which was still warm. At least if she stayed here she would be among company rather than home alone.
She unlocked her phone and began a ‘New Olivia’ list. The possibilities were endless, she thought, entering ideas of places she wanted to travel and the goal of learning to salsa. She was sure she was doing the right thing. If only Chiara would ring back. It was always comforting when her friend approved; besides, she knew that if she didn’t act soon, she would talk herself out of it. She needed Will out of her life.
At seven-thirty, Chiara still hadn’t rung back, and after looking at the photos again and adding to her ‘Wilting Will’
