me left the bath running. He was on the phone to someone, had a bit of a fight with them and stomped out. He forgot he’d left the bath running until he came back, three hours later.’
‘And by then it had overflowed and soaked through your ceiling.’ Gio shook his head in disgust. ‘What an idiot.’
‘I’m afraid I said something far worse than that when he came down to apologise, a few minutes ago,’ she admitted. ‘I would offer you a coffee, but—’
‘No. It’d be dangerous to use your kettle right now,’ Gio said. ‘The place needs drying out, the electrics all need checking properly to make sure they’re safe before you use them again, and then there’s the repair to the ceiling. The carpet’s probably not going to recover, so you’ll need someone in to measure the room and then fit a replacement. And I’m not sure your sofa-bed is ever going to be the same again.’ He surveyed the damage. ‘It’s going to take quite a while to sort this out. And there’s no way you can stay here while your flat’s in this kind of condition. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll find a hotel or something.’
‘My family would skin me for letting you do that, when I have a spare room. Problem solved—you’re staying with me.’ It was a rash move, he knew; after Saturday night, having Fran that close would be a major strain on his self-control. But how could he stand by and let her struggle, when such a simple solution was right at his fingertips? ‘Just pack what you need for a few days. Clothes and what have you, paperwork and anything that might not cope with a high moisture content in the air.’
‘Clothes?’ She coughed and gestured to the rail next to the wall. The sodden canvas cover was sagging over the hangers beneath; it was a fair bet that right now the only dry clothes she owned were those she was wearing.
‘OK. Have you got some large plastic bags?’
‘I’ve got some dustbin bags.’
‘They’ll do. Put your clothes in those. I have a washer dryer, so we can deal with the laundry when we get back to my place.’
‘We’re going to carry bags of wet clothes on the Tube?’
He smiled. ‘You know you say my car corners like a tank? Well, it carries like one, too. And it’s parked outside. Without a permit.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Gio, you’ll get a fine!’
‘At this time of the evening? I doubt it. And no traffic warden would be hard-hearted enough to give me a ticket when your place is flooded and your visitor permits are probably so much papier mâché.’
She clearly didn’t share his certainty, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.
‘Just pack your stuff and I’ll carry it out for you and load it up,’ he said quietly. ‘Oh, and when you talk to your letting agency again, you might want to give them my home number. Just in case they need to get hold of you while you’re staying with me and for some reason they can’t reach you at work or on your mobile phone; the answering machine can take a message if we’re not there.’
Her eyes were suspiciously glittery; she looked very close to tears. How could he stay brisk and businesslike when she so clearly needed a hug? So he wrapped his arms round her, resting his cheek against her hair for a moment. ‘It’s going to be all right, piccolina. Really.’ And then he let her go before he did something really stupid, like picking her up and carrying her out to his car.
He helped her pack the rest of her clothes into dustbin liners.
‘There’s no point in packing these. They’re dry-clean only. Ruined,’ she said and made a separate pile of clothes.
Including the dress she’d worn on Saturday night, he noted. ‘My mum’s bound to know someone who can salvage them,’ he said, picked up the pile and stowed them in a bag. ‘I take it you haven’t eaten yet?’
‘No. I’d just done a bit of shopping on the way home.’ She surveyed the squelchy mess around them. ‘I don’t think I’m hungry any more.’
‘Fran, you need to eat properly. I know this is a horrible situation, but skipping meals will only make you feel worse.’ He punched a couple of buttons on his mobile phone. ‘Mum? It’s Gio. I’m at Fran’s—there’s been a flood.’
Predictably, his mother wanted to know if he was helping Fran clear up and if she was going to stay at his flat. ‘Of course. Look, some of her clothes are dry-clean only, and they’re soaked.’
‘And you need help to salvage them. Do you want me to come over to yours?’
He smiled. ‘You’re an angel. Yes, please. You’ve got my spare key.’
‘I’m on my way now. Tell Fran not to worry.’
‘I will.’
‘Love you, Gio.’
‘Love you too, Mum.’ He snapped the phone closed and turned to Fran. ‘Sorted. Have you called your parents yet?’
She shook her head. ‘No point. They’re too far away to help.’
‘Don’t you think they need to know where you are, in case they try to call you here and can’t get through? They might be worried.’
She gave him a look as if to say, why on earth would they be worried? But she shrugged. ‘I’ll text them later.’
His first instinct in a crisis was to call his family. And yet Fran kept her distance from hers, sorting the problem out on her own. Was it the adoption thing that had made her so self-reliant? Or was it that she was scared to let herself be part of them, in case she was rejected again?
He remembered the way she’d suddenly tensed on Saturday night, but wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. Had that been it, the idea of being part of a family and fearing rejection?
But his family had liked her immediately. They wouldn’t reject her.
Neither would he.
If he could only trust himself not to let her down.
Angela and Isabella were already at Gio’s flat by the time they arrived. And something smelled fantastic.
‘I assume neither of you two have had the time to eat yet,’ Angela said. ‘So you can just sit down right now and eat.’
Fran felt the tears welling up and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was not going to be wet about this.
Angela gave her a hug. ‘Hey, it’s horrible when you get flooded out. Especially when you couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. Sit down and eat. You’ll feel a lot better when you’ve eaten something.’
Fran didn’t quite believe her, but the gnocchi and sauce were gorgeous.
And Angela was right: it was exactly what she needed.
Fifteen minutes later the washing machine was on, Angela had made a pile of clothes she intended to take to a friend who specialised in restoring textiles, and Nonna was brewing
