said with a smile. ‘Of course we would. You’re one of us.’
Oh, lord. She really was going to cry in a minute. Something inside her felt as if it had just cracked.
Gio ruffled her hair. ‘Come on, tesoro. Let’s put your things in my spare room.’
‘Room’ was probably a bit of an ambitious description, Fran thought; the space was more like a large broom cupboard. And it was already crammed with a computer, paperwork and three guitars. Even if he moved them all elsewhere, there wouldn’t be room for anyone to sleep there.
Gio might have a spare room, but he didn’t have a spare bed. She felt her cheeks scorch with heat. Was he expecting her to share his bed? And as for the message that would give his family…
As if he guessed what she was thinking, he said, ‘I’ll change the sheets for you, Fran. You’ll be having my room while you stay here—and my sofa turns into a guest bed, so, before you start worrying, let me reassure you that you’re not putting me out. Now, I’ll show you how the shower works—there’s plenty of hot water, so just help yourself whenever you want a bath or what have you. I won’t be expecting you to go in to work at the same time in the morning as I do—and you don’t need to come in at all tomorrow.’ He took a bunch of keys from a drawer and detached one. ‘Spare door key. So you don’t have to wait around for me.’
She swallowed hard. ‘I really appreciate this, you know.’
‘Prego.’ He smiled back at her.
By the time Gio had changed the bed and she’d sorted out her things in his bathroom—and it felt strangely domesticated to have her face cream sitting next to his razor on the bathroom shelf and her toothbrush next to his—Angela had finished sorting through the dry-cleaning pile. ‘I’ll take these to my friend tomorrow morning,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Fran hugged her. ‘Thank you so much. I thought they were beyond saving.’
‘My pleasure, sweetheart.’ Her voice softened. ‘And you’ve already done a lot for me. If anything, I’m in your debt: Gio’s not such a complete workaholic as he used to be, and he smiles a hell of a lot more.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ Gio groaned. ‘Much more of this, and I’ll be forced to put on a Derek Bailey CD.’
‘Who’s Derek Bailey?’ Fran asked, puzzled.
‘A jazz guitarist from the 1950s and 1960s. He used to do a lot of improvisation work,’ Gio explained.
‘It’s not actually music,’ Angela said, grimacing. ‘It’s the stuff Gio plays when he wants to clear the room.’
‘Don’t be such a philistine. Of course it’s music. Nonna, you tell her,’ Gio said.
Isabella put both hands up in a gesture of surrender, laughing. ‘I’m staying out of this one.’
‘It’s music—but not in the traditional sense,’ he said to Fran. ‘It works on rhythm and texture rather than a melodic basis. What’s known as tonal harmonics.’
‘What’s that in English? Or even Italian?’ Fran asked.
In answer, Gio fetched an acoustic guitar from his spare room and demonstrated.
‘See?’ he said.
‘Um…I’m with your mother,’ Fran said. ‘That’s not music.’
‘Why can’t you play nice things?’Angela asked. ‘Like the pretty bits you used to play. Like the stuff you were playing at the party.’
‘And I still think you should’ve gone to college,’ Isabella added. ‘Studied music.’
Gio put his guitar away again with a scowl. ‘Well, I didn’t. And it’s too late now.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course it’s not too late. There are plenty of mature students around—and you’re not even thirty yet. You probably wouldn’t be the oldest one there. You sort him out, Francesca,’ Isabella said.
‘I think,’ Fran said gently, ‘Gio’s man enough to sort himself out.’
‘Exactly. Thank you for the support, honey.’ He slid his arm round her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.
Oh, lord. His closeness made her remember Saturday night. The way he’d held her and kissed her then. The way the whole room had dissolved around them. The way he’d kissed her, pressed against the front door of her flat.
‘Prego,’ she said, and hoped her voice didn’t sound as wobbly to everyone else as it did to her.
Given that Gio was always in the office so early, Fran guessed that he’d go to bed reasonably early, too—so even though she wasn’t tired, she feigned a yawn and said goodnight, a good hour before she’d normally go to bed.
It was weird, going to sleep in Gio’s bed. Even though the sheets were clean, his scent was everywhere; and being wrapped in his duvet felt a bit like being wrapped in his arms.
Right now she could really do with a cuddle. She had no idea when her flat would be habitable again, or how much of her stuff would have to be replaced, or even if the flat would still have the same feel about it when all the repairs had been made.
‘Pull yourself together. Stop being so wet. There are plenty of people in far worse situations,’ she told herself fiercely. Yet still the tears slid silently down her face. She scrubbed them away and buried her face in the pillow, until at last she fell asleep.
Until a strange noise woke her.
A noise that sounded like the door opening.
For a moment, she was disorientated: then she remembered she was in Gio’s bedroom. In Gio’s bed. He was asleep on the sofa bed in the living room. She must have dreamed all that nonsense about the door opening. It was probably a floorboard creaking as the building settled overnight or something; and didn’t people always misinterpret the noises in a strange house?
She turned over to go back to sleep.
And then she felt the mattress dip beside her.
FRAN’S first reaction was to shriek and switch on the light.
Gio also gave out the most almighty yell—and then sat bolt upright and stared at her in shock. ‘Fran? What—why—how—oh, Dio.’ He groaned and covered his face with his hands. ‘I’m so sorry. When I offered you a bed for the night, I didn’t mean you had to share it with me. This wasn’t meant to happen. I… Look, I’m really sorry for disturbing you.’ He started to slide out of the bed—and then stopped.
‘Um, Fran, can you turn the light off?’
‘What?’
‘Turn the light off,’ he repeated. ‘Unless you want an eyeful. Because
