She gasped.
‘Gabriele. Your mother. What if she comes in?’
I stopped, reluctantly. She had a point. I had left Mama out in the garden, but she could absolutely walk in at any moment. There was no way I would want her to meet Lira for the first time while she was in this compromising position.
Groaning with frustration, I began to do her buttons up again.
‘Raincheck?’ said Lira, ruffling my hair.
I stood up, running my hands over her body as I did so, dragging my mind back to reality.
‘Let me introduce you to her,’ I said.
I was surprised that my mother had not called out, wanting to know who was at the door. That was what she would usually have done, because she was a control freak, and she liked to be in absolutely everybody’s business, but then, at the moment, I supposed she did not have the energy to project her voice even if she had wanted to, plus her throat was permanently croaky from all the crying.
I took Lira’s hand and led her out into the garden. It was one of those perfect Tuscan days: a blue, cloudless sky;temperatures warm enough to sit out wearing nothing more than a vest or a T-shirt; the smell of wine and honeysuckle in the air. Mama was curled up under the veranda. She had a book in her lap, but I would be surprised if she had read more than a few pages of it over the last few days.
I was achingly aware of Lira’s hand in mine as we approached – I had not mentioned her to my mother at all. There had not been a chance before Papa, and afterwards it had not felt like the right time.
My love life felt like the least of both our worries, and yet now that Lira was here, I noted the positive effect it was having on me. I had always had relationships pinned as a problem – too much pressure, too much commitment required,moltohard work. But having Lira here had already made things feel just the tiniest bit lighter and less terrible, which I thought was probably all I could hope for from anyone or anything under the circumstances.
My mother looked up as we approached. I saw a brief flash of confusion on her face as she noticed that her only son was holding hands with a woman she had never even heard me talk about.
‘Mama, this is Lira, my dance partner inSlow Burn. Lira, meet my mother, Sofia Riccitelli.’
Lira, perhaps losing her nerve under the scrutiny, dropped my hand and offered hers to my mother instead.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Riccitelli. I’m so sorry for your loss. This must be such a difficult time for you. And for Gabriele.’
My mother shook Lira’s hand, but I saw her hesitate just a second too long. I knew my mother very well and I knew when she was not happy about something; it was obvious to me in the tiny adjustments she made to her manner. And I did not think I was mistaken when I noted that she appeared to be far from delighted to meet Lira.
‘Lira. What a lovely name,’ said my mother.
‘It’s quite popular in South Africa,’ said Lira. ‘That’s where my mother is from. Where I lived for the first few years of my life.’
My mother nodded.
‘Sit, Lira,’ I said. ‘Can I get you a glass of cold lemonade?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely, thanks.’
I dashed back into the kitchen, looking nervously over my shoulder, not wanting to leave them alone for too long because I did not know what my mother was capable of saying at the moment. Logically, there was no reason for her to say anything out of line – Lira had done nothing wrong. In fact, in my mind, she had done everything right. She had seen me at my worst – dismissive, tightly coiled, snappy, rude, sobbing for my father. She had seen all of those parts of me and yet still she had come for me when I needed her, when I was grieving. And I thought that I had probably given her the impression that I wanted to be alone – had convinced myself of that, even – but the truth was, having her here had already made a vast improvement to my mood. Sadly, the same could not be said for my mother’s.
Glass in hand, I hot-footed it back out into the garden,where my mother and Lira were sitting in what appeared to be an extremely awkward silence.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked, hastily pouring Lira a glass of lemonade.
Lira nodded and smiled. ‘Just what I needed. Thank you.’
‘Parli Italiano, Lira?’ asked my mother.
Lira, getting the gist, shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. Although I would love to learn.’
She took a long sip of her lemonade, placing the glass carefully back on the table once she was done.
‘Tell me about yourself, Lira,’ said my mother.
I noticed that Mama’s hand was shaking when she reached for her own glass of half-drunk lemonade and I made a mental note to mention it to the doctor when he called in to see her next. It worried me, because it was like she had aged ten years in one week. Was it true that somebody could die of a broken heart? Because if it was, I was seriously concerned that she would not be able to go on without my father – that she would not wish to.
