From Rome with Love

by Jules Wake

  As he went to tuck the book into her tote bag, something fluttered out of its pages. With a panicked shriek she tried to snatch it out of the air, but the movement wafted what he realised was a photo, out of reach and it sailed over the parapet.

  ‘No!’ She threw herself at the wall and leaned over, arms hopelessly outstretched. ‘No, no, no.’ Her fingers made tiny, futile grabbing movements.

  He leaned over the wall and together they watched the photo twirl and flutter with agonising precision downwards.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ muttered Lisa and stepped back hurriedly from the wall, snatching her hat from her head.

  ‘It might land on …’ but even as he said the words, the picture drifted to the left and then dropped out of sight, destined for the floor of the hypogeum.

  ‘Please tell me it didn’t go over the edge,’ her horrified expression held desperation.

  ‘I’m …’

  She groaned. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Was it …’

  Her shoulders slumped as she sagged against the wall.

  Of course, it bloody was.

  She stared down at her feet, her lip clamped between her teeth as she swallowed hard, fighting back tears. Tears? Lisa never cried. Something flipped in his chest and he touched her shoulder. She flinched, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  ‘Shit, I’m -’

  ‘Don’t.’ Her words, low and emotionless, were harder to bear than if she’d ranted at him for being an absolute bloody idiot. She looked utterly bereft.

  ‘We might get it back. We can ask …’

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. There was a buzzing in her ears and all she could think was that she wished she could turn the clock back. Why hadn’t she put the photo somewhere safe? Why hadn’t she copied the address down. Stupid. Stupid.

  Will was saying something to her but she couldn’t focus on the words. Tears burned and she tried hard not to blink so they wouldn’t spill out, but it was no good, she felt them slip down her cheeks and when she took in a sharp breath to try and stall the sob fighting its way out, like a wave crashing over the breakers, it burst out.

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Will slipped his arm around her. ‘We’ll get it back. They do tours down there. I’m sure we can ask someone to look for it.’ He pulled her towards him and put his arms around her, holding her tight.

  With her face tucked in between his neck and shoulder, she let the tears run freely, crying quietly, unsure why this well of emotion had risen up.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ she hiccoughed, ‘m-matter.’ She tried to tell herself her mother wouldn’t know if she didn’t return the ring, but it didn’t help.

  ‘I think it does.’ Will pulled her to his chest as she cried, his hand caressing her hair, stroking it and holding her close, as if trying to absorb her pain. He didn’t say anything, just let her cry, for which she was grateful because she was having a hard time trying not sink into his hold, slip her arms around him and cling to him.

  Finally, feeling limp and embarrassed, she pulled away, frightened by the sudden realisation that she could happily stay there for ever. When he was nice, there was something dependable about him. With an unladylike sniff, she blinked up at him, wiping at the streaks down her cheeks with the back of her hands. He was already digging in the tote bag and pulled out her handy pack of tissues. She took it, fumbling with the opening.

  ‘Here, let me.’ He pulled a tissue out and gently dabbed away at her tears, his fingers brushing her face as he wiped each eye, a frown of concentration on his face as he focused his whole attention on her.

  Her heart flipped in her chest, a fizz of something expanding like a firework at the tender caress. With a shuddery breath, she stared up at him, suddenly feeling light-headed and breathless. Her stomach was a mass of swirly knots.

  Get a grip, she told herself. This was Will, International Womaniser, number-one playboy and charmer extraordinaire. He was good with women.

  He was good with Italian officialdom too. When they returned to the box office, he took charge, managing to make himself understood well enough for them to send for one of the English guides who took the tours around the underground area.

  The bright young Italian with his bushy, glossy beard looked mournful when they explained their predicament.

  ‘It is not possible for you to join a tour.’ He directed his sympathetic smile to Lisa. ‘I am very sorry, Signorina. This is high season in Roma. This area is restricted because of its extreme archaeological value. We have to be very strict about numbers to preserve the site. You must enter on a tour. All the tours are full for the next two weeks.’

  Lisa exchanged a resigned look with Will; she hadn’t expected anything else.

  ‘Couldn’t you squeeze an extra person in, to look for the photograph?’

  The young man looked horrified. ‘This is an ancient site. It is not permissible. A few areas are accessible to archaeological staff. It is impossible.’

  ‘Okay, but there must be something you can do.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is nothing.’ He shook his head with the surety of officialdom.

  But Will wasn’t going to let it go.

  ‘You could look for the photograph when you are on your tours, couldn’t you?’ Will insisted. ‘We could show you where it went over.’

  ‘I will look and ask the other guides to look too.’ The young Italian looked from Lisa to Will, his face grave, ‘However, I’m not sure, even with your directions, that we will ever be able to find this picture. From above, the area looks smaller than it is. Below the surface it is very big.’

  ‘We would be grateful if you and your colleagues would do your best. The picture is very important to the signorina.’ Will pulled out his wallet. ‘There could be a reward.’

  ‘Will,’ she said dully, closing her hand over his wallet. ‘Honestly, it’s … it’s not …’

  ‘I can make the request to look for this photograph, but I cannot make a promise.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ They wandered back into the sunshine. ‘Thank you for doing your best. It’s not the end of the world if I don’t get it back.’ But now suddenly it was.

  ‘But it’s important to you,’ he squeezed her arm.

  When had Will turned into such a bloody knight in shining armour? It was kind of him, super-kind, but she didn’t want to dwell on it. Not now. And how come he was being super-sensitive and not even asking her about what was in the photo?

  ‘I’ll live,’ she said shortly.

  He gave her a quick look, but nodded immediately. Contrarily she was irritated by his immediate acquiescence. ‘Shall we go for a coffee? I could murder a cappuccino.’

  Will looked at his watch and put his fingers to his lips. ‘Shush. Not at this time of day. You’ll be lynched.’

  ‘What’s wrong with cappuccino? It doesn’t get more Italian than that?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He put his hands on his hips with mock horror – that crooked smile back in place. ‘It’s sacrilege. You can’t drink cappuccino now.’

  ‘Can’t you? Why not?’

  ‘No, you most certainly can’t. No milk in your coffee after lunchtime. Didn’t Giovanni teach you anything yesterday?’

  ‘Ah, he did keep on about hurrying up because he wanted one. Now I get it. Anything else I need to know, Mr Coffee-Expert.’

  ‘Don’t ask for an espresso and absolutely not a double espresso. Coffee here is espresso. And never with anything in it. No hazelnut frappuccino here. The Italians are horrified that Starbucks are planning to invade.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember.’ Lisa’s mouth twitched. ‘What about tea? Is that allowed?’

  ‘Not if you’re with me. When in Rome and all that.’

  ‘Well, we’re most definitely in Rome.’

  One of the things you had to admire about Will, one of a growing list, all of a sudden, was his ability to get things done. None of this wandering aimlessly hoping to stumble on a suitable
coffee bar. No, he’d got an app, identified a target and they were headed to not just any old coffee bar but one of the best ones in the district.

  They sat down at a marble-topped table. ‘What am I allowed to order?’ asked Lisa, with a teasing lift of her eyebrows, hoping she wouldn’t have to try one of the small, dark shots of espresso – they looked too strong and bitter for her.

  She looked over to where two baristas operated a huge Gaggia chrome machine with the finesse of organ players in a church, darting back and forth, seizing the handles of the machine with sharp twists and bashing out old coffee grounds in a steady tattoo.

  ‘The coffee here is renowned. What sort of coffee do you like?’

  ‘Coffee, coffee. Preferably with plenty of milk.’

  ‘Yes, but do you like a South American blend with robust flavours or an African roast?’

  ‘Why do you have to go and make it complicated?’ Lisa’s amusement evaporated. ‘Any old coffee will do.’ She held up a finger. ‘And don’t say it … I know you won’t agree.’ She sighed crossly and then, maybe because Will had been nice to her, she relented. ‘You know I haven’t a clue and that I’m completely stupid when it comes to coffee, food or wine.’ She paused, looking away across the room, avoiding his careful gaze. ‘Nan never did fancy foreign malarkey.’

  He didn’t say anything until she’d turned uncertainly back to him. ‘Lisa, I’ve never thought you were stupid.’ With a gentle smile, he turned the menu her way. ‘The only thing you need to know is what you like.’

  Lisa looked down at her hands. Will being nice unnerved her. He didn’t do nice where she was concerned.

  ‘I know I get a bit carried away sometimes, wanting to share, I guess, but most people tell me to shut up.’ A rueful smile touched his mouth, softening his face. ‘So what do you like, strong or weak coffee?’

  She paused, taking a quick glance at the constant flow of people around them - solitaryItalian businessmen, in sharp suits, pairs of immaculately turned-out women, teenagers with backpacks and baseball caps, all of whom queued patiently for their drinks before moving to a tiny bar area, where they knocked back the miniscule cups of coffee in two quick swigs. Coffee in Italy appeared to be a quick and serious business.

  ‘See, even that’s too hard for me. I like it medium.’

  ‘Then you should try an Arabica. Nice and smooth, without too much of a caffeine hit socking you with a sucker punch.’

  ‘And there you go, spoiling it with the fancy bit at the end.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Will’s grin was unrepentant. ‘But if you like it, that’s one little step in your food knowledge. Nothing complicated about it at all.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple,’ she grumbled. ‘How did you get to be such a food expert.’

  Will looked up, his eyes sharpening. ‘I …’ Then his mouth firmed with lines of resignation. ‘Truth is, I didn’t have much choice. It was that or … well, me and Alice wouldn’t have starved, but rickets or malnutrition were a strong possibility. There are only so many M&S ready-meals you can eat. And if your kid sister takes out the microwave, you’re really stuffed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alice put a metal dish in the microwave while Mum and Dad were away, Cheltenham Gold Cup that weekend, I think, or it might have been Wimbledon. Can’t remember, now. She was nine.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘Frightened the life out of her. The thing went up so quickly. Stupid thing to do, but I grabbed it and chucked it out of the back door into the garden. Singed half my hair off.’ He rubbed at the silver-white scar that took up most of the palm of his hand.

  Lisa sat up with a sudden jolt and grabbed it.

  ‘Is that how you did this?’ She remembered the dodgy haircut with the slightly frizzled bits at the front and now it came back, the bandaged hand. He can’t have been more than fourteen then. He pulled it back sharply. ‘It was fine.’

  It didn’t look fine to her, but his mouth had clamped shut in a mutinous line.

  ‘What did your parents say?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Not sure they even noticed at first, but they didn’t get around to replacing it, so I kind of had to learn to cook pretty quickly. Pissed your nan off a lot. I made quite a lot of mess in the early days. Although, to be fair, she was good about stocking the fridge with fresh veg.’

  Lisa stared at him, confused. ‘But what about your mum and dad?’ Eloise and Richard had been quite the most glamorous people she’d ever seen at that age, always beautifully dressed and on their way to dinner or a party. When Nan took her to the house when she cleaned, Lisa would help put away the discarded costume jewellery that Eloise seemed to scatter liberally about the house.

  ‘What about them?’ Will opened the coffee menu and nodded at a waiter.

  His sudden shut-down made her pause, not quite sure what to say.

  ‘Well, where were they?’

  ‘Around.’ He tried to catch the eye of the waiter again, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. ‘We were fine. Alice survived my cooking, although,’ his laugh sounded forced, ‘she’s never let me forget my first spaghetti Bolognese, when I boiled the pasta for too long and it turned into mush or the steak-and-ale pie I attempted to make that was more like beer soup topped with raw pastry. But I got better and started to enjoy it and then I got more ambitious and started trying out new things. And,’ he gave her a sparkly I’m-just-fine grin, which said anything but, ‘it was handy at uni for getting the girls. “Come back for dinner” is a great line. Never failed. I got quite a reputation, if you know what I mean.’

  Normally Lisa would have rolled her eyes and jumped in with some comment, but beneath the bravado she sensed that he was very uncomfortable. His relief when the waiter finally appeared and took their order was almost palpable.

  ‘So you became Leighton Buzzard’s answer to Jamie Oliver,’ she said jokily. ‘Bet your parents were thrilled.’

  Will stilled, sudden wariness emanating from him like a cat with its fur standing on end. He toyed with the salt cellar on the table, rolling its base around on one edge. ‘Not so you’d notice. In fact, they’re quite embarrassed by it. My dad thinks I ought to be something in the City and I’m wasting my time playing at being the landlord.’

  ‘But that’s so unfair!’ Lisa burst out. ‘Everyone knows …’

  He raised a frigid eyebrow. ‘Knows what?’

  Lisa shifted in her seat. ‘Everyone knows that you’ve bailed them out. That the pub is incredibly successful.’

  ‘The joys of village life.’ Will scowled.

  ‘I’d suck it up. They all think you’re some kind of hero.’

  ‘Which, of course, you know I’m not.’

  Lisa bit her lip. ‘I wasn’t talking about me.’

  A calculating smile came over his face. ‘Maybe we should.’

  ‘Ha, ha. There’s nothing to talk about.’ Her heart thudded uncomfortably.

  ‘This photo? You seemed pretty upset when it flew away.’

  She thought she didn’t, but suddenly the words popped out. ‘It was a picture of my father.’

  ‘I know he’s never been around. Is he dead? I’ve never heard you mention him before.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh shit. I hadn’t even thought about that.’ The words came out before she could stop them. ‘But he’s not that old.’

  A bemused expression sat on Will’s face.

  ‘No one’s heard from him in years.’ Without realising it, she’d picked up the salt cellar and had unconsciously mimicked Will’s earlier moves. Caught out, she grimaced and firmly pushed it away from her. ‘His last address was in Rome. It was written on the back of the photo. And I can’t remember it exactly.’

  ‘Oh, bugger.’ She flinched at the sudden warmth of his hand over hers. ‘That’s …,’ he sat up and knocked back his coffee, putting his cup down with a decisive clatter. ‘We’ll go back, now. There must be a way of us getting it.’

  We? Us? Had Will had a personality bypass? This was her problem. His ear
nest look had her shifting in her seat.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Ah, I’ve suddenly realised. Hence the trip to Rome. You were going to try and find him.’

  Lisa wrinkled her nose in what she hoped was a non-committal way. ‘It was a possibility. But a bit of a long shot. Like you said, he could be dead, moved away, anything. And, to be honest, it’s not like it’s a problem. I’ve lived this long without knowing him or why he left.’ Her back ached as she sat upright, stiff and awkward, suddenly not wanting to talk about this at all, but bloody Will had other ideas.

  ‘Do you remember him?’

  An unfamiliar hollowness in her stomach stalled her words. Trying to remember him was like groping in the dark, trying to capture an elusive cloud always out of reach, her hands slipping through the insubstantial mist.

  ‘No, not really.’ Saying it out loud made it feel like a failure. Ironic that she felt bad not remembering him, when he was the one who had left.

  ‘The photo was the first time I’d ever seen him.’ She shrugged. ‘In fact, I’d never thought that much about him for years.’ And now it seemed she couldn’t stop talking. Or being totally honest. ‘I’ve been brought up by Nan; she’s all I know. It never really bothered me until … well, I found the photo and then I started thinking. I had this idea I might track him down, tell him what I thought of him and that I’d been fine without him.’ The bloody words kept spilling out and now her voice caught in her throat, her spine stiffening as she realised. It wasn’t about returning the damn ring – that had only been a smokescreen. She lifted her chin and looked away to the far side of the bar, focusing on a picture, the Eiffel Tower, for some unfathomable reason.

  Will laid a hand over hers. ‘Except that’s not true, is it? No matter how many times I tell myself I don’t care that my dad isn’t proud of what I do, even though he’s happy to take the benefits, I can’t stop hoping. Can’t stop trying to impress him.’

  She put her hands on the table, almost in surrender. ‘I’m not sure what I want.’

  ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t try to contact him. Always thinking of the “what ifs”.’