‘This is home,’ said Luca. He bent over the pan. ‘I prefer English TV, English newspapers, English politics.’
‘But not food!’ said Josh.
‘How about women?’ Maeve’s mind was one-track. ‘Surely you prefer a gorgeous Italian señorita?’
‘That’s Spanish,’ smiled Santi, as Luca said, almost to himself, ‘I prefer English women. I like their pale skin. Their soft eyes.’
He looked directly at Anna. She met his look, sensing the dare in it. She swallowed hard and he turned away, saying, ‘Allora! Spaghetti al pomodoro!’
Maeve pronounced it ‘heavenly’. It smelled fresh, with a promise of summer, even using tired old tomatoes. The others watched enviously, and did their best to finish up the stew.
‘Guess I’ll never be a chef,’ said Josh, rounding up the plates and balancing them precariously on the few square inches of worktop. ‘Maybe next time I’ll do something Russian.’
‘Brilliant idea,’ said Anna. Sometimes Josh took petty failures hard; today he was different, more energetic.
Sam explained to Isabel. ‘Josh is a translator. Russian to English, and vice versa.’
‘Wow,’ said Isabel.
‘Not really,’ said Josh. ‘I love the language.’ He waited a beat, then went on. ‘It’s not like English at all. It’s Slavic, so it’s . . . different.’
Like you, thought Anna.
‘There’s lots of Russian poetry, isn’t there?’ said Isabel, leaning forward. She was feeling it, Anna could tell, the offkey power that Josh sometimes exerted over people. If they bothered to look closely, and listen carefully.
‘Russian is lyrical, beautiful.’ Josh wasn’t nibbling his nails, or picking at a strand of hair. Plus, Anna noted, his hair had been washed. She sensed a Christmas Eve tingle about him, as if something big and glittery was coming up.
Luca, settled again at the table, said, ‘I was hoping to meet the famous Dinkie today.’
‘She cancelled at the last minute,’ said Josh.
‘So, Luca,’ said Sam, ‘how do you and Josh know each other?’
Something passed between Josh and Luca, a tiny frisson. ‘Oh, you know,’ said Josh, ‘around and about.’
‘We both enjoy . . .’ Luca had evidently taken off before knowing where he’d land. ‘Tennis,’ he said.
‘Tennis?’ Maeve gaped. ‘Josh? Tennis? Seriously?’
The youngest, devoutly un-sporty Piper had few friends. Or, at least, few he introduced to the clan.
‘What is it that you do, Luca?’ Neil had given up with the chicken.
‘Hey,’ said Santi. ‘Don’t define people by their careers.’
‘When I need to hear hippy shit, I’ll call the nineteen sixties, thank you, Santiago,’ said Neil.
Luca didn’t answer the question. Instead – almost as if deflecting it, thought Anna – he nodded his head towards Paloma. ‘Lovely kid,’ he said.
‘Do you have children?’ Maeve lurched over another boundary.
‘Thankfully, no.’ Luca shook his head. ‘Children annoy me,’ he said. ‘Their voices. The crying. And I’m not interested in their imaginary friends.’
While the others laughed – and Neil controversially agreed – Anna let a small hope die. Refusing another glass – I hope you appreciate my sacrifice, baby – she rose and went to the insultingly small bathroom the developers of Josh’s building had shoehorned into a corner.
Through the thin partition wall, Anna heard snatches of conversation. Neil, it seemed, had kick-started a Sunday Lunch Club basic – why didn’t Josh try to earn more money. Knees up to her chin on the minuscule loo, she heard Neil say, ‘Have you been networking like I suggested?’
The sound of Maeve’s snort made Anna grateful to her.
‘Josh, network?’ spluttered Maeve. ‘Neil, not everybody’s like you, schmoozing and showing off. Josh can’t network.’
There was no toilet roll. Anna improvised.
‘Look, Josh, your work is pretty niche.’ Neil wouldn’t drop it. ‘If you want to move up from this dump, you need to start pushing yourself.’
A low rumbling voice which Anna didn’t at first recognise proved to be Luca. ‘One person’s dump,’ he said, ‘is another person’s palace.’
Anna punched the air. Neil didn’t ‘get’ Josh. Four walls, space for his books and access to music was all he needed. Plus toilet roll, she reminded herself. She could imagine Josh, eyes sliding away, coughing nervously. ‘Neil, leave him alone!’ she shouted as she pulled up her pants.
Laughter exploded on the other side of the spit-and-tissue wall. Anna’s tendency to mother Josh was a family joke; they should have known she was never off duty, even when in the loo.
The mirror was a relic from her old house; everything in Josh’s flat was a donation. The tiny crack on one corner brought her back to when she used to stare at a younger version of this same face when she was married to Sam. He would tell her she was gorgeous most mornings; nobody had said so for a while. Putting a hand to her cheek, she imagined that it felt plumper, softer, as if a halo of flesh was growing around her outline in order to insulate the baby.
Shoulders back. Face sideways on. Hint of a smile. Nope, the terrible lighting in Josh’s bathroom refused to let her look one second younger than her years. I’m supposed to glow, she thought, washing her hands vigorously.
Anna closed her eyes to the condition of the hand towel. I must not tidy up, she said to herself. I must not wipe.
It was useless fighting the need for a fix. She’d been tidying Josh’s life since he was born, and this bathroom was an affront to all right-thinking people. Swishing around with a damp flannel, she soon had the shelves and mirror sparkling. She stood the toilet brush to attention. She lined up his shampoo and shower gel.
On a shelf to the right of the mirror stood a colourful tube that stood out in this bare bathroom.
Lipstick? Anna had never seen a single speck of femininity in Josh’s home. Gingerly she pulled open the cabinet. A facial wash peered back at her. Josh was a soap and water man. More clues dotted the glass shelves. Foundation. By Armani; this mystery woman had taste and bucks. She liked red lipstick and glittery eyeshadow. Anna’s heart raced. Her baby brother was taking baby steps. Maybe not such baby steps – this girl evidently stayed over often enough to merit leaving toiletries at his place.
Slipping back to her seat, Anna was met by the dog. She thought of him simply as ‘The Dog’; naming it would suggest permanence. Beneath the hum of conversation, she bent down and put her nose to his. ‘I don’t want you, got that?’
The dog’s tail hammered the floor.
‘He wants you.’ Luca had bent down so his voice was intimate in the dark space under the table.
When he smiled, Anna had no option but to repay him with interest. His eyes were very dark – like those of The Dog – and could turn on a dime from intent to frisky. That was a good analogy for Luca; a big, strong, healthy dog. ‘It’s nice,’ she whispered, ‘to be wanted.’
As they straightened up, carefully casual, Anna realised that nobody had mentioned her pregnancy, no asking after her health, or commenting on her non-bump. Had they sensed the charge in the air between her and Luca? Silently she thanked her circle for their atypical discretion.
‘Josh does not . . . what’s the word?’ Santi sometimes fumbled with English. He laid a hand on Neil’s arm as if to silence him while he thought. ‘Conform!’ He clicked his fingers triumphantly. ‘Josh likes to live in his own way.’
‘All I need,’ said Josh, before Neil had a chance to let rip again, ‘is to keep things simple. I don’t want to accumulate tons of . . .’ He held out his palms. ‘Stuff. I like to see everything I own.’
‘He’s not competitive,’ said Maeve, adding a pointed ‘unlike you’ at Neil.
‘Bollocks.’ Neil, who imagined multimillion advertising campaigns every day, couldn’t stretch to imagining Josh’s take on life. ‘Nobody lives in a rathole like this by choic
e.’
‘I like this flat,’ said Isabel. ‘It’s cute.’
‘Cute!’ Neil sat back, a giveaway that he was going to shake this particular bone all night.
Luca stepped in by standing up. ‘Hey, you know, we all measure success in different ways. My own definition is that I have enough money left over at the end of the month for a decent bottle of Barolo.’
‘Is that wine?’ asked Maeve.
‘It’s the best wine in the world.’ Luca went to the loo; soon they heard him singing a loud operatic aria, presumably to cloak whatever else was going on in there.
‘Shit,’ said Josh for the second time that day. ‘Ice cream. I promised ice cream, didn’t I?’
‘You did,’ said Santi slowly. He was very very fond of ice cream, even the pallid English stuff.
‘Right. I’d better . . .’ Josh pointed at the door. ‘You know. Buy some.’
‘How does he do it?’ said Neil after Josh pulled on his battered Converses and dashed out. ‘He always—’
‘Nobody always does anything, Neil.’ Anna was tired of defending her brother.
‘Yeah, let’s drop the Josh-bashing,’ said Sam genially. He and Anna had often discussed the way genial, unassuming Josh managed to spark conflict in the family.
‘Time for la niña’s meal.’ Like a conjuror, Santi produced a bowl and a spoon and a starched bib out of the lacy sack that went everywhere with him; Anna’s own niño would inherit top-notch hand-me-downs from its cousin. It was starting to feel right, or at the very least not wrong; Anna felt solid ground beneath her feet.
Unless she happened to glance at Luca. She did that now as he retook his seat, only to find he was looking straight at her. The ground trembled, but she found she wasn’t alarmed by the tremors.
Interrupting a monologue from Sam about the strange pain in his side – was it serious, he wondered, or a stitch? – Anna hissed, ‘I think Josh has a girlfriend!’
‘Rubbish,’ said Neil.
‘Eh?’ said Sam, still feeling his side.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Maeve, leaning down to fondle The Dog. ‘We all need love in our lives. Did I tell you that Paul has—’
‘It’s getting serious. She’s left some of her stuff here.’ Anna led a search party to the bathroom to show them exhibit 1: lipstick, and exhibit 2: eyeshadow.
‘How come he hasn’t said anything?’ puzzled Neil.
Because you’d shoot him down in flames. Anna turned to Luca. ‘Do you know about this woman?’
‘Yeah.’ Luca radiated unease. ‘But . . . it’s Josh’s business.’
‘Which makes it my business.’ Anna was a warrior when it came to Josh. ‘Have you met her?’
‘Yes.’ Luca ushered them out of the tiny room. ‘Look, I don’t—’
‘What’s her name? You can tell us that surely?’ smiled Anna.
‘You’re a wicked woman. Her name’s Thea.’ Luca raised his hands, and she saw the satisfyingly correct amount of hair on his forearms – neither werewolf nor virgin. ‘That’s all you’re getting out of me. Josh’ll introduce you in his own good time.’
‘In that case, just tell me . . . is this Thea a good thing?’ Anna couldn’t help but imagine a femme fatale with a gun.
‘Very.’ Luca tipped his head back, and looked down into her eyes. ‘Trust me?’
‘For some reason, yes.’
Anna was the first to look away. Was the best possible thing happening at the worst possible time?
The ice cream was, alas, not vegetarian, so Maeve smoked through dessert. ‘So,’ she said, blowing a smoke ring as the others ate their raspberry ripple. ‘Thea.’
‘Oh God,’ whimpered Sam. Beside him, Isabel was agog; the Sunday Lunch Club was a crash course in Piper family dynamics.
‘How did you . . .’ Josh’s face collapsed in bafflement.
‘Make-up in the bathroom,’ said Luca, biting his words.
‘Ah.’ Josh laughed. They all breathed out. ‘I can’t keep anything from you guys.’ It was double-edged, that comment; Josh didn’t usually ‘do’ sarcasm. ‘There is somebody. It’s all very new. Bit fragile. Before you ask, Anna, no, I’m not introducing her to the Sunday Lunch Club yet.’
‘Charming,’ said Neil, pretending to be offended. ‘We’ll be gentle with her. What’s Thea short for? I’m imagining a fey sprite, all floaty fabrics and flowers in her hair.’
Luca laughed, short and sharp, as if to intimate that Neil was in for a surprise, while Josh said, ‘See? This is why you can’t meet her. You’d tear her apart.’
Standing up abruptly, he went to the bathroom, as Maeve and Anna began to hiss at Neil.
‘What did you say that for?’
‘You bloody idiot!’
‘What did I do?’ Neil turned to Santi. ‘Back me up, darling. Thea is a silly name, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a charming name,’ said Santi, wiping the baby’s chin.
‘Ssh, he’s coming back,’ said Isabel, who really was learning fast.
Piper goodbyes took ages. Lots of hugging, much running back up the stairs to say one more thing, promises to meet up. Anna stood in the porch, alone, staring out at the half-gentrified street.
Any moment now she’d have to take her leave of Luca. She was surprised he hadn’t asked for her number. By forty, women know when men are interested; Luca was interested.
Probably married, she thought. Or perhaps my radar is unreliable.
At the top of the stairs, Josh held the door open for the stragglers to leave. Polite. Genteel. But longing to be alone again. Or longing to call Thea?
Anna was tuned into Josh in a way that verged on the unhealthy; many nights she lay awake worrying about his future when she should have been catching up on her beauty sleep. Lately, her little passenger had pushed Josh off the top spot; that was only natural, but she felt guilty about it.
Another concern had barged in, shoving both the baby and Josh out of the way. That damn letter obscured all else. Anna paced on the pavement. She felt a special loneliness descend.
I have to confront this on my own.
If she brought it up with Neil, he’d groan; neither of them wanted to remember the time when the people she loved turned monstrous faces towards her. Her other siblings, the younger two, would look at her in a completely different light.
Maeve and Josh were in the dark about what their big sister had done: I intend to keep it that way.
The letter waited for her, like a bad smell, like a head cold, like a lover who doesn’t know when to quit.
As Anna switched on lights, threw down her keys and shook off her jacket, the letter sat where she’d left it on the worktop. She didn’t have to pick it up. One reading had set the words in stone.
Dear Anna,
Does the eleventh of November ring any bells? It should do. It was a big day for you, although I know you’d rather forget it. There’s one person who can never forget it. That person is me.
Thanks for nothing, Anna Piper.
Carly
A thud. The Dog had bumped into something. Anna had almost got away without him, but Josh had thundered down the stairs with the gormless scrap in his arms. Now the beast was getting to know Anna’s kitchen, scattering the fridge magnets and getting stuck in the gap between the washing machine and the dryer. A bowl of water was set down, but the dog had already blundered into it, soaking itself and the floor.
Anna bent down to tickle under the animal’s chin; she already knew how much he loved that. ‘You’re such a mess,’ she said. ‘You look like a yeti. A very small yeti.’ The dog would be handy for distracting her from the letter. A noise in the hall made her straighten up.
And talking of distraction . . .
Luca ambled into the kitchen. He cocked an eyebrow. ‘So,’ he said. ‘When do I take you out? And where do we go?’
‘I like . . . eating,’ she offered.
‘Good start. Me too.’ Luca folded his arms, put his head back and studied her. ‘Hmm.
I’m not sure whether to be obvious and suggest an Italian place.’
‘Be as obvious as you like. I love Italian food.’
‘Great.’ He smiled at her, not moving, enjoying the view.
‘Great,’ she reiterated, putting her hand to her hair. ‘There’s something I want to tell you . . .’
‘Yes?’ Luca closed the space between them. He was near enough to put his arms around her, and he looked as if he wanted to. This close, his eyes were like coal.
Anna let it happen. He was a rockface of linen and warmth. ‘The dog’s name is Yeti,’ she murmured as he kissed her.
Chapter Four
Lunch at Dinkie’s
A SMALL SWEET SHERRY
QUICHE, SAUSAGE ROLLS, COLESLAW
DINKIE’S SPECIAL CHOCOLATE CAKE
A lot can happen in a fortnight. For example, you can almost-but-not-quite fall in love.
Two weeks is long enough to penetrate the top layer of another person. Particularly if, like Anna and Luca, you see that person most days. Fourteen days of getting to know each other had revealed a few facts about Luca.
He called when he said he would; his chest-hair game was strong; he was unpretentiously knowledgeable about wine; he was expert at sneaking up noiselessly behind Anna and kissing the back of her neck; he tended to be grumpy if she rang him first thing in the morning. He’s a bear, she’d think happily, as he growled and tutted. She was unable to like him any less even when he was surly and monosyllabic. He’s a great big Italian bear.
A fortnight had done nothing to dim the power of the letter. It lay in Anna’s bedside drawer, its voltage making the whole house hum. It had raised questions to which Anna had no answer, but by leaving out a return address or even a surname, it gave her no right of reply.
Unusually for such a decisive woman, Anna was stuck. The letter had brought chaos and then freeze-framed it, like a photograph of an erupting volcano.
Given the chance, she might be able to defend herself about the events of the eleventh of November. Carly – the name meant nothing to her – might scoff at the pathetic reasoning, but it was all Anna had to offer. It was all that stood between Anna and self-loathing.
The Sunday Lunch Club Page 6
