If You Could Go Anywhere

by Paige Toon

  He nods.

  I laugh. ‘I thought she was your wife or something.’

  ‘No!’ He looks horrified at the thought. ‘No, no, no. It’s just me.’

  A blue car comes out of nowhere and slots into the already too-small space between the van and an enormous lorry. I gasp and hang on to my armrest for dear life. A red sports car roars past us in the fast lane and, a second later, the blue car darts out and almost crashes into a white Mercedes following the sports car.

  ‘The drivers in Roma are all crazy,’ Alessandro comments flippantly as my heart hammers against my ribcage. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  I’m not sure that I will.

  The rest of the journey to Cristina’s is so nerve-racking that I don’t attempt to strike up another conversation. Instead, I focus my attention away from the action on the road to the countless high-rise apartments flying past. When will I get a chance to see the sights that Rome is so famous for?

  My spine straightens when we come to a river, crossing over it on a wide bridge lined with magnificent white-stone pillars and giant eagles sitting atop plinths. The sparkling surface below glints in the early morning sunshine.

  Rivers, oceans and lakes are such novelties to me. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing copious amounts of water, not even when I’m old and grey.

  The trees on the other side of the bridge are like the ones I’ve seen in television shows about Italy: umbrella-shaped pines.

  ‘Stone pine,’ Alessandro tells me when I ask for the name.

  ‘They’re beautiful. What about that?’ I point at a tall, skinny conifer. I’ve seen a few of these on the journey from the airport.

  ‘Cypress.’

  ‘There aren’t many trees where I come from,’ I reveal.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I live in the desert.’

  ‘Aah.’

  As we make our way through the suburbs of Rome at a more leisurely pace, the tension in my body begins to dissolve. I’m transfixed by the view outside my window. One minute we’re driving along a quiet, leafy residential street with ornate houses behind tall iron gates, the next the streets are wide and busy, packed with traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. Some districts are awash with shops and restaurants, others seem to have only one or two tiny establishments. It’s all so different to the flat, barren landscape of the desert.

  ‘Serafina’s is along there,’ Alessandro says after a while, pointing. ‘The one-way system around here is a pain, so I won’t take you there now, but it’s easy to get to if you’re on foot.’

  ‘How long does the walk take?’

  ‘Ten to fifteen minutes, but Cristina rides a scooter so you could always hitch a lift with her.’

  I don’t think so, not with the drivers I’ve seen.

  Soon we’re turning into a curving street flanked with apartment blocks. There are cars parked on both sides of the road, facing towards us and away, and it’s so narrow I can’t believe it’s not one way. Alessandro winds uphill and comes to a stop, manoeuvring his van into an impossibly titchy space. He switches off the engine and nods further up the hill.

  ‘Your new home,’ he says, opening his door and climbing out of the van. I follow his lead, hesitantly hooking my carry-on bag over my shoulder. While he retrieves my suitcase, I take in my surroundings. There are apartment blocks all around, each six or seven storeys high. They’re cube-like in shape, the floors stacked one above the other with balconies bursting with greenery and laundry hanging out on lines. I can hear a couple of dogs barking and look up to see a little brown pooch on one of the balconies nearby, woofing down at us with great gusto. My gaze takes me higher to the rooftops, which are adorned with orangey-red tiles, gleaming against the blue-sky backdrop.

  I can’t believe there’s so much life packed into such a small area. There are probably more people living in these surrounding apartment blocks than in the whole of Coober Pedy.

  The sound of Alessandro shaking his keys draws my attention back to him. ‘Watch your step,’ he cautions as he sets off uphill, pulling my suitcase along behind him. He’s carrying a bulging shopping bag in his other hand.

  The footpath is not wide enough to walk side by side so I follow, carefully stepping over the uneven paving stones until we come to a stop outside a gated courtyard. Alessandro presses a button on the buzzer and nods slightly left at a crooked wall, alive with creeping ivy. ‘Cristina’s terrace is behind there.’

  ‘She’s on the ground floor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The gate latch makes a clicking noise and Alessandro pushes it open, leading me across the courtyard and in through a glass door that has been propped open with a terracotta plant pot.

  Inside is a reception area, within which a middle-aged man sits off to the left behind a desk. Alessandro greets him in Italian and gestures towards me. ‘This is Salvatore, the doorman,’ he tells me. ‘He’s here between nine in the morning and eight at night. Outside those times, you will need to use the key Cristina will give you.’

  It’s nine thirty now.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ Salvatore says.

  I’ve tried to memorise a few phrases and I know that this means good morning. I repeat the greeting to him with the best accent I can muster. He looks pleased and rattles off a few words and I nod and smile, pretending to understand, while Alessandro goes up to the first door on the left and raps sharply.

  The front door opens, revealing a beautiful, barely dressed girl with long, tangled, dark-brown locks and stunning catlike green eyes.

  Alessandro recoils. He starts to speak rapidly in Italian, sounding far from happy, while I stand there, wondering why he’s not introducing us. The girl responds equally irately and turns away to storm through a door off the hall, shouting something over her shoulder at him as she goes.

  Alessandro sighs and ushers me in, but doesn’t offer a word of explanation as the girl continues to rant out of sight. A moment later, she reappears, wearing a thigh-length plaid skirt and a white T-shirt. She pulls on her shoes and coat and then goes out the front door, slamming it shut behind her.

  Alessandro’s jaw twitches with annoyance.

  ‘Was that Cristina?’ I ask.

  ‘Cristina?’ He looks momentarily entertained at the thought before shaking his head firmly. ‘No. That was Rebecca, her ex-girlfriend. Well, she’s supposed to be her ex-girlfriend,’ he says drily as he goes to stand in the doorway of the room that Rebecca just exited.

  ‘Cristina,’ Alessandro says loudly while I stand there digesting this information. ‘TINA!’

  Groggy mumbling comes from within.

  I wait in the hall, awkwardly, while Alessandro says something in Italian. I hear the name Rebecca, to which Cristina mumbles a sleepy response. Alessandro raises his voice, as does Cristina, and then he turns on his heel and stalks out, pulling the bedroom door shut firmly behind him. He mutters what I’m almost certain is a string of swear words before turning to stare at me with resigned eyes.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he says in perfect English. ‘Coffee?’

  I have a feeling that life here is going to be interesting.

  Chapter 8

  While Alessandro gets on with making our drinks, I give myself a tour of the apartment. It doesn’t take long. There are two bedrooms off the hall, one of which is to be mine. Placing my bags inside, I note a double bed made up with a pale-green bedspread and two windows hung with long white net curtains with a view over a large central courtyard. A wardrobe with curved edges sits against the wall to my right, alongside a low-slung chair, and to my left is another door leading to an en suite bathroom. A couple of empty shelves are fixed to the wall.

  The shared spaces are open-plan. Six vibrantly coloured chairs sit around an oval-shaped dining table to the left, and to the right is the living room and kitchen, separated from each other by a bar top, under which two metal stools are tucked. The living room has a large grey sofa with loudly patterned cushions and a leather armch
air facing a flatscreen TV. There are vintage ski posters hanging on the walls, and shelves filled with books and knick-knacks. I spy an old Chupa Chups tin, but have a feeling the lollipops are long gone.

  The apartment is light, bright and airy, as far from my dark, dated dugout as you could get. This has a cool vintage vibe about it, in line with some of the home make-over shows I’ve seen on TV.

  Beyond the dining area are double doors opening up onto a terrace. Peering through the glass, my eyes widen at the sight of all the succulents and leafy green plants lining the walls. There’s even a palm tree.

  The space is divided into two by a low wall covered with bright blue tiles reminiscent of the swimming pool in Louise’s back yard. Behind it, to the far right, is a wooden table shaded by a faded orange sun umbrella. Directly in front of me is a bench seat, two orange wire chairs and a coffee table, upon which sits a couple of empty wine glasses, two empty wine bottles, and an ashtray, half full.

  I didn’t think to ask if Cristina is a smoker.

  Alessandro appears to be making himself at home in the kitchen. He catches my eye as he places two tiny white cups on the bar top. I walk over and pull out a stool, facing him. On the hob, a gas flame glows beneath a metallic-silver contraption. It’s almost kettle-like, with a spout and a black plastic handle, but its insides are pinched in towards the middle in an hourglass shape.

  ‘Moka pot,’ Alessandro tells me, noticing my perplexed expression. ‘Italian coffee maker. You haven’t seen one of these before?’

  I shake my head.

  He picks up the pot by its handle and pours thick black liquid into the cups.

  ‘Is Cristina okay?’ I ask as he pushes one of the cups towards me.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I wouldn’t mind some milk, but it’s not offered, so. . . When in Rome. . .

  I take a sip. Jeez, that’s strong!

  ‘She’s very hungover,’ Alessandro answers my question, propping his elbows on the bar top. ‘We won’t be seeing her for a while.’

  ‘Says who?’ a voice calls from the hallway.

  Alessandro raises his eyebrows at me expressively. ‘I spoke too soon.’

  And then Cristina – for I’m assuming there are no other random women in this small apartment – appears in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi!’ I exclaim, hopping down from my stool. ‘I’m Angie.’

  ‘Cristina.’ Her look is surly and I tense up as she comes around the bar top to greet me.

  She’s around my height but stockier – straight-up-and-down as opposed to curvy like me. Her hair is short and dark and her ears are pierced several times all over with gold hoops. She looks a bit worse for wear.

  Alessandro says something to her in Italian.

  ‘English, please, Alessandro, where are your manners? And where’s my coffee?’ she demands to know.

  He tuts, but turns back to the hob, and when Cristina returns her attention to me, there’s a wicked glint in her eye.

  ‘I’m sorry about Alessandro,’ she drawls and, when he tuts again, she smirks. ‘And he thinks Rebecca is rude.’

  ‘You won’t be defending her when she cheats on you again,’ Alessandro interjects ominously as Cristina collapses on the sofa, her boobs bouncing freely beneath her light-blue tank top.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘It’ll be different this time.’

  ‘Sure it will.’ Alessandro walks over and hands her a cup of coffee before settling in the armchair and stretching his legs out in front of him.

  ‘Giulio is in hospital,’ he says as I return to my stool.

  As he fills Cristina in, a heavy fatigue settles over me, not unlike the weariness I felt after Nan passed away.

  I’ve been sitting here listening, and they’ve spoken in English so as not to exclude me, but I’ve still felt separate from their conversation. It’s not something anyone can help, but it is a reminder that I’m going to feel like an outsider here for a while, at least.

  ‘I might have to lie down for a bit,’ I say when their conversation comes to a natural conclusion.

  ‘Of course.’ Alessandro jumps to his feet. ‘But try not to sleep for more than three hours or your jet lag will be insufferable.’

  I’ll take his word for it.

  I head into the kitchen and surreptitiously pour the rest of my coffee down the sink. The shopping bag that Alessandro brought in earlier is on the countertop and I peek in to see that it’s full of supplies, including a few bottles of beer and other booze. How thoughtful.

  ‘Leave your cup, I’ll put it in the dishwasher,’ Cristina calls out to me as I look around for a washing-up brush.

  ‘Oh, okay, thank you.’

  Alessandro walks me into the hall.

  ‘Thank you for picking me up,’ I say.

  ‘It was my pleasure. Sleep well, but not too well.’ He places his hands on my arms and bends down to kiss my cheeks. ‘I’ll be back at seven o’clock with Giulio,’ he adds, staring into my eyes.

  There might not have been an electric shock when we touched this time, but I can feel energy radiating from the place where his hands held my arms, even as I head into my bedroom.

  Is this another thing I’m going to have to get used to?

  Chapter 9

  I climb straight into bed, not bothering with a shower, but I do remember to set my watch alarm to wake me after three hours. When it goes off, however, I feel so disorientated and exhausted that I cancel it and promptly fall into a deep sleep.

  Knocking on my door rouses me.

  ‘Angie!’ Cristina calls from the hallway. ‘Are you still sleeping? It’s half past six!’

  I sit bolt upright. ‘I’m awake!’

  My father will be here in half an hour!

  ‘I’ve got to go out, but I’ve left something for you on the terrace,’ she says as I struggle against the heaviness that wants to pull me back down again.

  ‘Okay! Thank you!’

  I can barely think straight as I hunt out my toiletries from my suitcase, but I feel better after washing my hair and brushing my teeth. A glance out the window tells me it’s still a sunny day, but I have no idea if it’s cool or warm so I play it safe with layers, pulling on a pair of black jeans with a mint-green top, light-grey cardigan and ankle boots. Tying my damp hair into a bun rather than attempting to dry and style the frizz, I try to disguise the dark circles under my eyes with the make-up Louise mercifully insisted I buy.

  At seven o’clock exactly, I walk out onto the terrace to find the table laden with bowls and plates of food. Olives, slices of cured meats, cubes of cheese, pretzels, savoury crackers. . . My stomach rumbles at the sight of it all and I realise that I haven’t eaten since they served breakfast on the plane. I mentally thank Cristina as I throw a pretzel into my mouth and eye a tall wine glass filled with what looks a bit like Fanta on ice. Sitting down on one of the wire chairs, I take a sip.

  Ooh, that is not Fanta. This has a bitter orange aftertaste and is almost certainly alcoholic.

  The air is cool, but the sun is warm, a blissful combination if only I were at ease enough to enjoy it. The dog from the first-floor balcony begins to bark at me, so I turn to look at it until it grows bored and jogs into its house, its tail wagging perkily.

  I still haven’t got used to having no responsibilities. In the few weeks since Nan died, I’ve been jolting with dread at this feeling that I’ve forgotten something. I had to do so much for her, whether it was helping her to get dressed or go to the toilet or eat her dinner, but now the only person I need to worry about is myself.

  She would have loved this garden, I think with a pang.

  I’m still finding it hard to reconcile the woman who raised me with the woman who withheld the truth from me for all those years. I’d give anything to be able to have one last lucid conversation with her. It isn’t easy to forgive someone who can’t give you an explanation – or an apology.

  Voices coming from the roadside wall drag me out of the rabbit hole
I’m going down and simultaneously prompt the dog to come rushing outside and go absolutely mental.

  The gate latch buzzes and, a few seconds later, I almost jump out of my skin at the sight of Alessandro’s top half appearing over the courtyard wall. He’s propping himself up on his arms.

  ‘You started without us!’

  He’s wearing a black T-shirt and the sight of tanned arms and lean muscles is distracting.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asks.

  I nod and swallow, and then an older man’s raised, animated voice starts up. He’s speaking in Italian and Alessandro looks over his shoulder at him and replies with a few words as he drops to the ground. They disappear into the reception area where Salvatore’s voice joins the mix.

  I’m a bag of nerves as I hurry inside. I try to take a deep breath to steady myself, but I’m barely able to expand my lungs at all because I’m so on edge.

  I open the door and there, in front of me, is my father.

  Chapter 10

  Giulio is not much taller than me, but is substantially broader, with deeply tanned skin and thick black hair speckled with grey. He’s wearing blue denim jeans and a cream-coloured shirt, and his brown eyes are crinkled at the corners as he drinks me in.

  Do we have the same eyes? I think so.

  ‘Angie!’

  My feet seem to have glued themselves to the spot, but my father steps forward and embraces me, squeezing me tightly.

  I could not feel more bizarre as I squeeze him back. He smells of cologne and wood smoke – sort of homely and welcoming – and for a split second, my senses are flooded with the memory of what my grandfather used to smell like. But before I can capture the memory and make it stick, it drifts away again.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ Giulio says, withdrawing. ‘You are here. My daughter.’ His eyes roam around my face, from the top of my forehead to the tip of my chin. ‘You don’t look like your mother,’ he muses, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘No,’ I reply, vaguely aware of Alessandro watching our exchange.

  ‘Have you a photo of her?’ Giulio asks.