Dreaming of Florence Page 2

  ‘I’m not bothered, Al. I’m quite happy like this.’

  ‘I know you are, and you shouldn’t be. You’re a twenty-eight-year-old girl with long legs and the sort of bottom us mere mortals can only dream of. For crying out loud, Debs, smarten yourself up. Cambridge is full of handsome men just dying to get their hands on you.’

  ‘Well, if it is, I haven’t seen many of them.’ Apart from her Italian doctor, of course, but she wasn’t going to voice that thought to Alice. ‘And as for letting them get their hands on me, I don’t think so, somehow.’ Debbie deliberately stifled any more thought of her Italian doctor and grinned across the table. ‘Besides, I’ve got my job, my Italian class and my bike. What do I need some big hairy, possibly smelly, bloke for?’

  ‘I’ll have to buy you a book all about the birds and the bees, Debs. Surely you haven’t forgotten already?’

  ‘Trust me, Al, I’m just fine as I am. As for the visit to the hairdresser, that’ll have to wait anyway now, as first of all I’m going to have to find the cash to get myself a new bike. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m skint.’

  They sipped their tea and Debbie was pleased to get the topic of conversation away from the doctor and onto Alice’s ever-changing panoply of boyfriends. As ever, Debbie felt amazement and maybe even a pang of envy at her friend’s ability to jump seamlessly from one relationship to another, with hardly a pause for breath in between. Every one started out as the real thing and rapidly deteriorated into old news. Her latest conquest, if that was the word, was a forty-year-old astrophysicist at Cavendish, called Dave. By the time Alice finally left, Debbie had received a full and frank appraisal of him as a man, scientist and lover. Debbie’s gut feeling was that this was yet another relationship destined for the scrapheap, not least because Dave spent most of his nights glued to a telescope, rather than to Alice.

  She took a long, hot bath to ease her aches and pains before going to bed and, inevitably, her subconscious drifted away from Cambridge, across Europe, to her happy place once more. She imagined herself sitting on the wooden bench, the smell of roses and the hum of bees in the air. Down below her, beyond the muddy brown waters of the river Arno, the massive red dome of the Duomo and the shining white marble of the Campanile di Giotto towered above the mass of terracotta tiles that formed the roofs of Florence. She knew almost all the buildings by name by now, after hours spent as a girl in the local library in Bristol where she had grown up and, in more recent years, on the computer. The picture of the place she had built up in her mind was fascinating, tantalising and very, very comforting. Some day, she knew, she would have to go there and see it for herself.

  As her sore limbs responded to the soothing touch of the water, her mind relaxed under the spell of this magical place and she felt the cares of the day recede. The British Council inspection had gone well, she was pretty sure. These inspections of every aspect of the school and all the staff were always stressful and she, like the rest of her colleagues, was relieved it had passed without incident. The lesson on the conditional tense she had trotted out for the inspectors had felt like it had been a success and, of course, on her way home she had met her Italian doctor.

  She thought a lot about him as she lay in the warm water, half of her here in Cambridge, the other half somewhere in the ether above Florence. She could still remember the feel of his body beneath hers as they lay on the pavement. She remembered his eyes, his mouth and even his smell. As she finally opened her own eyes and pulled herself upright, she found herself smiling. No, he definitely hadn’t smelt of elk.

  Chapter 2

  She took the bus to work the next day. As Pierluigi had predicted, she woke up feeling pretty stiff and sore, but the discomfort began to wear off as the day progressed. At lunchtime Simon, the principal, put a smile on her face when he told her in confidence that the British Council inspectors had singled her out for a special mention.

  ‘They said it was one of the best lessons they’d ever seen.’

  ‘Terrific, Simon. Let’s hope they tell lots of people, and we get more students as a result.’

  He grimaced.

  ‘Well we certainly need them!’

  ‘It’ll work out, I’m sure. We’re a good school and people always need English.’

  He looked more worried than usual.

  ‘I hope you’re right. Enrolments for the autumn and winter are dire.’

  She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’

  She was still smiling as she walked back along the road from the bus stop at half past four and turned into the cul-de-sac. Her smile broadened as she saw she had a visitor waiting for her.

  ‘Pierluigi, hi.’ She realised she was very pleased to see him again and, from the smile on his face, she got the impression he felt the same way. He jumped up from the wall where he had been sitting and held out his hand.

  ‘Hello, Debbie. I was hoping you’d be coming home around the same time as yesterday. I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re feeling today.’

  ‘I’m feeling fine, thanks. Still a little bit sore, but nothing terrible.’ She shook his hand and then glanced at her watch. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Remembering that he was, after all, Italian, she immediately qualified her offer. ‘Or coffee? It’s only instant, but it’s not too bad.’

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea. That’s very kind.’

  He opened the gate for her and followed her up the path. As they reached the dustbins, she felt his hand tap her on the shoulder. She turned and her eyes followed his pointing finger.

  ‘I also came to make amends. Your old bike looked pretty terminal yesterday, so I’ve taken the liberty of replacing it for you. Will this do?’

  Debbie stared at the shiny new bike resting against the wall. Unlike her old one, there was no sign of rust anywhere and the saddle was flawless and smooth, without even a hint of a spring poking through. The tyres were still clean and fresh from the shop and the wicker basket on the front was clearly making its first outing in the open air. A tiny Italian flag hanging from the handlebars completed the look. She heard his voice again, sounding slightly unsure.

  ‘Will it do? I chose a blue one, but I didn’t know your tastes. They’ve got a green one exactly the same if you prefer. The man said he’d just swap them over if you want.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Pierluigi, but I can’t accept that. What happened yesterday was an accident.’ Debbie returned her eyes to him. ‘Really, it’s not fair. There’s no need for you to go and do something like this.’

  ‘There’s every need. Yes, it was an accident, but it was caused by me.’ He smiled more broadly. ‘Anyway, it was a happy accident because it gave me the opportunity to meet you. So, blue’s all right? Sure?’

  ‘Blue’s perfect, but like I say, there was no need.’ On an impulse, she leant towards him and kissed him on the cheek, breathing in his scent again. ‘This is really, really kind of you. And, yes, it was a happy accident. I’m really glad to have met you, too.’ She turned and led him inside.

  Some kind of sixth sense had caused her to get up earlier than usual that morning so as to wash the dishes and tidy the house before leaving for school. Maybe it had been some kind of premonition, or at least wishful thinking, that he might come by. As a result, she was now able to offer him a seat at the table that was, for once, unusually uncluttered. But not completely. As he sat down, his eyes alighted on her Italian textbook.

  ‘Are you studying Italian?’

  She blushed slightly. ‘Yes, but my Italian’s nothing like as good as your English.’

  ‘Però! Guarda, guarda… So, do you want to speak Italian?’

  Debbie shook her head as she decided not to attempt a reply in Italian.

  ‘I’ve been studying it for six years now, but I’m certainly not what you might call fluent. So it’s probably best if we stick to English.’ She gave a shy cough. ‘I did A level a few years ago and I go to an Italian class once a week, but it’s not enough.�
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  ‘Well, any time you want to speak Italian, just say the word. So, have you been to Italy?’

  Debbie was relieved he wasn’t insisting on speaking Italian to her. It was odd enough to have a man here in the house, without making it worse by conducting the conversation in a foreign language. In fact, thinking about it, he was the first man to set foot in here since Paul’s departure in March. She put the kettle on and took the two least battered mugs out of the cupboard before replying.

  ‘No, never. I almost went when I was at school. There was a school trip to Florence, but my mum and dad didn’t have the money for me to go.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Debbie. What a terrible shame.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘That’s life.’ She shook her head at the memory as she put tea bags in the two mugs while the kettle came to the boil. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please. I never used to drink tea until I came over here to university. Now I can’t get through the day without it.’ He flicked through the Italian textbook. ‘So, when the time comes for you to go to Italy, where’s the first place you want to visit?’

  ‘Florence.’ The answer came out spontaneously. No thought was necessary.

  ‘Well, well. I bet you’ll never guess where I come from.’ He was smiling more broadly now.

  ‘Not Florence, Firenze in Italian, by any chance?’

  ‘That’s right. Firenze is my home town. I live bang in the middle.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing. Florence is my number one favourite place in the whole world. Wait a minute, can I show you something? Hang on, will you?’

  She set the two mugs of tea down on the table and hurried through to the bedroom. There, as ever, on her bedside table, was the little picture frame she had found in a junk shop in Bristol and, inside it, protected behind glass, her precious postcard. She picked it up and took it back to the kitchen.

  ‘Here, do you know where this is?’ She watched his face intently as he took it from her and studied it at close quarters.

  ‘Well, the Duomo’s pretty unmistakable, isn’t it? It’s obviously Florence and the photo’s taken from the other side of the Arno, probably from Piazzale Michelangelo or maybe the Boboli Gardens. What is it? Is it a postcard? It looks like you’ve had it for a good long while.’

  Debbie nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a postcard. My friends who went on the school trip sent it to me from Florence and I’ve kept it ever since.’ Tearing her eyes away from the photo, she glanced up at him. ‘I’ve been on Google Earth and I think it must have been taken from Piazzale Michelangelo, just like you said. It’s funny though. Somehow, although I’ve never been to Italy before, I get the feeling I know this place intimately. It feels so familiar and I can imagine the scene so clearly.’

  He caught hold of her hand on the tabletop and gave it a squeeze before releasing it again. She found she enjoyed his touch. ‘Maybe you were a fiorentina in a previous life – say, one of the beautiful Medici princesses. Who knows?’

  ‘More likely the housemaid who emptied the Medici chamber pots. I come from a very poor background.’ She laughed to conceal her secret pleasure at being compared to a beautiful princess. ‘So is that where you live and work – Florence?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, although for my speciality – I’m an oncologist, but I won’t bore you with the details – the place to be at the moment is in the US. That’s where so much new work’s being done, and I’d love to be part of it. So I’m doing this course this summer in the hope that it’ll help me get a position over there.’

  ‘But your home’s in Florence?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid I’m a stereotypical Italian, in that I still live at home with my parents at the ripe old age of thirty-three.’

  Somehow Debbie felt relieved to hear that he wasn’t married or living with a girlfriend. She tried to keep the satisfaction off her face as she replied.

  ‘I was reading an article in La Stampa only a month or two ago. Apparently, two-thirds of all Italians our age still live at home.’

  ‘Our age? Surely you’re a lot younger than me?’

  ‘I’m twenty-eight, but only for a few weeks more. I’ll be twenty-nine on the twenty-ninth. Not so different.’

  ‘You look younger.’ He studied her appreciatively. ‘I suppose if you put your hair up, you might look a bit older, but like you’ve got it now, tied in a ponytail, you look ten years younger than me.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t feel it when I got out of bed this morning. I was creaking like an old crock.’

  ‘Anyway, old crock or not, the other reason I came round to see you was to ask if I could be allowed to take you out for dinner some time.’ He waved his hand to stop her replying immediately. ‘And this has got nothing to do with my trying to atone for my stupidity yesterday. This is because one of the best things in life is to eat good food in a good restaurant in the company of a beautiful woman.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not the best person to ask about good restaurants.’ Debbie did her best to stop her cheeks from flushing. Even with Paul, she had rarely been out to any “good” restaurants and, if she were totally honest, she found those sort of places a bit intimidating.

  ‘Well, I’ve found the beautiful woman, so I’m already halfway there. Now, surely there must be a good restaurant somewhere in Cambridge.’

  This time she couldn’t help blushing. ‘Well, the answer is that I’d love to come out for dinner with you, but I don’t really know anywhere chic. I know the pubs down by the river reasonably well, and I sometimes go to the Angler’s Rest. The food there’s normally OK. Besides, it’s got a terrace overlooking the river and if the weather stays like this, we could probably eat outside. When were you thinking of?’

  ‘Whenever you like. I’m free tonight, tomorrow – you name it.’

  ‘Tonight’s good for me. Tomorrow’s my Italian class.’

  ‘Very good. Let’s make it tonight. We can speak Italian if you like. That way, you’ll be able to impress your teacher tomorrow with your increased fluency.’

  Debbie shook her head. ‘I think I’d be happier keeping it in English for now. Maybe if we get to know each other a bit better, we could try a bit of Italian.’ As she spoke, she realised that she really did hope she would get to know him better.

  * * *

  Debbie got to the Angler’s Rest at eight o’clock and was impressed to see Pierluigi already there, waiting for her. He gave her a big smile when he saw her and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to catch hold of his hands and kiss him on both cheeks, taking a surreptitious inward breath as she did so – definitely not elk.

  He had phoned ahead and booked a table out on the terrace, overlooking the river. Further up, in the distance, a group of people were doing their unsuccessful best to squeeze three or four punts underneath a low bridge and, even from here, she could hear the shouts and screams of laughter as attempt after attempt failed. The river was so slow-moving as to look stationary, although the water itself was far clearer than the River Arno in Debbie’s postcard of Florence. She and Pierluigi stood there for a moment, enjoying the scene as the sun dropped towards the pink horizon, until Pierluigi turned his attention from the river to her.

  ‘You look marvellous. I was right, you know. Pinning your hair up has made you look a bit older, but it’s also made you look even more gorgeous. And you’ve got such lovely hair.’ He reached over and ran the back of his fingers up the side of her head and she thrilled at the sensation. She thought back to a few hours earlier when she had summoned up the courage to brush her hair out in front of her and then, with the good scissors from the sewing box, she had trimmed almost a foot off it. As the auburn locks dropped to the floor, she had repressed a feeling of regret but now, here, listening to him, she knew that it had been worth it.

  ‘Thank you for the compliment. I must say you’re looking pretty good yourself.’ And he was. He was still wearing jeans, but these were light grey and didn’t have a tear at the knee
. His shirt with a little crocodile logo on the chest was light pink, open at the neck, and it showed off his tan to advantage. For the first time she noticed the very expensive-looking gold watch on his wrist. He looked smart, stylish and affluent. As always, she began to feel a sensation of discomfort. Coming, as she did, from a very ordinary background, she wasn’t used to being in the company of wealthy people.

  She would have settled for a salad of some kind, but the pub was doing a Spanish night, so she let herself be persuaded to join him in tapas and red wine. This all turned out to be unexpectedly good. As darkness fell, they chatted and she gradually began to learn more about him and his life. He was an entertaining companion and she felt herself becoming ever more attracted to this generous, intelligent man who also just happened to look like a film star. It was just a pity that he would only be in Cambridge for a few more days.

  Inevitably, the conversation came round to her favourite city, his home town.

  ‘So, what’s it like, living in Florence, Pierluigi?’ She had just helped him finish a plateful of ham. He had explained to her that this was wonderful, tasty jamón ibérico, produced from a special breed of black pigs whose diet included acorns. Debbie wasn’t a great ham connoisseur, but she had to admit that it was some of the best she had ever tasted – acorns or no acorns. She was feeling pleasantly full – maybe not so full as to be unable to manage a dessert in a little while, but pretty full all the same.

  ‘Florence is hot in summer, cold in winter, the traffic’s awful and the place is full to bursting with tourists. Otherwise, it’s great.’ She could see the smile on his face illuminated by the orange glow of the light on the wall above them.

  ‘Yes, but, apart from all that, it must have its good sides.’

  He took a mouthful of Tempranillo wine before answering. ‘Oh yes, it has its good sides all right. There’s the food. Don’t let anybody from anywhere else in Italy try to tell you otherwise – the food in Florence is the best. The olive oil’s amazing, the meat’s to die for, and the wines are excellent. And the bread is just the best anywhere. And then there’s the setting – squeezed into the valley of the Arno, with Fiesole up to the north, the Apennines beyond, and the Chianti hills rising up on the other side.’ She could see a faraway look in his eyes.