Читать книгу Passionate Affairs: Breakfast at Giovanni's - Kate Hardy - Страница 17

GIO didn’t actually see Fran on Monday, because he was visiting a franchise organisation. She was a bit hurt he hadn’t asked her to go along with him; but then again, it was probably better if they were apart for a bit. Sensible. It would give them both a chance to cool down and wipe out any lingering awkwardness from Saturday night.

On Tuesday, Gio didn’t even call in to the office to see if everything was OK. Which was good, she told herself, because clearly he trusted her to keep everything in the cafés ticking over without supervision. And that stupid longing to hear his voice was just that. Stupid. Teenagery.

Which was even more stupid, considering that she was twenty-six and sensible, not fifteen and full of hormones.

All the same, she made serious inroads into the box of chocolates Gio had bought her for winning the bet about making latte art. She needed the sugar rush.

But after work on Tuesday night, things took a dip for the worse. Fran had called in at the supermarket on the way home. But as soon as she pushed her front door open, she could see that she had a problem.

A huge problem.

There was a hole in her ceiling, and bits of artex were scattered everywhere. And from the way her sofa-bed was completely soaked, it looked as if water had come through the ceiling, collected in the gap between the plasterboard and the artex and stretched it out until it burst—sending water cascading straight down. Her carpets were squelchy underfoot, there were stains on the walls from where water had seeped through the gap between the ceiling and the wall, and already she could smell something unpleasant: wet wool, she guessed. Probably the carpet.

For a moment, she just stood staring at the mess, too shocked to move.

And then common sense kicked in. She needed to make a few calls. Starting with the letting agency, to tell them what had happened so they could book someone to come round and start repairing the damage. The insurance company for the damage to her belongings. And work, to say that she’d be in late tomorrow as she had a ton of things to sort out.

Which meant she was going to have to talk to Gio.

Well, this was business and they were both adults. So there was no point in putting it off, was there? She rang his mobile; he sounded slightly absent when he answered, as if she’d interrupted him in the middle of something and he was only paying half attention to the call.

‘It’s Fran. I’m afraid I won’t be in tomorrow—at least, not until late—because I need to sort out a problem.’

Her voice sounded tight and slightly anxious, not her usual cheerful self. Gio, who hadn’t really been listening, suddenly snapped to attention. ‘What sort of problem?’

‘My flat’s been flooded. It’s a bit of a mess. I just need to sort a few things out.’

She was clearly aiming to sound practical, but the tiny wobble in her voice told him how upset she really was. Knowing Fran, ‘a bit of a mess’ was an understatement. And even though he knew it was sensible to keep his distance for a little bit longer and she was perfectly capable of dealing with the problem by herself, he couldn’t just stand by and leave her to it. ‘I’m coming over.’

‘Gio, you really d—’

‘I’m on my way now,’ he cut in. He ended the call, closed the file he was working on, locked the door behind him, collected his car and drove straight to her flat.

Her face was tight with tension when she opened the door to him. Because she didn’t want to face him, or…?

Then he glanced over her shoulder and saw the mess.

‘Porca miseria, Fran! How did this happen? A burst pipe?’

She shook her head. ‘The guy above me left the bath running. He was on the phone to someone, had a bit of a fight with them and stomped out. He forgot he’d left the bath running until he came back, three hours later.’

‘And by then it had overflowed and soaked through your ceiling.’ Gio shook his head in disgust. ‘What an idiot.’

‘I’m afraid I said something far worse than that when he came down to apologise, a few minutes ago,’ she admitted. ‘I would offer you a coffee, but—’

‘No. It’d be dangerous to use your kettle right now,’ Gio said. ‘The place needs drying out, the electrics all need checking properly to make sure they’re safe before you use them again, and then there’s the repair to the ceiling. The carpet’s probably not going to recover, so you’ll need someone in to measure the room and then fit a replacement. And I’m not sure your sofa-bed is ever going to be the same again.’ He surveyed the damage. ‘It’s going to take quite a while to sort this out. And there’s no way you can stay here while your flat’s in this kind of condition. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ll find a hotel or something.’

‘My family would skin me for letting you do that, when I have a spare room. Problem solved—you’re staying with me.’ It was a rash move, he knew; after Saturday night, having Fran that close would be a major strain on his self-control. But how could he stand by and let her struggle, when such a simple solution was right at his fingertips? ‘Just pack what you need for a few days. Clothes and what have you, paperwork and anything that might not cope with a high moisture content in the air.’

‘Clothes?’ She coughed and gestured to the rail next to the wall. The sodden canvas cover was sagging over the hangers beneath; it was a fair bet that right now the only dry clothes she owned were those she was wearing.

‘OK. Have you got some large plastic bags?’

‘I’ve got some dustbin bags.’

‘They’ll do. Put your clothes in those. I have a washer dryer, so we can deal with the laundry when we get back to my place.’

‘We’re going to carry bags of wet clothes on the Tube?’

He smiled. ‘You know you say my car corners like a tank? Well, it carries like one, too. And it’s parked outside. Without a permit.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Gio, you’ll get a fine!’

‘At this time of the evening? I doubt it. And no traffic warden would be hard-hearted enough to give me a ticket when your place is flooded and your visitor permits are probably so much papier mâché.’

She clearly didn’t share his certainty, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.

‘Just pack your stuff and I’ll carry it out for you and load it up,’ he said quietly. ‘Oh, and when you talk to your letting agency again, you might want to give them my home number. Just in case they need to get hold of you while you’re staying with me and for some reason they can’t reach you at work or on your mobile phone; the answering machine can take a message if we’re not there.’

Her eyes were suspiciously glittery; she looked very close to tears. How could he stay brisk and businesslike when she so clearly needed a hug? So he wrapped his arms round her, resting his cheek against her hair for a moment. ‘It’s going to be all right, piccolina. Really.’ And then he let her go before he did something really stupid, like picking her up and carrying her out to his car.

He helped her pack the rest of her clothes into dustbin liners.

‘There’s no point in packing these. They’re dry-clean only. Ruined,’ she said and made a separate pile of clothes.

Including the dress she’d worn on Saturday night, he noted. ‘My mum’s bound to know someone who can salvage them,’ he said, picked up the pile and stowed them in a bag. ‘I take it you haven’t eaten yet?’

‘No. I’d just done a bit of shopping on the way home.’ She surveyed the squelchy mess around them. ‘I don’t think I’m hungry any more.’

‘Fran, you need to eat properly. I know this is a horrible situation, but skipping meals will only make you feel worse.’ He punched a couple of buttons on his mobile phone. ‘Mum? It’s Gio. I’m at Fran’s—there’s been a flood.’

Predictably, his mother wanted to know if he was helping Fran clear up and if she was going to stay at his flat. ‘Of course. Look, some of her clothes are dry-clean only, and they’re soaked.’

‘And you need help to salvage them. Do you want me to come over to yours?’

He smiled. ‘You’re an angel. Yes, please. You’ve got my spare key.’

‘I’m on my way now. Tell Fran not to worry.’

‘I will.’

‘Love you, Gio.’

‘Love you too, Mum.’ He snapped the phone closed and turned to Fran. ‘Sorted. Have you called your parents yet?’

She shook her head. ‘No point. They’re too far away to help.’

‘Don’t you think they need to know where you are, in case they try to call you here and can’t get through? They might be worried.’

She gave him a look as if to say, why on earth would they be worried? But she shrugged. ‘I’ll text them later.’

His first instinct in a crisis was to call his family. And yet Fran kept her distance from hers, sorting the problem out on her own. Was it the adoption thing that had made her so self-reliant? Or was it that she was scared to let herself be part of them, in case she was rejected again?

He remembered the way she’d suddenly tensed on Saturday night, but wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. Had that been it, the idea of being part of a family and fearing rejection?

But his family had liked her immediately. They wouldn’t reject her.

Neither would he.

If he could only trust himself not to let her down.

Angela and Isabella were already at Gio’s flat by the time they arrived. And something smelled fantastic.

‘I assume neither of you two have had the time to eat yet,’ Angela said. ‘So you can just sit down right now and eat.’

Fran felt the tears welling up and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was not going to be wet about this.

Angela gave her a hug. ‘Hey, it’s horrible when you get flooded out. Especially when you couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. Sit down and eat. You’ll feel a lot better when you’ve eaten something.’

Fran didn’t quite believe her, but the gnocchi and sauce were gorgeous.

And Angela was right: it was exactly what she needed.

Fifteen minutes later the washing machine was on, Angela had made a pile of clothes she intended to take to a friend who specialised in restoring textiles, and Nonna was brewing coffee to go with the box of Amaretti biscuits she’d brought over.

‘Thank you for coming to my rescue,’ Fran said. ‘I really appreciate it.’

‘Prego,’ Angela said with a smile. ‘Of course we would. You’re one of us.’

Oh, lord. She really was going to cry in a minute. Something inside her felt as if it had just cracked.

Gio ruffled her hair. ‘Come on, tesoro. Let’s put your things in my spare room.’

‘Room’ was probably a bit of an ambitious description, Fran thought; the space was more like a large broom cupboard. And it was already crammed with a computer, paperwork and three guitars. Even if he moved them all elsewhere, there wouldn’t be room for anyone to sleep there.

Gio might have a spare room, but he didn’t have a spare bed. She felt her cheeks scorch with heat. Was he expecting her to share his bed? And as for the message that would give his family…

As if he guessed what she was thinking, he said, ‘I’ll change the sheets for you, Fran. You’ll be having my room while you stay here—and my sofa turns into a guest bed, so, before you start worrying, let me reassure you that you’re not putting me out. Now, I’ll show you how the shower works—there’s plenty of hot water, so just help yourself whenever you want a bath or what have you. I won’t be expecting you to go in to work at the same time in the morning as I do—and you don’t need to come in at all tomorrow.’ He took a bunch of keys from a drawer and detached one. ‘Spare door key. So you don’t have to wait around for me.’

She swallowed hard. ‘I really appreciate this, you know.’

‘Prego.’ He smiled back at her.

By the time Gio had changed the bed and she’d sorted out her things in his bathroom—and it felt strangely domesticated to have her face cream sitting next to his razor on the bathroom shelf and her toothbrush next to his—Angela had finished sorting through the dry-cleaning pile. ‘I’ll take these to my friend tomorrow morning,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ Fran hugged her. ‘Thank you so much. I thought they were beyond saving.’

‘My pleasure, sweetheart.’ Her voice softened. ‘And you’ve already done a lot for me. If anything, I’m in your debt: Gio’s not such a complete workaholic as he used to be, and he smiles a hell of a lot more.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Gio groaned. ‘Much more of this, and I’ll be forced to put on a Derek Bailey CD.’

‘Who’s Derek Bailey?’ Fran asked, puzzled.

‘A jazz guitarist from the 1950s and 1960s. He used to do a lot of improvisation work,’ Gio explained.

‘It’s not actually music,’ Angela said, grimacing. ‘It’s the stuff Gio plays when he wants to clear the room.’

‘Don’t be such a philistine. Of course it’s music. Nonna, you tell her,’ Gio said.

Isabella put both hands up in a gesture of surrender, laughing. ‘I’m staying out of this one.’

‘It’s music—but not in the traditional sense,’ he said to Fran. ‘It works on rhythm and texture rather than a melodic basis. What’s known as tonal harmonics.’

‘What’s that in English? Or even Italian?’ Fran asked.

In answer, Gio fetched an acoustic guitar from his spare room and demonstrated.

‘See?’ he said.

‘Um…I’m with your mother,’ Fran said. ‘That’s not music.’

‘Why can’t you play nice things?’Angela asked. ‘Like the pretty bits you used to play. Like the stuff you were playing at the party.’

‘And I still think you should’ve gone to college,’ Isabella added. ‘Studied music.’

Gio put his guitar away again with a scowl. ‘Well, I didn’t. And it’s too late now.’

‘Don’t be silly. Of course it’s not too late. There are plenty of mature students around—and you’re not even thirty yet. You probably wouldn’t be the oldest one there. You sort him out, Francesca,’ Isabella said.

‘I think,’ Fran said gently, ‘Gio’s man enough to sort himself out.’

‘Exactly. Thank you for the support, honey.’ He slid his arm round her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

Oh, lord. His closeness made her remember Saturday night. The way he’d held her and kissed her then. The way the whole room had dissolved around them. The way he’d kissed her, pressed against the front door of her flat.

‘Prego,’ she said, and hoped her voice didn’t sound as wobbly to everyone else as it did to her.

Given that Gio was always in the office so early, Fran guessed that he’d go to bed reasonably early, too—so even though she wasn’t tired, she feigned a yawn and said goodnight, a good hour before she’d normally go to bed.

It was weird, going to sleep in Gio’s bed. Even though the sheets were clean, his scent was everywhere; and being wrapped in his duvet felt a bit like being wrapped in his arms.

Right now she could really do with a cuddle. She had no idea when her flat would be habitable again, or how much of her stuff would have to be replaced, or even if the flat would still have the same feel about it when all the repairs had been made.

‘Pull yourself together. Stop being so wet. There are plenty of people in far worse situations,’ she told herself fiercely. Yet still the tears slid silently down her face. She scrubbed them away and buried her face in the pillow, until at last she fell asleep.

Until a strange noise woke her.

A noise that sounded like the door opening.

For a moment, she was disorientated: then she remembered she was in Gio’s bedroom. In Gio’s bed. He was asleep on the sofa bed in the living room. She must have dreamed all that nonsense about the door opening. It was probably a floorboard creaking as the building settled overnight or something; and didn’t people always misinterpret the noises in a strange house?

She turned over to go back to sleep.

And then she felt the mattress dip beside her.