One Night in Italy (16 page)

The interview and audition at Manchester went better than she could have wished for, and she returned home triumphant and excited about the direction her life would (hopefully) take. Unfortunately, to her great disappointment, no offer of a place arrived. They didn’t even bother sending her a rejection. Had she really been that bad?

Of course, her parents were as smug as a rich bloke on a yacht.
Lucky that we came up with a fallback plan, isn’t it?
they’d said, brandishing the business studies prospectus.

Sophie said no. They told her it was the best option. Sophie said no again. They said they’d pay for it. No. But—
No.

A stand-off ensued until Sophie finally plucked up the courage to phone the college in Manchester and ask why she hadn’t been good enough for a spot on the course (she figured she might as well know if she was hopeless). It turned out that they
had
written to offer her a place after all. ‘Yes, you scored very highly in the audition process,’ the receptionist told her. ‘Although according to our records, you turned down the place back in February.’

‘But I didn’t,’ Sophie stuttered in disbelief. ‘I never received the letter! But I
do
want to come!’

It was too late, of course. The college had filled the place –
her
place – with some other student by then. Shaking with rage, Sophie confronted her parents, and it all came out. Her mum had taken it upon herself to reject the place at Manchester on Sophie’s behalf – ‘I did it for your own good!’ she cried shrilly. At which point Sophie stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

For her own good, indeed. Unable to believe that Sophie might actually want to make her own decisions about the future, more like. It was the straw to end all last straws. There and then, Sophie abandoned sixth form, even though she only had two months left, packed up some belongings and walked out, staying on friends’ sofas and camp-beds and doing cleaning and waitressing jobs around the clock until she’d saved enough money to go away for good. She was not going to have her life dictated by Jim and Trish any longer, and that was bloody well that.

‘Look,’ she said now, forcing herself back to the present day. ‘That whole Drama School thing . . . it doesn’t matter any more. I probably never would have made it as an actor anyway. Maybe you just saved me a lot of heartache.’ She didn’t mean a single word of this, but had no energy for an argument.

‘It’s not too late,’ Trish said timidly. ‘I mean . . . You could reapply now, you know.’

Sophie shook her head. The thought had occurred to her in the past but a lethal combination of pride and paltry finances always stopped her. ‘I couldn’t afford it, Mum,’ she said. ‘Let’s just leave it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It was only because I never really had much in my life,’ Trish went on, scrubbing at her eyes with a well-used tissue. ‘I wanted you to have all the choices I didn’t. I can see now that we should have trusted and supported you, gone along with whatever you wanted to do, whether we agreed with it or not.’ She poured them each another tot of brandy. ‘I’m sorry, love. I let you down.’

Sophie took a deep breath and stared unseeingly at the vending machine. ‘I always felt I let you down too,’ she said honestly after a while. ‘I felt like I was a disappointment to you and Dad.’

Trish shook her head. ‘A disappointment? You? Oh no. We’ve been so proud of you – all those amazing things you’ve done.’ Her hands shook on her plastic cup. ‘Our Sophie, seeing the world, having so many adventures. We loved reading your blog – well, not all of it, not the bits about us. But my goodness! The places you’ve been! I’m in awe of you, really I am. So’s your dad. I couldn’t have done half the things you’ve done.’

Sophie felt dazed at such an unusually emotional outpouring. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said, touched. ‘Thank you.’

They looked at each other and smiled. It was the nicest moment of the whole day. For a split-second, Sophie even forgot why they were sitting in the hospital as she basked in what definitely looked like love shining from her mother’s face.

‘Now pass us those Twiglets, will you, I’m still ravenous,’ Trish said, sounding more like herself.

‘Here,’ Sophie said, handing over the box. Maybe miracles
did
happen on Christmas Day after all, she marvelled, biting into a scotch egg. If only there could be one more miracle, please, in the operating theatre . . .

Chapter Thirteen

La vigilia di Capodanno
– New Year’s Eve

‘Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . .’ boomed the man with the microphone, his florid face filling the TV screen.

Anna glanced over at Pete who had his head back on the sofa, mouth open, eyes shut. He looked as if it would take a bag of Semtex to budge him.

‘Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . .’ chanted the enormous crowd massed around the London Eye and along the riverbank. There was a sea of tiny lights from their phones and cameras, held up as secondary witnesses to the event.

‘Pete,’ Anna hissed, elbowing him. ‘Pete!’ His head joggled with the impact of her nudge but his eyes remained closed. A tiny glistening stream of dribble escaped the side of his mouth and made a break for his jawline.

‘Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .’ There was the obligatory shot of Big Ben with an enormous countdown timer projected onto its side, the Houses of Parliament lit up like a fairytale castle.

‘Pete!’ Anna said, digging her elbow in. ‘Wake up!’

‘One . . . Happy New Year!’ yelled the presenter, gurning. The crowd cheered and hugged each other. A thousand new photos flashed into existence. Fireworks exploded over the Thames, bright showers in the sky reflected in the black water below. ‘Auld Lang Syne’ played while New Year messages scrolled along the TV screen.

Anna huffed a sigh and scowled at Pete. Great celebration this was. On the telly, everyone was dancing and kissing. Here in the flat, Pete had started a low, whistling snore. She gave him a shove. ‘PETE!’

His eyes jerked open, a bewildered look on his face. ‘What? What’s happening? What d’ya do that for?’

‘Because it’s New Year!’ Anna told him exasperatedly. ‘You missed it!’

‘Oh! Already? I must have dropped off.’

‘Yeah,’ she said witheringly. ‘You must have.’

‘Give us a kiss then. Mmmm. Happy New Year, love. I reckon it’ll be a cracker.’

‘Yeah.’ This is the year I’ll find my dad, Anna thought. I will. I’m going to do it. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ she added with a bit more enthusiasm.

She knocked back the last mouthful of her prosecco, which was warm by now. ‘Want another drink? There’s that weird liqueur Mum and Graham gave me.’

‘Go on then. Be a devil.’

Anna went to unearth it from the pile of presents yet to be put away amidst their crumpled wrappings. New Year’s resolution alert, she thought to herself. Get organized. Clear this dump up a bit. It was absolutely going to happen this year.

‘Do you think you’re meant to drink it with ice?’ she asked, looking dubiously at the bottle. Her mum had brought the liqueur back last summer after a fortnight caravanning around Spain, and the bottle’s label was printed with lurid pictures of palm trees and a spurting volcano. It was the sort of thing you’d only touch if you were already completely lashed.

‘Yeah, if you’ve got any.’

Anna opened her tiny freezer compartment to find half a packet of fishfingers, an ancient Cornetto and some frozen peas. The ice cube tray was also in there but unhelpfully empty. ‘Actually, let’s drink it as it comes,’ she decided, uncorking the bottle and sniffing, recoiling at the sharp, sickly aroma that stabbed her nostrils. Bloody hell. Resolution number two: stock up on a classier drinks cabinet. She couldn’t imagine her Italian father going anywhere near crap like this. An image popped into her head of fireworks crackling over the Colosseum.
Happy New Year, Dad.

She eyed the Cornetto, suddenly peckish, then shut the freezer door before she could start scoffing it. Resolution number three: eat more healthily. Nourishing soups and vitamin-packed smoothies. She’d definitely gained a few pounds over Christmas with all the cooking she’d done. Resolution number four: start running again. She, Chloe and Rachel had gone along to the Endcliffe Park Run religiously through the summer, but had slacked off when the weather turned chilly.

‘Got any resolutions?’ she asked Pete, bringing two glasses and the bottle back over to the sofa. She poured them each a measure and sat down, curling her feet underneath her. The heating had gone off ages ago and the temperature had plummeted outside. (Resolution number five: sort out the timer on the boiler, or at least find the instruction manual.)

‘Well . . .’ He slid his arm along the top of the sofa behind her head and gazed solemnly at her. Then he made the mistake of sipping his drink and promptly went into a paroxysm of coughing, ruining what had almost become a romantic moment. ‘Jesus Christ! What
is
this stuff? Is your mum trying to poison us or something?’

Fearing the reason behind that soppy look he’d just been giving her (what on earth was he building up to?), Anna spoke over his coughs. ‘I’ve got a few. Resolutions, I mean. Find my dad – obviously. Sort my flat out . . .’ She gazed around critically. ‘Actually, maybe I’ll move somewhere new,’ she said with a sudden flare of optimism. ‘It’s a bit of a pit, this place. I only ever meant to be here six months.’

‘I was going to talk to you about that,’ Pete said. His earnest gaze was back, his drink safely abandoned on the table. He took her hand in his and played with her fingers. ‘Maybe this could be the year we start living together, Anna.’

‘Start living together?’ Yikes. She hadn’t seen that one coming.

‘Yeah. Me and you. Maybe I could move in here first, then we could look for a place together. What do you think?’

What did she think? Her instinct was to leap off the sofa and make a cross with her fingers, as if warding off a peckish vampire. No way. He would drive her absolutely mad. He’d want to have sex every night for starters, his feet smelled terrible whenever he removed his socks, his stereo would dwarf her living room, space would have to be found for his lifelong collection of Sheffield United programmes . . .

‘Um . . .’ she began, not wanting to hurt his feelings. ‘I hadn’t really thought . . .’

‘We’ve been together
years
, Anna. All our friends are settling down. Plus we’d save a fortune. I reckon it would be good, don’t you?’

No, she thought vehemently. No, she didn’t think it would be good at all. His annoying little habits would have her climbing the walls within two days.

So why are you still going out with him then, if you feel like that?
a voice piped up in her head.

‘Er . . .’ she said, swigging her drink, forgetting they’d moved on from nice bubbly to vile hell-liqueur. Her throat burned with the alcohol and she spluttered, retching. ‘I don’t think we should rush into anything,’ she managed to say when she’d recovered.

‘We’re hardly rushing,’ he protested. ‘Seems like the right time to me, that’s all. I’m not saying let’s get married or anything.’

‘Good,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself. Aargh. That was the volcano-juice talking. ‘I mean . . .’

‘But maybe it’s time we stepped up our level of commitment,’ he said, clasping her hand.

She stared at him. Where was he getting this tosh from? It sounded like a sentence whipped straight from a bad magazine article.

‘Besides,’ he said, pulling his hand away all of a sudden and fidgeting. ‘I’m getting kicked out of my place next month.’

‘You’re getting . . . Oh.’

So that was what this was all about. Typical, thought Anna, gritting her teeth. Bloody typical. He couldn’t even manage a romantic gesture without cocking it up, for heaven’s sake.

‘Right,’ she said when he didn’t say anything else. ‘I see. Look, we’re both a bit pissed right now. Let’s talk about it another time, when we can think straight, yeah? I’m going to bed.’

He put his hand on her thigh and leered. ‘You read my mind, babe. Let’s see in the New Year properly, shall we?’

On New Year’s Day, Anna peeled herself thankfully away from Pete, picked up her nan from Clemency House (‘Hello, Violet’, ‘Happy New Year, Elsie’, ‘Hello, Mrs Ransome!’), then drove up to Skipton with her mum and Graham to visit her aunt Marie and her partner Lois. Anna had been so busy with work lately that she hadn’t made any progress with her Gino-hunting, but this, she realized, might be a chance for further investigation. Marie had been on that fateful Rimini holiday with her mum all those years ago, hadn’t she? Maybe she could provide the next clue in the search.

Marie was a tall, droopy sort of woman whose mouth turned down at the corners, as if life was a perpetual disappointment (poor Lois, Anna always thought), but her eyes lit up when Anna cornered her in the kitchen under the pretence of helping clear up, and asked her about the holiday.

‘Rimini?’ said Marie, clingfilming the ricotta and lentil terrine distractedly. (Anna already knew her grandmother would be farting the whole way home after a single slice.) ‘Oh my goodness! I haven’t thought about that summer for years. It was such a scream. Me and your mum, we really let our hair down.’