One Night in Italy (5 page)

Oh shit. She shut the door blindly, her heart pounding. This was a million times worse than a free-falling bra. Samantha was married to Julian, a nice vicar, and busy with a toddler and a new baby according to Facebook. She would not have gone to the bother of tracking down her cousin all the way to the Amalfi coast for a pleasant chit-chat. Something must have happened. Something serious.

‘Oh, thank goodness, Sophie! I thought you’d fallen off the planet. I’ve been emailing you and messaging you, but was running out of ideas how to— Julian, could you take Henry for me, please? It’s Sophie. No, my cousin Sophie. There you go, my good little sausage . . .’

‘Hello? Sam? Are you still there?’ Sophie was in the echoing hall of the apartment block, cramming euros into the payphone. She didn’t have time to waste.

‘Sorry, yes I am. Listen, I hate to say this but it’s bad news. It’s your dad. He’s had a massive heart attack. He’s . . . well, he’s out of intensive care, but he’s pretty ill. Will you come home and see him?’

Each sentence was like a hammer blow.
Dad. Heart attack. Intensive care.
‘Oh God,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll come.’

‘If it was my dad, I’d want to see him, so I just thought . . .’

‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Sam. Tell him . . . Tell him I’m on my way.’

She sagged against the cool wall of the lobby once she’d hung up, the shock leaving her lightheaded, as if she was drunk or ill, not really there at all. Shit. A massive heart attack. Oh, Dad . . .

Jim, her dad, had always been such a bon viveur – he liked wine and good food, and hogged the conversation at get-togethers with his anecdotes. A tall, robust man, he was never happier than when striding around the Peak District with muddy hiking boots and a compass. It was horrible to imagine him collapsing in pain, falling to the floor perhaps, one hand clutching uselessly at his chest.

She had to go back, it was as simple as that. Contact with her parents had been limited since she’d left home so dramatically – a cursory postcard now and then, a brief, awkward phone call at Christmas – but this was her
dad
, a cornerstone of her life, desperately ill in hospital. She’d never really given any thought to the idea of her dad or mum not being around any more. The prospect made her feel as if she was sobering up very fast from a wild party.

Up in her flat again, she gazed around at the drab, small space as if seeing it for the first time: the brown curtains that didn’t block out the sun properly, the film of dirt over the window caused by the never-ending traffic jams below, the tiny rubbish kitchen with only a hob and fridge . . . It made her want to cry all of a sudden. She had been playing at living here, she realized with a sinking feeling. Camping out in a den, just as she’d done as a child, taking doll’s tea cups and her teddies under the table and playing house.

Never look back
, she’d always said to herself. But this time there was no avoiding it.

Two days later, she was boarding the plane. It had all been worryingly easy, leaving her Italian job and home. Federica had hugged her and said she understood.
Your papa? But of course you must go!

She’d packed her scant possessions, then put the keys to her flat in an envelope and left it downstairs for Signor Russo. That had been that. The merest snipping of ties, and she was cut loose once more.

Stepping foot on a plane usually filled Sophie with joy, yet today’s journey felt more like a backwards move, laced with dread. But she was not a coward – far from it. And this wasn’t going to be for ever. She would visit her father and make sure he was okay, she vowed. She’d keep her cool, be polite, refuse to let her parents get to her. And then she’d be off again, to enjoy a schnapps-fuelled winter somewhere snowy. Simple as that.

‘And we’re ready for take-off,’ the pilot said over the loudspeakers as the engines roared. ‘Cabin crew to positions, please.’

Goodbye Italy, Sophie thought to herself, sucking on her boiled sweet and staring out of the window as the land tilted and swung away beneath her.
Arrivederci.
I hope it’s not too long before I’m back . . .

‘Here he is,’ the nurse said, opening the curtains around the bed. ‘Okay?’

‘Thanks,’ Sophie stammered, not feeling remotely okay. There was her father, lying in a hospital bed, eyes shut, grey hair at his temples. When had he got those wrinkles? she wondered in shock. When had he got so
old
?

Monitors attached to him narrated the passage of time with regular bleeping and whirring. Through the narrow window, Sophie could see heavy rain falling, as it had done constantly since the plane had landed in Manchester. Sorrento seemed a million miles away already, a colourful dream from which she’d just woken. I don’t want to be here, she thought unhappily.

She hesitated, her backpack sodden on her shoulders, wet jeans sticking to her legs. It was so strange being back here. All those Yorkshire accents. The flat grey look of the place. And the assault of memories that had battered her as the coach navigated the Sheffield streets: rehearsals in a dusty school hall, drinking cider underage in the Gladstone, the satisfying slam of the front door the day she left home . . .

‘Hi, Dad,’ she whispered, still not moving any closer. There was an empty chair beside the bed, pulled up companionably as if awaiting her presence. A short film played in her head, of her slinging down the heavy backpack, walking the few steps to the chair, lowering herself into it and taking her father’s hand in hers.
Do it
, she urged herself.
Do it!
But she couldn’t.

She watched his face as he slept, noted every new line around his eyes, the silvering of his hair. His jutting eyebrows and proud nose still gave him the air of a statesman, but he looked old and weary, a different man from the one who’d taught her to play chess and hardly ever let her win; who’d taught her to ride her bike, one big hand holding the back of her T-shirt as she pedalled; who’d given her her love of Elvis and loud guitar.

‘Dad?’ she said, a little louder. ‘It’s me, Soph. It’s . . .’ She blinked, stopping herself at the last moment from saying
It’s Sophie-pops
, his old nickname for her. She wondered if she’d ever hear him say it again, and her throat tightened. Just how ill
was
he, anyway? Were they talking not-gonna-pull-through ill, or two-weeks-off-work ill? Samantha had only given her the basics on the phone, and when Sophie had plucked up the nerve to ring her mum to ask for details later that evening, there had been no answer. She’d imagined the ringtone echoing through the empty house while her mum sat keeping vigil at her dad’s bedside and felt very far away.

Her heart sped up. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know details any more. What if the truth was too painful to swallow? Maybe she should just go; retreat to blissful ignorance. She could turn around, head back to the airport, jump on a plane to somewhere new, drown her sorrows in cheap foreign whisky and—

‘Oh! Sophie. Goodness.’

Too late. There was her mother, almost cannoning into her as she appeared. Three words spoken and already it felt like the start of a row. Sophie braced herself for the ruck.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she said. Those words hadn’t passed her lips since Christmas Day last year, when she’d been in a phone booth in Rome, incoherently drunk. Eight years since they’d been in the same room together, and just look at them now: one bedraggled and soggy, the other groomed to within an inch of her life with perfect make-up, a smart blouse, not a single hair daring to fly out of place. It was important to maintain one’s standards, Sophie imagined her saying to herself as she dusted on her face powder that morning. ‘How is he?’ she asked.

‘He’s stable,’ her mum replied crisply. She walked over to the bed and put her hand on her husband’s. ‘Jim, love, it’s me.’

And there it was, the old power-dynamic reasserting itself: Mum siding physically with Dad, ganging up and leaving her out in the cold. Well, in the warm, she should say. It was stifling in there. She let her backpack slip off her shoulders and dumped it by the wall. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘With the heart attack, I mean.’

‘We were in Meadowhall,’ her mum replied. ‘Looking at luggage in Hanleys. We’re meant to be going to the Canaries in February, thought we’d splash out on some new cases for the occasion. Your dad found one he liked, this smart, brown . . . Well, anyway. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe, he just keeled over, collapsed in agony right there on the shop floor.’ Her lips tightened, reliving the moment. ‘The girl behind the till had to call an ambulance because I’d forgotten to charge my phone.’ She breathed in sharply, her knuckles blanching as she clutched her handbag. ‘We were rushed here, sirens blaring. He’s been in ever since.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Sophie could feel her pain, how awful it must have been, but still couldn’t bring herself to move a step closer. Her mum would probably only shove her away if she attempted a hug. ‘Samantha said it was quite a big heart attack,’ she ventured wretchedly after a moment.

‘Yes. Cardiac arrest.’ There was a pause. ‘Samantha’s been very good to us. Visiting all the time, even though she’s so busy with the little ones. Tracking you down to the depths of . . . wherever you were.’

Sophie’s skin prickled with the implicit criticism. Samantha the golden girl, Sophie the drop-out; she’d heard it a million times before. She kept her eyes on the motionless figure in the bed. ‘He has come round, since, hasn’t he?’ she asked.

‘Yes. He was unconscious for a few hours, and they had to put a vent in his heart – a sort of balloon thing to help it work properly,’ her mum said. ‘His coronary artery was completely blocked, so he needed stents in that and two others. He’s . . .’ A tear trembled on her lower lashes. ‘He’s doing okay, though. Better.’

‘It must have been terrifying,’ Sophie said.

Down rattled the shutters on her mum’s face, as if the flicker of emotion had been a momentary error. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she said briskly.

Ahh, the royal we, that tiny little word that said so much. Sophie stiffened as the atmosphere changed. ‘So . . . what happens now? How long will he have to . . .?’

She broke off as her dad moved under the covers, frowning in his sleep. ‘How long will he have to stay here?’ she whispered, not wanting to wake him. She was scared she wouldn’t know how to respond to him when his eyes opened.

‘Hopefully not much longer,’ her mum replied. ‘They’re pleased with his progress, but it all depends.’

Jim moved again, and this time his eyes did open and he blinked. Then he saw Sophie and his face changed from discomfort to surprise. ‘Soph! Hello, love. I was just dreaming about you.’

She went over to him – the other side of the bed from where her mum was standing – and tentatively took his hand. His fingers looked pale and crumpled like those of an old man. ‘Dad. How are you?’

‘Oh, you know,’ he said. ‘On the mend now. Soon be up and about, back to normal.’

‘Not quite, Jim,’ muttered his wife, lips pinched.

‘Were the prices in Hanleys really
that
bad?’ Sophie asked, trying to make light of the situation. Pathetic coping strategy or what. ‘I know they say Yorkshiremen are tight, but really, Dad . . .’

‘There are probably better ways of getting a discount,’ he admitted with a laugh, then squeezed her hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Soph. Really good. Almost worth having a heart attack to see you again.’

‘Oh, Dad. Don’t say that.’

‘Seriously, though. You look well. How’s life?’

She hesitated. Somehow they seemed to have leapfrogged all the big stuff into an ordinary conversation. ‘Um . . . great,’ she said cagily. ‘I’ve been living in Sorrento – met some lovely people, really got into the Italian lifestyle, you know . . .’

‘Good for you, love. That’s a cracking tan you’ve got there.’

‘Yeah. Sunshine every day.’ She raised an eyebrow in the direction of the rain-spattered window and he smiled.

‘Jim, I’ve just spoken to the doctor who has given me an update,’ her mum announced then, and Sophie tried to listen as she talked about medication and test results. The world seemed to be tilting dizzily though; she felt giddy and off-balance all of a sudden.

‘Are you okay?’ her dad asked, noticing. ‘You’ve gone a bit green beneath that tan.’

‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ She hadn’t had any breakfast in the rush to catch the airport bus, and then the prices on board the plane had been so extortionate (four quid for a sandwich – as if !) she hadn’t been able to bring herself to shell out for anything. Then, once she’d landed, her mind had been taken up with catching a coach here, and Dad, and . . .

‘I’ll just nip out and get a coffee,’ she decided. ‘Anyone want anything?’

Her dad eyed her. ‘Only for you to come back again,’ he replied. ‘You are going to stay a while now you’re here, aren’t you?’

‘Um,’ she said, caught off-guard. She had nowhere to stay, she realized, hadn’t even thought about what she’d do once here.

‘You can have your old room. Can’t she, Trish? Be like old times.’

Old times? Not likely. She didn’t want to go back to ‘old times’. And there was Trish, mouth already pursing up like a cat’s bum; it was clear that the words ‘Over my dead body’ were just lining up to be spoken. She didn’t want to revisit old times either.

‘I’ll stay with a mate,’ Sophie said quickly, to let them both off the hook. ‘Back in a minute.’

She left the room, her legs trembly, her heart seeming to buck and stutter just like her dad’s had done. Stay with her parents? Never again. She would rather sleep on the streets.

She walked down the corridor, trying to think who to phone first. Er . . . nobody. She’d lost touch with all her school friends years ago. Sod it, she’d stay in a hostel if she had to. The airfare had eaten up most of her savings, but she could scrape enough cash for a night or two somewhere cheap.
Keep your distance
, she reminded herself. That way she’d avoid getting hurt again.