One Night in Italy (8 page)

‘No, I meant—’

‘Don’t make the mistake I did. Ach, that sounds terrible. You were not a
mistake
as such . . .’

‘Mum, no, you’ve got it wrong.’

‘Well, okay, yes, you were an accident – a surprise! – but I’ve never not wanted you. Being a parent is hard work though, and you and Pete . . . Are you really cut out to do this? I mean, you’re not even living together.’

‘Mum! I—’

‘Is he going to move in with you? Only, with the best will in the world, there’s not a lot of room in that flat, is there? Certainly not enough for three of you.’

‘MUM! Stop. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. We . . .’ Anna sighed. ‘Do you know what? I give up. Whatever. I’m having the chicken skewers to start, then the monkfish. How about you?’

Chapter Six

A casa
– At home

Sophie had been back in the U K for a whole fortnight, to her and everyone else’s surprise. It was the longest she’d spent in Sheffield for years. She’d only planned to spend a day or two there, to see her dad, but almost as soon as she’d arrived he’d come down with a chest infection and become quite ill. Even the hardest-hearted person couldn’t have walked away.

At first she’d checked herself into a backpacker hostel, much to the palpable relief of her mum. But the place was full of exuberant Aussies and Kiwis, living it up away from home, getting loudly hammered every night. Fair enough; she’d done exactly the same when she’d worked her way round Australia and New Zealand, partying every step of the way. She didn’t have the slightest inclination to join them on the lash now, though, not when she was freaking out that her dad was going to die.

Aware that she was killing the mood in the shared dorm with her fuming and dagger-eyes, she paid extra to move into a single room, but that wasn’t much better. Now she was right at the front of the building, overlooking a noisy road. If it wasn’t the raucous party animals waking her at two in the morning, it was the buses and lorries trundling by outside.

‘You look done in, love,’ her dad commented when she visited him after yet another sleepless night. She popped in every day; there wasn’t much else for her to do. She’d lost touch with all her old school friends and there were only so many times you could wander round a city when it was raining and you were skint.

‘Says you with a drip and a heart monitor,’ Sophie replied. ‘Thanks a bunch.’

‘No, really. Where are you staying? Are you actually staying anywhere? Tell me it’s not a park bench or something.’

‘Dad! Give me some credit. I’m not sleeping on a park bench. I don’t look that rough, do I?’ God! She’d managed to look after herself for the last eight years all around the world, for heaven’s sake.

He took her hand affectionately, and his fingers felt as warm and strong as ever, belying his current frailty. He’d always been the soppiest of her parents, the one she turned to for advice – until she’d discovered he’d betrayed her every bit as much as her mum, that was. Her hand stiffened in his grasp as she remembered how hurt she’d been, how shocked that he’d colluded against her. ‘C’mon, Soph,’ he said now. ‘Why don’t you just stay with your mum? I know the three of us have—’

‘No way.’

‘. . . have had our disagreements in the past, but—’

‘Yeah, and the rest, Dad.’ Disagreements indeed. That was one way of putting it.

‘But you’re our
daughter
. We want to look after you.’

Sophie looked away. She could almost believe him when he said things like this, but her mum still acted cold and distant whenever they were in the same room. Whatever he might say, there was no way Trish wanted her home, end of story. Besides, Sophie was too proud to go back there anyway, even if the red carpet was rolled out for her. Even if her mum got down on her knees and begged.

‘What about money? Have you got enough to live on?’

‘Of course I have!’ She crossed her fingers behind her back.

‘Let me give you a sub,’ he said, the persistent old bugger. Even in the throes of severe ill-health he wouldn’t let it go. He reached out for the bedside cupboard. ‘My wallet’s in there somewhere.’

‘Dad, honestly, I don’t want your money.’ No way would she take it. She hadn’t had a penny off them for years, and wasn’t about to change that now, even though, in all honesty, she was almost broke. She had to start making decisions, and fast. If she stayed in Sheffield too much longer, her cash would all be blown on the crappy hostel. Then what would she do?

‘You’ve got savings, then? Some rainy day money?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a bit. Enough. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really.’

‘Sorry. Humour me though, eh? It’s been a while since I got to fuss over you in person.’

She said nothing.
And why was that then, Dad?

Trish, Sophie’s mum, came in just then. ‘Oh,’ she said, as she always did when she saw Sophie. It was the same tone you might use when noticing bird poo on the car – one of displeasure and mild annoyance. ‘Good morning. How did you sleep, Jim? Nurse said she thought you had a better night.’

‘I slept like a log,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘I was just telling our Soph that she’s the one who looks like she needs a proper kip.’

Her mum’s face was impassive. Probably thought Sophie’s dark circles were caused by her being up all night at some wild party or other.
You’ve only got yourself to blame.
‘Mmm,’ she said, as if the subject didn’t particularly interest her.

‘I was saying, I think she should stay with you for a bit,’ Jim added, the bloody great stirrer. Sophie glared at him but he seemed impervious. ‘You know, it would make a dying man very happy, seeing you two sort out your differences.’

Neither of them was about to put up with this sort of talk. ‘Jim! You’re not dying!’

‘Don’t
say
things like that!’ Their voices tumbled together, equally horrified.

‘Please,’ Trish begged. ‘Don’t even joke about it.’

‘You can lay off the guilt-tripping and all,’ Sophie told him.

His eyes twinkled. ‘So you agree about something, at least,’ he said craftily.

Sophie and her mum looked at one another, a strained, uneasy atmosphere between them. Then Trish pursed her lips. ‘Look, if you do need somewhere to stay,’ she said unexpectedly, ‘well . . . it’s daft to pay out good money when you could be home, isn’t it? It’s just plain silly.’

The room seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for Sophie’s response.
Home
, her mum had said. Not any more it wasn’t.

‘That’s very kind,’ she began stiffly, ‘but—’

‘Oh for crying out loud,’ said Jim, just as she was about to invent an imaginary friend she could stay with. ‘Do I have to drop dead before you two start speaking to each other like human beings again? Please! Can you not do this one thing for me?’

‘Don’t get overexcited, Jim,’ Trish warned.

‘All right,’ Sophie mumbled.

‘I’m just saying—’

‘I said, all right!’ Sophie’s voice came out louder than she’d intended. ‘Fine,’ she added in a quieter tone. ‘Obviously I’ll pay you board and lodging,’ she said, as a last stab at independence.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ her mum told her. Stubbornness was rather a theme in the Frost family.

‘Good,’ Jim said, looking exhausted all of a sudden. He shut his eyes and Sophie noticed how pale his face was against the pillow. ‘I’m going to have a kip now,’ he murmured, as if his work here was done. ‘See you later.’

Sophie and her mum looked at one another. ‘Well,’ said Trish uncertainly.

‘Well,’ echoed Sophie.

‘I’ll leave him to it for a bit,’ Trish said. ‘I need to pop into town anyway. I’ll pick up a few things.’ She hesitated. ‘Fancy a chop for tea?’

‘I’m vegetarian,’ Sophie said, then felt bad for the injured expression that appeared on her mum’s face.
Try harder, Sophie.
‘Maybe I could cook us something instead. Save you the hassle.’

Trish looked as if she was about to argue, but then glanced back down at Jim who was frowning slightly, eyes still shut. ‘That would be . . . nice,’ she said weakly. ‘Thank you.’

Sophie went to pick up her stuff from the hostel then got the bus up the Fulwood Road to her parents’ house in Ranmoor later that afternoon. There were the houses and shops she’d walked past a million times looking both familiar yet different at the same time. She could almost hear the sound of rollerskates whizzing as she remembered how she and Kirsty, the girl next door, had zoomed around together on these streets, hand in hand, squealing as they careered along. She’d had her first cigarette skulking in that bus shelter (coughing and spluttering, green in the face) and drank her first underage half-pint of lager in the Gladstone Arms up the road. And now here she was again, getting nearer her parents’ house with every step.

Oh God. It had seemed the right thing to do back at the hospital – the
only
thing to do, when her dad had fixed her with that imploring expression – but now she was bitterly regretting caving in to his whim. She hesitated outside the pub, suddenly longing for a vodka tonic to take the edge off things. Then she opened her purse and gazed at the meagre contents. Three tenners, a crumpled fiver, some pound coins and a handful of silver. Thirty-nine pounds. That was it.

‘There you are!’ called a voice from behind her just then, as a young, good-looking mixed-race guy with a buzz cut came out of the pub.

Sophie thought he was talking to her for a minute, but then saw a woman approaching, wearing a black bomber jacket with skinny jeans and thigh boots, her long, dark hair pulled up in a messy bun. ‘Freddie!’ she called, hurrying over to him. The two of them kissed passionately right there in the doorway of the pub, hands sliding all over each other. Sophie turned her gaze away. It had been a long time since anyone had held her like that. Three years and two months, in fact: Dan, in Sydney. But she didn’t think about him any more, she reminded herself.

She shoved her purse back in her bag and walked reluctantly past the pub. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she muttered under her breath as she went on up the road.

Trisha Frost obviously didn’t trust her daughter’s ability in the kitchen because the fridge was full of Waitrose vegetarian ready meals. Sophie, who was used to existing on the tightest of tight budgets, even if that meant eating noodles seven days a week, wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled (massive treat) or scandalized (massive waste of money). Hunger won out though. Everything looked bloody delicious.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said as Trish showed her where the biscuits were kept (like she would have forgotten
that
!) and the new extension which housed the utility room and a downstairs loo.

‘Just leave any washing in the basket here,’ Trish told her. ‘I do the ironing on Sundays, so if there’s anything you want doing . . .’

‘It’s fine, Mum, honestly.’

‘Dinner will be at six,’ Trish went on, ‘and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in the house. That includes leaning out your bedroom window to do it. It makes the curtains stink.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ Sophie said, taken aback. ‘Haven’t done for years.’ God, they really didn’t know each other at all. This woman might have the same green eyes and small nose as her, but she felt like a total stranger. ‘And I meant it, about cooking,’ she added. ‘Why don’t we take turns? I promise I’ve moved on from when I used to set off the fire alarm every time I fried an egg.’

Trish didn’t reply. ‘I’ve put the portable television in your room,’ she went on, ‘and by the way, the shower is a bit temperamental. The hot water cycles around, so don’t panic if it suddenly goes cold when you’re in there. It won’t be for long.’

‘Okay.’

‘I thought I’d pop back to see your dad after dinner. I could give you a lift if you want to come along too.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘Right then. I’ll let you unpack.’

Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as she walked into her old bedroom. There was the same red and black zigzag-patterned duvet on the bed, the same matching curtains, the same soft blue carpet, but everything else had changed. The smell of Impulse and patchouli had been replaced by one of laundry powder, the walls were now clear of posters, the chest of drawers empty of the tangle of jewellery and make-up that had littered its surface. It was quiet, too; she’d had music booming out at all times, prompting regular screams of ‘Turn that racket DOWN please, Sophie!’

She gave herself a shake, surprised by the sudden rush of emotion she felt. Don’t be daft, Sophie. It’s only a room.

Unpacking didn’t take long – it never did – but her few clothes looked shabby and past-it here in the relatively luxurious setting of her parents’ home. She wasn’t sure whether to bundle everything straight into the washing machine or torch the lot. The former, she decided, remembering that she had no money to buy replacements. Still, it would be a huge treat to have a washing machine at her disposal again, rather than having to handwash everything and hang it out in the sun to dry. Not to mention the combined delights of soaking in a hot bath, a fridge full of food, British TV . . .