their home, and the place where her mother grew up. An insight into a woman who could abandon a child and then thrust responsibility for both grandmothers’ funerals and property on that child could prove interesting.
Trying to muster up enthusiasm for the dreaded task of sorting through Nonna’s things, Olivia opened her phone and tapped on to the newly created schedule for ‘Trip to Italy’, on her Diary app. There was so much to fit into eleven days and if Will was adamant he couldn’t make it, she had double the workload.
Already listed was her meeting with Signor Ricci, the real-estate agent, at four o’clock on the Friday afternoon she arrived at the villa. Being the pragmatist she was, she added a scheduled stop at two-thirty at the co-op supermarket in the village on the way – just to gather supplies; although she was sure Gabriella would leave a few essentials.
She then blanked the first two days specifically for cleaning the three-storey villa, in preparation for a viewing booked in already on the Monday, possibly two. It would be hard work and it had crossed her mind to employ cleaners and house clearers even, but she figured it was better to assess what was important first.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a woman approached asking her if the chair beside her was taken.
‘No, take it,’ she said.
The woman lifted it across to the table close by and Olivia observed as the woman was joined by a younger woman carrying coffee. Probably mother and daughter, she thought with a sigh of envy. How nice to just call your mum and meet up for a coffee or shopping. Even have an adult conversation with her. Why was her mother so different, so distant and cold? Maybe when she cleared the villa she would uncover something about her. She figured there must be some remnants of her mum’s childhood within its walls.
Thinking she was sounding like a detective, hunting clues as to why her mother was so estranged, she chuckled to herself. Although she saw her two or three times a year, she was still curious about her and her elusiveness. It was possible there were personal journals she kept as a child, or diaries. Somewhere she wrote down her thoughts – schoolbooks, even.
In her teenage years, she had discovered quite a collection of her father’s schoolwork when she had helped her gran clear out the loft. In fact, growing up in his home in Bermondsey had given her some comfort at least. Her grandma Nora had everything neatly boxed and took great pleasure in talking about her son. Unlike Nonna Elena in Italy who seemed to close down when she asked questions and treated Olivia’s mum with contempt.
As a little girl, Olivia remembered crying on occasions when she visited her nonna’s Tuscan villa, because her mum could only stay a day or two. Each time she said she had to get back to work. It made sense as an adult, but as a child, Olivia resented it and now she was more curious as to why her mother was like she was and why they never spent much time together. She could only hope there would be something to give her more of an insight into the woman; maybe she could even find out where her mother lived now.
As they had always stayed at Nonna’s to see one another, Olivia was now eager to discover where her mother currently called home. Was she living in some hippy commune or moving from one to another? It was never discussed, although she was sure she had enquired on a few occasions but was told only that she lived north of Tuscany. Regardless, once the villa and farm were sold, she would still want to visit her mother and needed to know her address. Yes, this could be her raison d’être.
She opened another heading on her app, the one with her ‘To do’ and ‘Lists’. She added a new heading: ‘Mum’s history’. There were several she used constantly, the ‘House’, the ‘Work’, the ‘Italy’ the ‘favs’, the ‘wish’ list, all the daily functional stuff, then there was the ‘Wilting Will’ list she’d begun in the early hours this morning when she had woken up, the images from the photos stamped on her mind. The list of cons on this far outweighed the pros. The top one being no great love or passion.
Why was she still with him? she had asked herself. He didn’t exactly cut the mustard. The only two things on her list in his favour were his pretty face and barbecuing skills. Like those before him, any spark that she may have once imagined had undoubtedly failed to ignite. Love just didn’t seem to feature in her genetic make-up. And to add insult to injury, Will – knowing how necessary it was for her to go to Italy next week – was as ever too wrapped up in his all-consuming football and job to accompany and support her.
Should she blame herself for buying him the season ticket? Probably. The mortgage on his London flat was extortionate; but then, the choice was his, and he could at least be there when she needed him. He clearly didn’t give a damn and, if she was totally honest with herself, neither did she.
Life could be far more exciting as a forty-year-old singleton. She needed to widen her circle of friends perhaps. At least she would get out of the habit of sitting around weekends waiting for Will to turn up in his football-induced drunken stupor, only to watch him splayed across the sofa, snoring it off.
‘Best to speak to Chiara and get her opinion, then go with it,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Bloody well set myself free.’ In a determined frame of mind, she ordered another coffee and, seeing some people leave, curled her feet up on the comfy two-seater sofa, which was still warm. At least if she stayed here she would be among company rather than home alone.
She unlocked her phone and began a ‘New Olivia’ list. The possibilities were endless, she thought, entering ideas of places she wanted to travel and the goal of learning to salsa. She was sure she was doing the right thing. If only Chiara would ring back. It was always comforting when her friend approved; besides, she knew that if she didn’t act soon, she would talk herself out of it. She needed Will out of her life.
At seven-thirty, Chiara still hadn’t rung back, and after looking at the photos again and adding to her ‘Wilting Will’ list, Olivia was convinced the time to ring him was now, before doubts crept back again. Taking a deep breath, she punched her finger on Will’s avatar, straightening her back, ready to jump up when he answered. There would be no more wasted weekends or listening to him and his pathetic mates drivel over every second of a game she had no interest in.
How grateful she was to her mother for once, as it was Roz who had insisted she squeeze those few photos into her cabin-sized baggage. It felt like the wake-up call she needed. She just hoped she wouldn’t live to regret it. Her hand hovered over the call-end button.
After she closed the front door with a triumphantly smug sigh, Olivia’s vision immediately rested on the back of a large autumn-burned maple leaf that had settled on the apex of the stone-capped post. It was soaking in morning sunlight, its veins stretching prominently into the rich-orange glow of the flesh and burnishing in glory. Her lips curled up at the sight as it reflected her own turn of events and the inner radiance that occupied her. Will was now out of her life.
She pulled the black iron gate to, buttoned the top of her coat to block out the fresh October breeze from her chest, and marched rhythmically through the Bermondsey streets and towards the square that housed her business: Square One Osteopathic Clinic. After unlocking the Georgian front door, she collected the post and headed directly through reception towards the kitchen, enwrapped by the warm air from the newly fitted – and so much more efficient – heating system.
As she carried her coffee back through the hall she hit the switch on the retro-style radio. At once the music streamed directly to her feet.
‘Yes!’ She placed her coffee and banded post on the reception counter and allowed the music to take her. Her hips swinging as Michael Jackson was singing Man in the Mirror.
She heard the front door bounce from its latch and a familiar figure strode towards her.
‘Wow, look at you dancing first thing in the morning,’ Chiara chimed, as she watched Olivia twirl around the reception desk, clicking her fingers. ‘Cold?’
Olivia raised her arms, still clicking her fingers to the beat and waving them in the air whilst wriggling