Chapter 47
I rented a flat in an old medieval building, painted yellow, with a view of the River Arno. It was compact and cosy and felt like home. I could hear traffic and the voices of passers-by and would sit in the chair facing the window for hours, savouring the view, the Ponte Vecchio on my left. The day before, I'd met Tabitha for a coffee and returned the brooch to her. She told me that she'd emailed Jim but hadn't heard anything.
I'd been in Florence for a week and was enjoying myself. I had a routine that worked well. There was no way I could waste the opportunity to see as much of the place as possible while I was there, and so I'd get up at half past six every morning, without fail, and by seven o'clock I was ready to wander around the city while it was still quiet. I'd walk by the river, where there would usually be rowers out for their early practice. Often, I'd stand on the Ponte Vecchio and just be present, remembering ‘Dolce far niente'. I'd visited the Uffizi many times, and stood and admired Botticelli's Birth of Venus. I'd climbed the steps of the Duomo at sunset and replayed the almost-kiss with Jim over and over in my head.
Jim was still on my mind, and I missed him. He'd sent me a message on the day I left, wishing me luck and asking where I'd live on my return. For we'd both received notice to leave our cottages in July so the ATP could refurbish them for holidaymakers. Helen had kindly offered me her granny annexe for as long as I wanted it. I'd gratefully accepted and would move in on my return to England.
One morning when I got back to the flat and checked my pigeonhole in the lobby, there was a letter addressed to me. I opened it.
Dear Claire,
I didn't want to tell you this in a text message, but Margaret died a few days ago. She had a cold that developed into pneumonia and passed away peacefully during the night. It is very sad, but I guess that after you helped her fulfil her greatest wish, she didn't need to stick around any more.
The other reason I'm sending a letter is because it's time that I told you how I feel. I couldn't bear to write it in a phone message and go through the pain of you leaving me on read while anticipating your reply. I'd rather kid myself that if I haven't heard from you, it's because you haven't read the letter yet or it went missing.
Anyway, I love you, Claire. And I loved you from the moment I barged into your cottage in my towel. The look on your face was one I'll never forget. I could tell you liked me too, despite the way you glared at me disapprovingly, and it was as though we'd always known each other. They say that you know you've met the right person when you feel like that, a familiarity as if you've met them before. And of course, I think you are the prettiest girl in all of Surrey. Oh, and by the way, I broke it off with Samantha a few weeks ago.
So, there you are. Perhaps write back and tell me what you think about us going out for dinner when you get back from Florence. Or, better still, how about you send me a message, because I'm going to Camona to see my mother – yes, I feel able to call her that now – for the week your course finishes. I could drop in and see you in Florence if you'll let me, and our first dinner date can be in some lovely restaurant with a nice bottle of Chianti. Maybe you can come with me to meet Luca too. Anyway, let me know your thoughts.
And I am sorry to deliver the news about Margaret. But just remember that you did a wonderful thing for her and should be proud of yourself. And by doing that, you have reunited me with my mother and after spending a great deal of time thinking (and I'm sorry it took so long) I am grateful.
Love, Jim xx
As I finished reading the letter, I tried to make sense of the mixed emotions that consumed me. It was very sad that Margaret had died, but at least I'd managed to fulfil her wish in time. And hopefully she'd now be at peace. And then, there was Jim: at last, he'd told me how he felt. Tears ran down my face, but also I found myself smiling as it struck me: the wait was over. We could be together at last. Taking out my phone, I tapped out a message.
Hey you, thanks for your letter. I just read it now. That is so sad about Margaret, but hopefully she is now at peace. I'm so glad that you're visiting your mother, and of course I'd like to go out for dinner. And you still need to go on the second day of my cultural tour – don't think you're getting out of the Uffizi visit that easily. I love you too, by the way. Claire with an ‘i' xx
After the last day of my art course I went back to the flat, hardly able to stop thinking about Jim's visit. He should be arriving soon. I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea and sat in the living room with the French doors open. At that moment, with the anticipation of Jim's arrival, I couldn't have been happier. Mopeds buzzed past, telling me I was in Italy, and I closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because the sound of someone shouting woke me up. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it seemed to be coming from outside.
‘Claire,' the voice shouted again. It was Jim.
I got up, rushed onto the balcony and looked down below. And there he was, standing there with a huge grin on his face.
‘I don't think your intercom is working,' he said.
‘You always did like to make an unconventional entrance,' I said.
He laughed. ‘Are you going to let me in then?'
‘Okay.'
I went to press the button for the main door downstairs, and then I opened my front door, and leant on it and waited for Jim to come up all of the stairs, for there were many of them, me being on the fourth floor. Finally he reached the last flight and, as he came towards me, I was so happy to see him. Jim, my Jim, here to see me. As he got closer, my gut hopped and then he cupped my face, and said, ‘Can I kiss you?'
‘Yes, you can.'
He leant in and pressed his lips to mine, and we kissed for what seemed like forever while leaning on my door. And then we went inside, and he picked me up and carried me to the bedroom. There was no more time to waste.
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