Authors: Joanna Rees
‘What is he like?’ Alfie asked, as if they might meet one day soon.
‘He has nice hair. Just like yours,’ she said, kissing his head. ‘And he’s funny, like you. When he was here and not in heaven, he could make great pasta.’
‘Can I make pasta too?’ Alfie said, yawning.
‘Of course,’ Romy said as she pressed her face into his hair, breathing him in.
She turned off the night-light and lay in the dark holding him, stroking the soft, downy skin on the back of his neck to get him off to sleep, the same way she’d done every night of his
life. But in her head she felt words forming, as if Alfonso were speaking to her from the dead.
Mamma . . . Maria . . . she should be teaching him to make pasta. Papa . . . Roberto . . . should be reading him to sleep.
Memories of that wonderful Tuscan kitchen and the smell of that delicious spiced-pumpkin ravioli seemed to fill Romy’s nostrils.
She knew it was wrong to deny Alfie his grandparents and his aunts. She’d thought about it so often. She’d even written to them dozens of times, but the first letter – a
grovelling apology, telling them that she was fine and needed to be alone in order to heal – had been the only one she’d sent. She’d assured them that she’d be back soon.
That she’d be in touch.
But once again it had all been lies. She hadn’t mentioned how the morning sickness and grief had assaulted her in wave after wave through the day and night, until she’d felt
shipwrecked. So many times she’d wanted to call Flavia or Maria and beg them to rescue her. But she’d stopped herself. The Scolaris were wonderful people, and Romy had only brought them
heartbreak and bad luck. They were better off without her.
But then Alfie had been born, and everything had changed. Her self-imposed rejection from the Scolaris had changed to self-imposed protection from them.
Because Alfie was
hers
– the only thing that had
ever
been just hers. And she couldn’t,
wouldn’t
, share him with anyone.
He’d felt like a miracle. A gift sent from Alfonso to heal her. She’d been so absorbed in him, so fascinated by him, that hours had flown by just watching his fist curl around her
little finger. Then, all too soon, he’d sat up and she’d helped him to crawl. The months had flitted past like a sped-up calendar in a movie.
But now that time had gone and life was still moving on, faster and faster. And she knew it wouldn’t be long before Alfie no longer accepted her standard explanation that his grandparents
all lived a long, long way away. And then what? What would she tell him? How would she answer when Alfie told her that he wanted to meet Maria and Roberto? How could she risk letting him see them
when, anonymous as she and Alfie were here in Amsterdam, they were both so safe?
And what about my own parents?
she thought, rolling onto her back now, still holding Alfie as his breathing grew deeper and he drifted into sleep.
Parents.
Whoever they were,
they’d never been that. She felt a sickness in her stomach, the same sickness she’d used to feel in the orphanage, where each night she’d made herself push down the useless,
poisonous hope that one day they’d arrive to take her back.
Had her own mother felt about her, as a baby, the way she did about Alfie?
Surely she must have felt some kind of emotion when she’d held Romy for the first time? Maybe not as
intense as Romy herself had felt, when she’d seen Alfie’s face and had experienced falling in love in a way she’d never thought possible. But her mother must have felt something.
How could she just have given up her baby? What horrible circumstances had driven her to dump Romy in an orphanage? Had she ever regretted not cuddling her as a little child, the way Romy cuddled
Alfie now?
How could she not have? How could she have left me like that?
Wasn’t there anyone in the world who ever thought about her? Any long-lost relatives out there who missed her?
Romy still felt unsettled when she woke up the next morning in her clothes, cramped up in Alfie’s tiny bed. They both got up and ate cereal in the kitchen, and when Romy
said they had a whole weekend stretching ahead of them, Alfie started to make plans to go to the zoo and on a boat trip. Romy laughed, marvelling at the way in which he so effortlessly filled their
social agenda.
They struggled together down the crazily steep stairs with Alfie’s new scooter, which Romy had bought him for his birthday in March.
Lars, their new neighbour, was standing outside his apartment’s open doorway downstairs. He waved and said hello, before staring back into his apartment and calling out, ‘Hey, come
on. Hurry up!’
Lars was probably around the same age as she was, Romy thought, and was tall and thin, with a friendly, lopsided smile, as well as terrible taste in jumpers, she’d noted. He might even be
called handsome, she considered, under his thick reading glasses and unruly mop of dark hair.
Since she’d arrived in Amsterdam, Romy had kept a low profile and deliberately not made any friends. She’d cut her hair and dyed it and changed her name to Susan, terrified at first
of the media finding her again, but then afterwards anxious to protect her own and Alfie’s blissfully anonymous life together. She never went out without wearing large shades.
But Lars seemed harmless enough. Unobtrusive. The few conversations she’d had with him had been about the pros and cons of the local amenities and the lack of true musical talent displayed
by their Austrian neighbour, who played his bongos late into the night and sang ‘like a wounded pig’ (Lars’s words) whenever he got drunk. That was the other thing about Lars
– he made Romy smile.
She didn’t know him very well, but it was still a surprise now when she saw a little girl, probably just a few years older than Alfie, come charging out of his apartment into his arms,
before giggling hysterically as he flipped her upside-down and whipped her up into the air.
‘This is Gretchen,’ Lars explained to Romy and Alfie in English, putting the giggling little girl back down. He proudly placed his hand on the top of her head. ‘It’s my
weekend with her.’
Was he divorced? Romy wondered, her curiosity aroused. She wondered what his wife was like and why they no longer lived together. She couldn’t imagine living away from Alfie, surviving
just on weekend visits.
‘We’re going to the park,’ Alfie said and Romy ruffled his hair, amazed at his confidence with new people.
‘Can
we
go, Daddy?’ Gretchen asked. She was a sweet little thing, Romy thought, in a corduroy green jacket and jeans, her blonde hair in bunches. She was pretty, with big grey
eyes – the same as Lars’s, Romy now saw.
‘I’ve got to go to the office, I told you. You’ve got to come with me. Not for long, but—’
‘She can come with us,’ Alfie said.
Romy looked at him and then at Lars, embarrassed. ‘Oh, no, Alfie, um . . . ’
‘Please, can I?’ Gretchen begged.
Alfie turned to Romy. ‘Mamma?’
Romy was about to protest, but Alfie was so much like Alfonso, so trusting and sure that life would turn out all right. She recognized the forcefulness in his voice, and his eyes didn’t
waver from hers until she started speaking. Just like his father, he would get his way.
‘Well . . . I don’t . . . I don’t mind,’ Romy told Lars. ‘We’ll only be a couple of hours. I can bring Gretchen back here.’
Lars looked endearingly flummoxed, but when Gretchen put her hands under her chin in a prayer position, he relented. ‘OK. I’ll get her scooter too, if you’re really sure
it’s OK.’ Alfie and Gretchen grinned at each other.
Outside it was a perfect spring day. A spider’s web was glistening in the doorframe, as Romy crouched down and made sure that Alfie’s safety helmet was done up tightly under his
chin. He squirmed, keen to show off in front of Gretchen. Romy warned him not to go too fast, before handing over his scooter, but her request fell on deaf ears. He set of in an elegant wide arc on
the pavement, calling for Gretchen, the cherry blossom on the pavement swirling around him. A barge honked as it passed on the sparkling river below the canal bridge.
‘I work over in Herengracht. This is my number, if she’s any problem,’ Lars said, writing on the back of a cab receipt.
Romy didn’t tell him that she didn’t own a mobile phone. His assumption that she did – that she must have a whole network of friends and family – made her feel nervous.
But it was too late to back out now.
‘Actually I have a card somewhere.’ He patted the pockets of his waterproof jacket and then handed over a card from his wallet.
‘European Network and Information Security Agency,’ Romy read. ‘That sounds important.’
‘I fight cybercrime,’ Lars said, striking a Superman pose, which made Romy laugh. ‘White hat hacking,’ he explained. ‘Pretty boring in reality. I try and keep banks
and council offices safe. But today we have a small crisis and my boss is away on holiday. But don’t worry, I won’t be long.’
Smiling again, he leant down and kissed Gretchen and talked to her quietly in Dutch. Romy watched as they touched knuckles in some kind of secret pact. For a part-time dad, he sure wasn’t
bad. Gretchen closed her eyes as she hugged him, pressing her face up against his chest. Would Alfie have been like that with Alfonso? Romy wondered. She felt an ache of sadness. She thought so
– yes, he would.
‘Thank you again, Susan,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ she said.
She waved to Lars as he set off on his bicycle, pumping his Superman fist into the air once more, much to the children’s delight. Then they set off in the other direction to the park, Romy
pulling her tatty cardigan around her.
She watched Gretchen and Alfie on their scooters as they weaved in and out of the lamp-posts, amazed that she’d just offered to look after someone else’s child. It felt flattering
that Lars trusted her enough to hand over his daughter. Perhaps she wasn’t quite so socially out of touch as she feared.
Would Lars have done the same thing if he knew who Romy really was? She wondered that too. Would he have reacted to her in the same way if she still looked as she once had? Or would he have been
intimidated by her? Would he even have tipped off her whereabouts to one of the tabloids and turned her life into a nightmare again?
In the park, the horse chestnuts were in bloom and the warm air was filled with birdsong. Romy sat on the bench watching Alfie go up the steps to the slide over near the skateboard park with
Gretchen. Seeing them together, Romy thought again how she really did need to start socializing Alfie with other kids.
She even had the prospectus for the International School, but hadn’t been brave enough to enrol him yet. Not just because she was worried about spending time away from Alfie, but because
she’d got used to a life without questions. When she enrolled him, she’d have to answer questions. Lots of them. Not just from the school, but from the other mothers.
Worse, Alfie would have to answer questions too. They’d had so little contact with other people that she hadn’t had to tell him yet that she wanted him to keep secrets. About who his
father was. And his mother too.
‘Watch,’ Alfie called to her.
He was waving over from the slide.
‘I’m watching,’ she called back, as he slid down the slide.
He stood up at the end, grinning. ‘Did you see me? Did you?’
‘Yes,’ she called, clapping her hands. ‘You were brilliant.’ Sometimes he was so heartbreakingly cute that she wished he would never grow up, or change. Wished that she
could hold these precious moments forever.
Bella Giordano couldn’t wait to leave Amsterdam. She’d been up all night partying and the last thing she needed to do was film a bunch of dumb-arse kids in the
park. She’d been working for Italian MTV for three years now, and still no sign of a proper break. Why didn’t they ever give her the interviews to direct? Why did she have to do all the
donkeywork filler shots, whilst Risso, the so-called real director, got a lie-in on a Saturday?
The worst part was they’d probably cut these shots of the skateboarders anyway. It was a complete waste of her time. She should have listened to her parents and stayed at the newspaper as
a reporter. But at the time the job at MTV had been too hip to turn down. If only she’d known then what she knew now. About the lifestyle that went with it. And the terrible pay.
She watched the kids rolling back and forth on the wooden ramp, her head aching from the racket they were making.
‘That’s good,’ she called, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘Keep it going. Look like it’s fun.’ She turned to her cameraman, Kas, next to her. ‘You
getting all this?’ she asked, blowing on her coffee.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Hey, look, we’ve got an audience.’
Two little kids had stopped on their scooters, keen to see what the action was all about.
Wow, he sure was a cutie
, Bella thought, looking at the little dark-haired boy. Big brown eyes. He’d look great on camera. Maybe she could do some filming of him and the girl on
their scooters. To contrast with the older kids. A kind of next-generation-skater thing. Something to help pad out their slot.
‘You want to be on MTV?’ Bella asked, first in Dutch, then in English, smiling at the kids, her voice husky from all the cigarettes she’d smoked last night.
The little girl nodded eagerly, her eyes shining excitedly.
‘Your mom or dad here?’
‘My papa is dead,’ the little boy said.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Bella replied, grimacing, but all the boy did was smile.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘he’s up in heaven with the angels. And did you know he’s very famous too?’
‘Is that a fact?’ said Bella, playing along, relieved to be off the subject of death.
The little boy puffed out his chest in pride. ‘He is Alfonso Scolari. The racing driver.’
Bella stared at the little boy, hardly daring to believe what she’d heard. She wasn’t the only one. Kas had lowered his camera to look at the boy direct. He raised his eyebrows at
Bella.
Bella stared back at the little boy.
‘And your mother? What’s her name?’ she asked, slowly looking round the park. ‘Is she here?’