Coming of Age by Valerie Mendes Page A

curious, without thinking, Amy picks it up.
    On the front, thick with dust, is a photo of Michelangelo’s David . The head is beautiful, the limbs ripple with energy, the voluptuous mouth pouts, firm and silent, the eyes stare into space.
    A black foreboding throbs in Amy’s throat. I should throw this away. Tear it up, fling it out of the window, watch it flutter into the sky.
    Instead, she turns the card. She looks at the message.
    The pale-blue handwriting, delicate, flowing, stretches the width of the card. There is no date, no stamp and no address, so it must have been posted in an envelope.
    I’m prying. I’m dipping without permission into Mum’s private world.
    But she cannot resist. One by one, the words sear into her eyes:
    Lauren, my darling
    I cannot believe you have left. Florence is now for me like an empty tomb. I am lost without you. It has been the happiest three days of my whole life. When can I see you again? Any time, any­where. Just tell me and I’ll be there.
    I am ever your own
    Marcello
    Amy feels colour flood her face.
    She reads the words over and again, turning the card in her hand as if she is cooking it over a spit. Frantically, she scrabbles at the edges of the skirting board in case they conceal another trophy.
    They do not.
    She stands at the window, trembling.
    Florence.
    Mum went to Florence the summer before she died. Amy frowns, desperately trying to remember. Mum had taken Julian with her, to look at paintings. Dad had been too busy to leave the practice. He and Mum had thought Amy was too young to go trailing around art galleries.
    Mum had needed to see a landscape designer she’d met in London, to check the details of his Italian house and garden that featured in a book she’d been writing.
    One she’d never finished . . .
    Their trip had been the beginning of Julian’s passion for paintings and the Italian language.
    But that’s as much as Amy can remember. She cannot recall ever having talked to Mum or Julian about their trip. Nothing had seemed any different when they’d returned. They hadn’t brought back any photos – or none that she remembered.
    So who is this Marcello and what happened in Florence? When had he written to Mum? Had they met again, after that summer? In England? In London? Even, perhaps, in Grayshott? Did Dad know of Marcello’s existence?
    Dad . . .
    From far away in the house, the front door slams.
    Amy jumps.
    â€œAmy?” Dad calls. “Are you up there, sweetheart?”
    Amy skids over the dust sheets to the door. “I’m coming down.”
    â€œI’ve got some colour charts. Isn’t this terrific? The decorators have made a great start!”
    Amy races over the dust sheets, slithers down the stairs. She darts into her room, stares at it wildly, shoves the card under her pillow, smoothes the bed neat and tidy. She turns to leave the room, catches sight of her reflection. Her eyes stare out at her, green-black with shock.
    In the kitchen she says coldly, “Why d’you have to muck about with Mum’s study?”
    Dad glances at her from a pile of letters. “We’re doing up the whole house, Amy. I told the decorators:begin at the top and work down. And start on the living room.”
    â€œYou could have left Mum’s room alone.”
    â€œLook, sweetheart.” Dad flings a weary arm over Amy’s shoulder. “They’re giving the room a simple coat of paint.” He stabs at the chart. “How about this duck-egg blue? Then they’ll put everything back exactly as before. You won’t notice the difference.”
    Amy pulls away from him.
    I already notice the difference. I’ve found a postcard and everything has changed.
    Amy had been counting the days until Julian returned from Cambridge.
    He’d rung the night before. “I’m on my way, sis, first thing tomorrow.” She doodled through morning classes, ducked out of