Italian,’ he said slowly.
‘No. He’s not Italian. He isn’t even English. He’s…well, he’s from Hong Kong. Chinese. And she’s bringing him home for Christmas.’
Brave girl, thought Mark. She must know how that would go down.
Serena traced the pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. ‘It doesn’t matter to me . As long as she’s happy, I don’t mind whether he’s Italian or…or a Red Indian.’
‘But Joe minds,’ he guessed.
‘Joe has gone spare. Pazzo . Raging round the house, carrying on.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, he’s her father. There’s always been something special between them.’
‘It doesn’t mean she’s going to marry this…Chinese bloke,’ Mark pointed out. ‘It’s her first boyfriend. Not necessarily serious .’
‘She wouldn’t bring him home if it wasn’t serious,’ Serena stated. ‘She must know how her father would feel about it. And,’ she added, ‘Joe was my first boyfriend. Papa was Mamma’s first boyfriend.’
Yes, they took relationships seriously in this family, Mark reflected. That was part of the problem. Part of his problem. ‘What about…Mamma?’ he asked. ‘Have you told her yet?’
Serena sighed. ‘No. Not yet. I’m still trying to figure out how to break it to her. You know what she’ll say. What she always says. “ Mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi .”’
It was a common phrase in the household, poetic in Italian if prosaic in English, meaning that spouses and cows should always come from your own country. ‘Yeah,’ Mark groaned. ‘That’s what she’ll say, all right.’
‘Maybe I’ll tell Papa, and let him do the deed. But that would be the coward’s way out.’
‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘it sounds like it’s going to be an interesting Christmas.’ He drained his coffee cup and stood up. Today was not the day to burden Serena with his problem. That would have to wait for another time.
It was a Friday: Callie’s day off. She hadn’t made plans for the day, hoping that perhaps Marco’s schedule would allow them to spend some time together. But he would be tied up till evening, he’d told her on Thursday night.
The rain was pitching down, which meant a brisk—and brief—walk along the edge of Hyde Park with Bella. Even so, Bella was drenched, and had to be towelled off and brushed. Then Callie took the sort of long, restorative bubble bath which wasn’t usually possible on the other six days of the week. After that she dressed in jeans and a colourful stripey jumper—no dog collar on a Friday.
While soaking in the bath, she’d considered going out to buy a few Christmas decorations for the flat. Maybe even a tree and some fairy lights. But this wasn’t really the sort of weather which was conducive to the holiday spirit. And besides, it would be nice if she and Marco could do that together. It would be fun to put up the tree and decorate it with him, whereas by herself it would be just another chore.
Just another chore. That brought her thoughts, inevitably, to her mother. During the last weeks of her developing relationship with Marco, she had rather neglected her mother, and this was a niggling source of guilt. Laura Anson was supremely skilled at sensing guilt, and exploiting it to the full.
She really should go to see her mother.
Callie went through to her study, sat down in the desk chair, and stared at the phone. Summoning up her courage for the deed.
The phone rang—a stay of execution. ‘Thank you, God,’ she breathed, reaching for it.
‘Hi, Sis,’ said her brother’s voice.
‘Peter!’
‘Long time, no see.’
It hadn’t been that long—no more than a few days; spending time with her brother was a pleasure rather than a duty, and as they both had flexible schedules, they usually managed to gettogether at least once a week. Peter was a freelance musician; when he worked it was usually in the evenings, so often he dropped by during the day for a cup of tea or a bite of lunch.
‘You were
‘No. He’s not Italian. He isn’t even English. He’s…well, he’s from Hong Kong. Chinese. And she’s bringing him home for Christmas.’
Brave girl, thought Mark. She must know how that would go down.
Serena traced the pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. ‘It doesn’t matter to me . As long as she’s happy, I don’t mind whether he’s Italian or…or a Red Indian.’
‘But Joe minds,’ he guessed.
‘Joe has gone spare. Pazzo . Raging round the house, carrying on.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, he’s her father. There’s always been something special between them.’
‘It doesn’t mean she’s going to marry this…Chinese bloke,’ Mark pointed out. ‘It’s her first boyfriend. Not necessarily serious .’
‘She wouldn’t bring him home if it wasn’t serious,’ Serena stated. ‘She must know how her father would feel about it. And,’ she added, ‘Joe was my first boyfriend. Papa was Mamma’s first boyfriend.’
Yes, they took relationships seriously in this family, Mark reflected. That was part of the problem. Part of his problem. ‘What about…Mamma?’ he asked. ‘Have you told her yet?’
Serena sighed. ‘No. Not yet. I’m still trying to figure out how to break it to her. You know what she’ll say. What she always says. “ Mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi .”’
It was a common phrase in the household, poetic in Italian if prosaic in English, meaning that spouses and cows should always come from your own country. ‘Yeah,’ Mark groaned. ‘That’s what she’ll say, all right.’
‘Maybe I’ll tell Papa, and let him do the deed. But that would be the coward’s way out.’
‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘it sounds like it’s going to be an interesting Christmas.’ He drained his coffee cup and stood up. Today was not the day to burden Serena with his problem. That would have to wait for another time.
It was a Friday: Callie’s day off. She hadn’t made plans for the day, hoping that perhaps Marco’s schedule would allow them to spend some time together. But he would be tied up till evening, he’d told her on Thursday night.
The rain was pitching down, which meant a brisk—and brief—walk along the edge of Hyde Park with Bella. Even so, Bella was drenched, and had to be towelled off and brushed. Then Callie took the sort of long, restorative bubble bath which wasn’t usually possible on the other six days of the week. After that she dressed in jeans and a colourful stripey jumper—no dog collar on a Friday.
While soaking in the bath, she’d considered going out to buy a few Christmas decorations for the flat. Maybe even a tree and some fairy lights. But this wasn’t really the sort of weather which was conducive to the holiday spirit. And besides, it would be nice if she and Marco could do that together. It would be fun to put up the tree and decorate it with him, whereas by herself it would be just another chore.
Just another chore. That brought her thoughts, inevitably, to her mother. During the last weeks of her developing relationship with Marco, she had rather neglected her mother, and this was a niggling source of guilt. Laura Anson was supremely skilled at sensing guilt, and exploiting it to the full.
She really should go to see her mother.
Callie went through to her study, sat down in the desk chair, and stared at the phone. Summoning up her courage for the deed.
The phone rang—a stay of execution. ‘Thank you, God,’ she breathed, reaching for it.
‘Hi, Sis,’ said her brother’s voice.
‘Peter!’
‘Long time, no see.’
It hadn’t been that long—no more than a few days; spending time with her brother was a pleasure rather than a duty, and as they both had flexible schedules, they usually managed to gettogether at least once a week. Peter was a freelance musician; when he worked it was usually in the evenings, so often he dropped by during the day for a cup of tea or a bite of lunch.
‘You were
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