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Marta was standing with her back to the door, holding my lacy red thong in the air.
‘Cosa stai facendo?’ I snapped, asking her what she was doing.
She pointed to a pile of clothes on the bed. I think she said something about washing. No. Folding. She was folding the laundry.
I could see she’d already done some T-shirts, leggings, Lorenzo’s jeans and some of Leo’s clothes. I hadn’t got round to it, so yes, it was helpful, butboundaries, woman. She couldn’t go around touching my knickers. That was personal. For all I knew, she could be planting ant powder in them to make me itch or something. Okay. Maybe I was taking my paranoia too far. But I didn’t like the idea of Marta doing that. If she started touching my lingerie, then she’d have an excuse to start rifling through my underwear drawers, saying she was ‘just putting them away.’
No. It was too much.
‘Grazie’—I plucked my thong from her hands—‘ma lo farò.’ I told her I would do it.
I was surprised Marta even wanted to touch my undies after being so prudish about catching Lorenzo and me in the act. Maybe she was wondering if they could fit her.
Ha! Imagine uptight Marta getting frisky.
Actually, I’d rather not…
I wondered if she’d ever thought about dating again. There must be other single pensioners in this town. I reckoned it’d be good for her. As far as I could see, her life revolved around Lorenzo and Leo. They were her purpose. Being here and doing housework was probably her way of feeling useful and keeping herself occupied.
Take ironing for example. That was one chore I only did if I absolutelyhadto. The clothes I wore these days didn’t need it, and neither did most of Lorenzo’s. I sometimes ironed his chef’s jacket or jeans if he didn’t have time to do it himself. But unlike me (and probably a lot of people), Marta seemed to get a massive kick from ironing. She’d dedicatehoursto it. She would do it all. And when I sayall, I mean she ironedeverything.Not just clothes. Bed sheets, duvet covers, pillowcases, Leo’s bibs, romper suits, cushion covers and blankets too. Even Lorenzo’s underpants and socks for goodness’ sake. The other day I saw her ironing the tea towels.Each to their own, I suppose.
Actually, now that I thought about it, what Marta was doing was pretty harmless. I mean, climbing onto those freshly washed and ironed bedsheets the other day had felt lovely. And did I really want to spend what was left of this afternoon folding laundry? If that was the kind of thing that floated Marta’s boat, I’d just let her get on with it and have her fun. But definitely not with my underwear. Some things were sacred.
I scooped my bras and knickers off the bed and put them away in my underwear drawer.
‘Grazie. Per favore continua.’ I smiled, asking her to carry on, then went to the loo.
I headed out to the garden. It was still sunny and warm and the views of the rolling hills in the distance looked so green and perfect, it was like they’d been painted straight onto a backdrop.
‘Ciao!’ I greeted Flavio and Amadeo with two cheek kisses.
‘Ciao, Sophia, come stai?’ said Amadeo, running his fingers through his dark hair, which was all slicked back.
‘Bene, grazie, e tu?’
‘Bene, bene.’
‘Come sta la tua famiglia?’ I added, asking Flavio how his family was. He had four kids, aged five to fourteen, so his household was hectic. According to Lorenzo, Flavio joked that was why he’d gone bald in his thirties. Whenever I saw him his head was always freshly shaved. It suited him.
Flavio said everyone was well and he was enjoying having some peace and quiet by coming here. I replied saying I hoped that Leo behaved himself this afternoon. Then I asked them if they’d enjoyed Lorenzo’s tiramisu, which of course they had. His cooking really was amazing.
Neither of them spoke English that well, so it felt good to be able to have a little conversation with them. Don’t get me wrong. It’d be a while before I’d be able to have a deep discussion on the state of the world or politics (probably good subjects to avoid anyway), but at least I’d been able to communicate, which was a lot more than I could do before.
‘Vuoi un’altra birra?’ I could see they’d almost finished their beers so asked if I could get them another one.
‘Sì, grazie.’ Flavio flashed an enthusiastic smile.
I went to the kitchen and took some beers out of the fridge. It’d been a couple of hours since they’d eaten lunch, and although Lorenzo had probably given them enough food to feed an army, I’d take out a little bowl of crisps too, just in case they wanted something to snack on.
I opened the cupboards.
FFS.
She’d done it again.
Marta had rearranged everything. When she’d first done it the morning after she’d moved in, it had taken me almost ten minutes to find where she’d buried my herbal tea. And she’d thrown a perfectly fine, almost full bottle of tomato ketchup in the bin.Bloody cheek.Yeah, I know she’d probably done it because she didn’t approve, but I liked ketchup. Sometimes if I felt like some chips or potato wedges, I liked to squeeze a big dollop all over it. Who didn’t? Well, clearly Marta, but I shouldn’t feel judged in my own home for what I ate. I’d told her not to move things around and I’d thought she’d listened, but clearly that didn’t last long.
Folding and ironing the laundry was one thing.Thatwas helpful. But rearranging stuff after I’d asked her not to wasnotokay.
