She was glad she’d opted for formality when Angelo opened the door to her, wearing another formal business suit. He had to be the only person she’d ever met who dressed like that when working from home. And, now she thought of it, he’d worn a suit in Florence, too. Most people dressed casually for visiting family and Angelo was definitely close to his grandfather. Why the formality? she wondered. Was it a way of putting a little bit of distance between him and the world?
‘Let me help you with those,’ he said.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Are you telling me you hauled all that lot on the tube this morning?’ he asked, eyeing the bag she was carrying with her easel, tripod and a photographic light, as well as her camera and her laptop.
‘No. I took a taxi,’ she said. But she let him take the easel and the tripod from her and carry them into the dining room.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll reimburse you for the fare.’
She spent the morning going through the second box and making notes. Angelo made them lunch again, and she made a mental note to bring muffins on Thursday morning. She wanted to make a contribution rather than feeling as if she was taking all the time.
‘From the amount of photocopying you did this morning, I assume it’s going well,’ he said.
‘Very much.’ She smiled at him. ‘My tutor—the one supervising my PhD—would quite like to meet you. Would that be possible?’
‘As Leo’s representative, you mean? Yes,’ he said.
‘And I had a very quick look through the rest of the boxes. I’d like to get some archive-quality plastic pockets and acid-free mounting board to protect the artwork.’
‘Order whatever you need,’ he said.
‘Thanks. It means that you can actually look at the artwork without touching it—the oils on your fingertips can do damage, plus graphite, chalk and pastels are very easily smudged.’
‘I’m learning more about art than I ever thought I’d need,’ he said wryly.
She flinched. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be boring.’
‘You’re not. My work’s in a very different area and Nonno always calls me a philistine,’ Angelo said.
‘I did notice that you don’t seem to have any artwork on your walls,’ she said before she could stop herself.
‘I don’t really have any opinions on art.’
‘Noted, and I’ll shut up.’
‘You could teach me.’ Then he looked shocked, as if he hadn’t expected to say that.
Was this an area where maybe they could connect?
Part of her thought she should back off and leave it. But part of her couldn’t resist. ‘If you came to meet Jeremy, my tutor, tomorrow,’ she said tentatively, ‘then maybe we can go to a gallery round the corner afterwards. We can look at a couple of paintings and see what you like or don’t like—just style and composition, nothing too heavy.’
‘All right,’ he said.
This wasn’t a date.
It was about helping him understand art and maybe understanding his grandfather more.
Everything was fine until the middle of the afternoon, when Mariana was making coffee. She’d taken off her shoes while she’d photographed a couple of sketches, and had padded into the kitchen barefoot. She’d mistimed using the frother so the milk bubbled over, scalding her hands; as she dropped the metal jug, she accidentally knocked one of the mugs off the worktop, and it smashed on the slate floor.
Angelo was there in what felt like a nanosecond. ‘Stand still!’ he barked.
She thought of when she’d dropped things in her own kitchen and Eric had been furious; it made her freeze.
To her shock, Angelo walked over to her, lifted her up, and carried her over to the chairs at the far end of the kitchen. Gently, he set her down on her feet again. ‘Stay there,’ he said, ‘and I’ll clear this up so you don’t cut your foot on a shard.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I...’
Then he noticed her hand. ‘Wait,’ he said, grabbed a tea towel from a drawer and tipped ice into it from the freezer. ‘OK. Keep that over the burn until I’ve cleared this up and then you can put your hand under cold running water,’ he directed.