‘Forget the new carpet and curtains, Cara. We’re going home.’
‘We’re going back to Rome?’
Manchester, Cara. Manchester, my home, and the home of cotton shirts, revolution, meat pies and fish and chips - not that I’ll be eating any of it.’
‘No, no, nooooo Roberto. I want to go to Rome. Can’t you play for Roma again?’
‘I’m going up in the world, not down. Manchester City are going to pay me a hundred-thousand pounds per week. How do ya like them apples?’
‘Apples?’
‘Better apples than trying to work out how many euros it is. Manchester’s a great city, full of history. You’ll love it.’
‘More history than Rome?’ She flicked her long black tresses to emphasize her point. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Different history. You didn’t want to come to Hoffenheim, did you? But we’ve had fun here for the last two years, haven’t we, Bella?’
‘Not a lot. I came here because Roma sold you, not because it’s like Rome, or Parma or Napoli or any other Italian city with a football club. Why can’t you play for one of them?’
‘I’m under contract, Chiara, you know that. I have to go to whatever club bought me. We’ll buy a nice home and you’ll be able to decorate it any way you want from top to bottom. You’d like that. You could even change the toothpaste we use.’
‘But it rains so much in Manchester. It’s famous for its rain. I want blue skies and sunshine. Rain is bad for my hair and all that industry must be bad for my complexion.’
‘No. Cara. English weather is perfect for your hair and complexion. It’s famous for it. English women have the best skin of any country in the world, believe me. I learned that at school.’
She put on a spoilt air. ‘I don’t believe it. Anyway, how far is Manchester from London?’
‘Depends on where you want to go. A couple of hours plus by car, if I remember.’
‘Mama mia! Un paio d’ore! You are crazy. How could I live in such a place? No, Roberto, I shall go back to Rome and my family.’
When I returned to the living room, after giving Chiara time to mull things over while I packed a suitcase, I found her was watching television.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘There’s a flight to Manchester we need to catch. My agent will be waiting. He’ll be anxious to see me put my signature on the new contract so he can get his fifteen per cent.’
Chiara turned down the volume and swivelled to face me. ‘Listen, Roberto,’ she said coyly. ‘I don’t want to live in Manchester or even in England. I am Italian. Please don’t go.’
‘Did you hear how much I’ll be earning? When my football career is over, I’ll have enough money for us to live anywhere you want. But I have to earn it first. So, I’m going. If you don’t want to come with me,’ I was wary before uttering my next words, but I blundered on, ‘I’ll expect you gone when I return in a couple of days to shut this place down. Capiche?’
Her face turned to stone. ‘Gone, huh. No problem. Like they say, it’s been real. I’m going home to bella Roma and I’m taking the car with me. How would a Lamborghini look in stinky, rainy Manchester anyway?’
She could have the car. It was only worth two or three weeks, perhaps four, of my new pay-packet anyway. ‘The are plenty of beautiful cars in Manchester, Chiara. Tell me, given you moved with me from Rome to Hoffenheim, why is it such a big deal to move on the Manchester?’
‘Why? Because I got smart, that’s why! Capiche?’
There was no comeback to that. At least I’ll get a proper set of wheels and continue using the same toothpaste.
About the author
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
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This made me smile! Who knew the choice of toothpaste was so important?! Kate in Cornwall
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