Chapter 4
As soon as Becky left, Marcello abandoned the Spaghetti Boloagnese. He no longer felt like cooking.
He went back into the bedroom and slumped over his bed. A part of him felt bad for giving Becky a hard time, yet another part of him felt slightly pleased that she was finally able to hear some of the concerns he had been having about their relationship and in particular, about her.
‘I shouldn’t have brought up the death of her mum,’ Marcello thought staring up at the ceiling which was flaky and peeling. ‘That was stupid of me...’
‘But sometimes the truth is hard to swallow…and she needed to hear it…but I guess I could have done it in a better way…’
He began to retract the argument he had with Becky in his head. The way he overacted, the way he talked over her, the way he raised his voice. He thought of Becky’s sullen face as she looked at him when he said those unpleasant words to her. Marcello clenched his fist and thumped the bed.
“Dude you need to control your temper,” he said to himself as he jumped up and walked into the hallway. He spotted the mail scattered across the doormat and dolefully picked them up.
“Let’s see what my phone bill is saying this month,” he said ripping open the first envelope. Marcello’s face sunk. As anticipated, he had gone over his monthly bill. This time by almost forty quid.
Just then, his phone began to ring. He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen, it was Rico.
Marcello and Rico had been best friends ever since Marcello was sent to live with his godfather in England when he was twelve years old.
“You will have a better life in England,” his mother had said in Italian whilst patting her son’s back as he wept uncontrollably at Ancona airport. “You will live with Papà London and he will take good care of you. He has a big house with a big garden you know. You will go to a really good school and learn how to speak English like those posh English people. He even has a son called Rico who is the same age as you. See, you two can play together and be best friends. It won’t be too bad.”
At the time, Marcello was devastated; he felt as though his mother had not only betrayed him by sending him away but that she had also fed him a pack of lies. Papà London did not have a big house with a big garden, nor did Marcello go to really good school and learn how to speak English like an aristocrat. The only truth that emanated from his mother’s inflated fabrications was that he did indeed become best friends with Rico.
“Yo, wassup?” Marcello greeted him languidly.
“So you are still alive then?” Rico replied in a not so impressed tone.
“Whatever dude. I’ve been busy.”
“Hmmm…okay. Anyway, a few of the boys are coming round to mine later on tonight for a Fifa tournament. You down?”
Marcello had just finished opening another letter. This time it was from the bank and his account statement wasn’t looking too great. Marcello slowly inhaled through his nostrils.
“Mar, you still there or what?”
“Sorry I got distracted. What were you saying?” He opened the final letter. It was from a charity asking for donations towards building a well in Malwai.
‘I could do with some donations right now,’ he thought immediately scrunching up the letter into a ball. He headed into the kitchen and tossed all the letters in the bin. He needed a beer.
