Advent Story 4 – Ice Cream for Breakfast

It has been four days since she blew up her life and Ife has not gotten out of bed, except to bathe and change from one cashmere set to another. The wind rustles outside her windows, and she burrows further into the bed, beneath the duvet. This house is cold. Are Italians allergic to heating?

San Maria, a little hamlet outside of San Gimignano, the perfect place she’d ever been to. She first came here after a rather turbulent meeting with her mother, she simply packed a weekend bag and then disappeared for two weeks at the time; no one could reach her, she didn’t want them to. She arrived Gimignano and then kept driving further South, where she found this haven in a place she already thought heavenly. She rented a small farmhouse for two blissful weeks where she determined what to do with her life, a life her mother had planned for her, and she had no out of. She is back at that farmhouse, the circumstances of her life markedly different; her mother is dead, there is no one telling her what to do with her life but she is still besieged by all those feelings, flooded with the memories. She came here to go back to a time before the time after, to connect to a moment in her life when everything was perfect, and she found a deep and abiding love.

She turned and shivered where she lay, the cold came from within where the warm duet could not shield the cold that nestled in her heart, encased it in hard black ice; she sometimes thinks her heart has been taken over by a black hole where her feelings go to die and these little aches are those feelings fighting for a chance to be felt, knowing their inhabiter does not want to feel them. It is little wonder the public think of her as cold and she is, but what do they know about the sacrifices she has made for the life she lives; sacrifices that will never be known because to know them would be to hurt the most precious humans in her life. Her children. The thought of them makes her heart ache so much she places a hand on it in comfort; after reading the letter she left for them, she is sure they will never forgive her. So, this is better, better that she is away from them, from their anger and hate. And from Tristan’s while he may have hurt her in an unforgivable way, she is not without sin therefore can cast no stones. Away from the press and public that love to loathe any woman with a brain and gumption, one who did not stand on ceremony for their entertainment. They will never understand who she is or what she is about, but in the grand scheme of the shit show that is her life, she does not care one way or another.

‘Ife, what are you doing?’ That question fills the room, bouncing off its stone walls and sinking into its soft surfaces. She is running away and hiding which would make her a coward and she never used to be one. She used to be brave and bold and stood toe to toe with anyone who dared her. She loved a dare, would be the first in line to take one. She used to be wild and fearless, laughed so loud, cursed freely, loved a shot of something criminally good and was ever so curious. Where there was mischief to be made, she led the charge. Fun to be had, she was in the mix. Brilliance to be created; she was at the fore front of it. So where did her life go? She loved the world her parents, despite their many faults, gifted to her. She was in no way jaded about her position in life, she was amongst the one percent; private school education, St Andrews for university, Vassar for Masters, PhD from Harvard, the most exquisite private art collection, only saw the world through rose tinted glasses, trust-funded to the hilt… she has never known a different life. She was born into wealth, stupendous wealth and grandiosity and it afforded her a life unlike that of her peers. It was why at twenty-two she curated an exhibition that some still hail as amongst the very best at the Met, was a qualified art historian by twenty-four, was prevailed upon by wealthy clients to acquire the rarest work of art for them, and with access like she had, she always hit the bull’s eye. Ife’s world was on a bed of the rarest jewels which made it hard to walk away from when she thought she would, made it easy for her mother to condition her life on her, mother’s, terms and her father not put up a fight for her. Which meant she was married by twenty-three, pregnant shortly after and still lived a fulfilled life when in other circles that would have made her a pariah.

Marriage to Tristan at that age was an act of rebellion, to shame her family, her mother in particular, for making her. She made decisions, brash decisions at times, that would threaten to smash and scatter life to pieces, when she was mad there was a steely determination that put her on a crash course at the worst of times. It was her most dangerous streak. When her mother insisted that she marry Tristan with whom she was good friends, their family had always been the best of friends, because their mothers were the best of friends, more like sisters, maybe closer… she’d refused flat out. They rowed about it, each one thinking the other would get over it, and the distance between home and St Andrews would give the conflict time to thaw, or so she thought. After she graduated, she returned home to a most coveted job curating one of the art world’s most successful exhibits that harkened back to the great exhibition. Following that exhibition, Ife was in demand, the world came knocking on her door because she had access, access granted her by the family wealth. She made a name for herself and then in one fell swoop, her mother threatened all she held far too dear; marry Tristan or else all of this goes. Her mother’s precise words to her. It was at a time when children did not defy their parents, parents held the keys and pulled the strings. She could rebel, and she did mightily, but in the end without the family wealth backing her she had nothing and so she did the one thing she never wanted to do; walk away from love.

Getting married at such a young age was a provocation to her mother who would rather she waited, every decision her mother made, she acted contrary to; she wanted her to marry Tristan, fine she would but it would be on her terms. And it was. She got married at twenty-three, found out she was pregnant shortly after, went to Vassar to study her masters, graduated Magna cum Laude heavily pregnant; she had contractions whilst walking the stage to receive her diploma and went into labour shortly after the ceremony with only her friends for support. Shortly after, Tristan moved in with her, leaving what semblance of a life they had in London, to be with the woman he married who was residing in another country on another continent. They stayed in America a while because shortly, very shortly after having the twins she went on to start her PhD in Harvard and quickly after that, she was pregnant again with twins. It was a less dramatic birth this time round because the twin at least gave her a day after graduating and defending her thesis to make their grand entrance into the world. One year later, they moved back to London, to live their life as a married couple. Tristan never questioned her irrational behaviours shortly after their marriage, as if he understood she needed to rebel to get whatever out of her system and if she wanted to keep going he would follow her because Lord knows he needed the distraction from his secrets.

Time… it is one big joker because had it all happened today? She would have told her mother where to suck her threats and ultimatums and thrown in a few good swear words that would peel the skin off her flesh. There is nothing good about hindsight it only brings to the fore many regrets. And she has a lot of things to regret. Her stomach rumbles, four days with nothing but water in it; she ought to get out of bed and fetch something sensible for breakfast.

Two hours later, because her bed was everything of comfort, freshly showered and changed into yet another cashmere set, she steps out of the farmhouse for the first time since arriving. The beauty of Santa Maria still takes her breath away; a storybook village surrounded by the most stunning views.

An old man walking past touches the brim of his flat cap in greeting and it brings a smile to her face, simple gestures that warm her heart. There is a market on today, perfect, she will buy enough to make a meal for one at least. She walks past a little ice cream shop and doubles back to look inside; it looks so happy, happy and calming. The time on her Cartier watch says 10am, too early for ice cream. She always told her children that growing up, it is too early for this or too late for that. Whose rules are these? Who makes them? If it is too early for ice cream, why would the ice cream shop owner open up so early? Why did God make it possible for ice cream to be made if not to be enjoyed at any time of the day? Her poor children should go back to their childhood and demand a repeat of it; she would give them the world and all the love in it. She stepped into the shop and the proprietor behind the counter smiled at her.

‘Buongiorno.’

‘Buongiorno.’ Ife returns, scanning the options available to her.

‘Vorresti che ti parlassi dei sapori?’ The proprietor wanted to tell her about the flavours she creates in her small kitchen. She knows everyone in this village and Ife’s was a new face, although something about feels familiar.

‘Si. Grazie.’ Ife liked that she assumed she spoke Italian because she does, amongst other languages, something her mother insisted on; languages for her children, her and her brother Emerson. Oh. The thought of him breaks her heart a little because he deserved to know what is going on with his sister and not left in the lurch like she had. The news will most certainly have broken by now. Ife pushes that thought to the back of her mind which is already crowded with more thoughts and feelings of guilt, to be dealt with another day. For now, she will have ice cream.

The proprietor, Valentina, tells her about the flavours, and she settles for a mandarin sorbet and a seat by the window looking out into the very pretty square where life unfolds as slow as the sun still rising in the sky. She’ll take it. This moment of perfection she will take it and let the chaos rest another day.