Hold Your Breath by Caroline Green Page A

into a sort of yard behind the houses halfway down the row and stopped the engine, turning to Tara.
    ‘I won’t be long,’ he said, unclipping his seatbelt. ‘Do you want to wait here?’
    Tara looked past him to where a group of boys a bit younger than herself were slouched on the wall, or making lazy circles on BMXs. They were, as one, looking at the car.
    ‘Can I come with you?’ she said, unclipping her seatbelt.
    Leo looked away and there was an awkward pause until he met her eyes again. There was a defiant look in them now, which she couldn’t work out.
    ‘Yeah, why not,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
    They trudged across the car park, which led to a row of rusty-doored garages. There were some whistles and catcalls from the boys, which ended abruptly when Leo turned and gave them a look.
    He caught her watching and gave her a short smile, which the boys couldn’t see. She returned the smile, following him through a rickety gate and into a patch of garden, which was strewn
with a couple of old plastic clothes horses and the remains of several motorbikes.
    Leo opened the back door. A grubby lace curtain covered the top half of the door, attached to elastic. It was the sort of thing Tara’s mum would never allow in her house. Tara felt a
little ashamed for thinking of this as she followed Leo into the kitchen.
    ‘Papi? Papi,’ said Leo. ‘It’s me. I have someone with me . . .’ he added hastily.
    Leo disappeared off down a dark hallway. A rapid exchange in Italian followed between Leo and someone with a deep voice who must be the mysterious ‘Papi’.
    It seemed to go on for ages and was so fast that Tara didn’t recognise a single word, despite the short-lived fad Mum’d had for learning the language once, and insisting on trying it
out on her family.
    Unsure what to do, Tara lingered by the back door, looking around an ancient kitchen. The cooker was an electric ring one and there was a washing machine that looked about two centuries old.
None of the appliances were built in, like in Tara’s kitchen, but free standing and a bit wobbly looking. A yellow formica table was in the middle of the room. An avalanche of papers looked
set to slide any minute onto a floor made from large brown carpet tiles, which were a little tacky underneath Tara’s sandals.
    Her foot began to throb then. She was suddenly hungry and tired. She thought about Mum saying there was bread from the artisan bakery and felt a little throb of shame at how different her own
home was from this one, coupled with a strong wish to be there right now.
    Leo came back into the kitchen, looking annoyed. Behind him, a dark-haired man using one of those old-people walkers was shuffling along. In fact, he was probably only about Dad’s age. He
had glasses and a big toothy smile.
    There was another rapid-fire burst of Italian. Tara caught the words ‘Leonardo’ and ‘bella’. Tara knew this meant ‘beautiful’ or ‘pretty girl’ and
instantly blushed hard.
    ‘Dad, this is Tara; Tara, my dad Gianni.’ Leo’s face was stiff; his voice flat. He looked as though he couldn’t wait to get out of there. Tara hoped he had explained why
she was there and kept shooting desperate glances at him.
    Gianni held out his hand, still beaming. Tara took it and they shook.
    ‘Is pleasure to meet you, Tara,’ he said. His rich, warm accent made her imagine sunshine sparkling on blue water.
    ‘You too,’ she said with a shy smile.
    ‘Right, you got everything you need then?’ said Leo briskly. ‘Because I need to shoot off and take Tara home, then get back to the pool.’
    ‘Why you working at a pool when you should be in college, I never know,’ said Gianni with a gloomy expression.
    ‘Not now, Papi.’ Leo’s tone could have cut paper.
    Gianni’s raised his hand, palm up, in surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I shut my mouth. Look.’ He mimed zipping his lips, his bright eyes merry.
    Tara smiled back, infected by his warmth.
    ‘Come on,