Free Coming of Age by Valerie Mendes

Dad had met Julian and Chris by the river. They’d gone punting, Chris standing tall and slim at the helm – “Let me do all the hard work, why don’t you!” – the pole, smooth and shiny with water, dripping through his hands, his eyes flirting with her when the others weren’t looking.
    That evening Amy sat through Hamlet , her heart thumping like a drum, trying not to let Dad and Julian see how smitten she was. Neither of them ever suspected her feelings, how she’d replayed that weekend, that special evening, in her head, over and again. She’d never even told Ruth.
    Dad’s not the only one who’s madly in love! What if he knew? That’d give him something to think about besides his darling Hannah!
    And now on Friday she and Chris would meet again. She wondered what he’d make of Grayshott and Terra Firma. She wondered what he’d make of her . Because she didn’t feel like “Julian’s little sister” any more.
    Nor, she realised with a jolt, did she any longer feel like “Daddy’s little girl”.
    So what exactly was she?
    Standing on the second floor of Guildford’s Waterstones, Amy gazed through the window at the High Street. She’d spent an hour thumbing through books on gardening and landscape design, full of marvellous photographs, elegant, beautiful – and useless.
    None of them even mentioned Italy.
    I don’t know what I expected to find. All I have is a first name and the link with Florence. It’s not much to go on. If I were serious about all this, I’d fly to Italy and find Marcello himself!
    She gave a sudden laugh at the idea. A book-browser looked up at her curiously. Amy headed for the stairs. Sure, she needed to know who Marcello was. But she’d never been abroad on her own. Dad would never let her go. And she could hardly tell him the reason for the trip.
    Anyway, she wasn’t that interested.
    Or was she?
    Thoughtfully, she sat over a cappuccino in Starbucks, spooning up the frothy chocolate topping. Mum had left her some money in her will, in a trust fund until Amy was sixteen. She knew that Dad’s chief birthday present would be her own bank account and cashcard.
    Suppose she took out enough money to pay for a trip to Florence? Could she get there and back without Dad knowing? Instead of going to Paris with Mrs Boring Baxter, suppose she used that week to go to Italy?
    Would she have the courage to do it on her own?
    Maybe. It needed careful planning. She’d start thinking on the bus. Meanwhile, the party. Amy drained her cup. She wanted a dress, or a long skirt and frilly top: something floaty and romantic. To make Christopher sit up and say, “Hey! Just look at Jules’s little sister now!”
    I’m gonna take midsummer night and make it special just for you . . .
    The latest pop lyric blared through the shopping arcade. Amy began to hum along.
    â€œI’ve got a surprise for you,” Dad said that evening.
    â€œOh?” Amy sliced some tomatoes. She did not bother to look up.
    â€œFor your party. Actually, it was Hannah’s idea.”
    I might have guessed.
    â€œShe and I had lunch together. In the garden. She was saying how beautiful it looked. Then she said, ‘Why don’t we get an electrician to put some fairy lights in the trees?’ It’s a brilliant idea. They’ll look fantastic.”
    Amy’s heart lurched. She imagined standing in Christopher’s arms in the rose garden, the moon shining, the lights sparkling from the silver birch, music from the house drifting over the lawn.
    â€œWhat d’you think, Amy? Good idea?”
    â€œYeah, I suppose so.”
    â€œGreat. I’ll ask Dora to organise it tomorrow.”
    Amy looked up at him. “I suppose you and Hannah will be at the party?”
    â€œWe wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    He’d poured a glass of cold juice and was halfway out of the