Beautiful People

by Wendy Holden

  The boy was desperate now, Ken saw. He was sobbing and straining towards the plant pot with every muscle in his five-year-old body. "Please, Totty. I can't lose it. Emma gave it to me…"

  "Emma!" exclaimed the blonde, swishing her hair about her like a whip. "If I hear that name one more time…" Her face contorted with angry contempt, she pulled him roughly away down the hall. The boy's desolate howls echoed after him and twisted Ken's soft heart. With terrifying suddenness, he leapt to his feet and ran to the weeping fig so fast he almost skidded into it. Swiping down, he seized the train and pelted off down the departures hall after the boy. He was just in time, he saw. The blonde and her two charges had reached the passport control.

  The boy, mewing in despair, was still resisting every inch of the way and casting longing looks over his shoulder. As Ken dashed up, as fast as his short legs could carry him, wheezing and holding the small red object out in front of him, the boy's eyes widened in an expression of unadulterated joy. He gave a shout of delight. All of a sudden, quite unexpectedly, Ken had a powerful feeling of wanting to cry too. He wondered if he had ever brought such joy to anyone before.

  "This yours, sonny?" he asked in a gruff voice, disguising his emotion. The boy grabbed the train and clasped it passionately to his breast. He nodded, and his eyes filled with tears again. Ken dropped to his hunkers and patted him on his dark-blond head.

  "Hooray!" cheered his sister, jumping up and down. "Thank you, Mr. Man."

  "No problem, little miss. What's your name then?"

  "Hewo," she lisped. "And that's my bwother Cosmo," the child added, after a quick glance at her sibling confirmed that he was, as she apparently had anticipated, too overcome to speak.

  "Well, nice to meet you, Hero." Ken tweaked the girl's pink cheek, straightened, and eyed the blonde, who was intensely occupied with the passports. She did not meet his gaze.

  "Bit rough with them kids, aren't you?" he observed. "Reckon you ought to be more careful."

  The yellow eyes narrowed and glittered as they met his. "Reckon you ought to eff off," she snarled, her accent mimicking his.

  Ken shrugged and walked away. He'd done his best. He'd have told the parents, but they obviously weren't around. He shook his head. What was the point of having kids—especially nice kids like that—and handing them over to that blonde monster? Parents these days.

  He returned to Keith, who was still grumbling about his spilt coffee.

  "Nah, mate. I done you a favour," Ken told him.

  "How'd you reckon that then?"

  "Well look at you. You're grey from eating nothin' but crisps and drinkin' nothin' but coffee. It's not 'ealthy," Ken opined, still feeling strangely light after the encounter with the boy. It was as if, for the first time in his life, he had done something worthwhile. The child's face had been dazzling in its teary happiness; wish I'd taken a photo of it, thought Ken.

  "'Ark at you, bleedin' Jamie Oliver," exclaimed his colleague in annoyed surprise.

  Ken did not reply.

  Keith fiddled with his focus. "You goin' to wait around for Angelina?" he asked conversationally. "Hear she's comin' through later."

  "Ballerina or Jolie?" Ken asked facetiously. Dancing cartoon mouse or pillow-lipped, multi-fostering celebrity; suddenly, he didn't care.

  Keith stared at him. "Jolie, of course. The mouse ain't real. 'Ere," he said, pushing his lugubrious grey features closer to Ken. "You feelin' alright?"

  Ken did not answer. Actually, he wasn't feeling remotely alright. A strange sensation had possessed him. Quite suddenly, he felt not mildly bored at the prospect of famous people—this was not unusual—but almost violently antagonistic. He felt as if he didn't want to see another celebrity in the whole of his life. It was no mere skittering thought either; rather, a powerful, burning, almost acid antipathy that began in the depths of his stomach and radiated in every direction to the end of his every nerve.

  "You alright?" Keith repeated. "You look a bit funny like."

  "Might have been a dodgy curry last night," Ken murmured, rather alarmed by the powerful feelings now gripping him. Were all those takeaways taking their toll? It had been months since a fresh vegetable had entered Ken's house, and a thick layer of dust reclined atop his kitchen utensils. But what was the point of cooking for one?

  He knew, even so, that the local Taj Mahal was in no way to blame for the sensations currently besieging him. Not directly anyway; the fact he relied on it so heavily—and was becoming so heavy as a result—was another matter, however. His scrappy, stressful, badly nourished, low-job-satisfaction, pointless, unhappy, and, most of all, lonely life now seemed to appear before Ken with a hideous and uncompromising starkness. He had one life—only one life. And what was he doing with it?

  Keith was looking away now. He lifted his camera and squinted through it. "That's the woman from Dragon's Den, ain't it?" he was asking himself. "Nah…" he added, lowering his equipment. "Too thin. Looked like her though…"

  Ken hardly heard. He was in the grip now of a strong urge to escape the airport, the people, the cameras round his neck, his job most of all. As if he had come, with a dead stop, to the end of his professional road. He felt as if he never wanted to take another picture in his life.

  "I think I need a holiday," he said, uncertainly. He could hardly remember the last one he had taken. With no one to go with, there had never seemed much point.

  Keith nodded. "Don't we all, mate?" he said briskly. "I've got me eye on the Maldives, meself. Where you thinking, then?"

  Ken glanced up at the departures screen above them. The one at the top was a flight to Florence. "Italy," he found himself saying. Suddenly he had a vision of hot, sunny hills rolling away to a purple horizon and narrow, shadowy streets winding up through peaceful, ancient towns. He pictured himself at some rustic taverna, at a rough-hewn olivewood table drinking rich red wine from a thick, greenish glass and winding basil-scented spaghetti round his fork. Yes. Italy.

  "Oh, yeah?" Keith's high-pitched Cockney voice drew him back to the unwelcome realities of Gatwick. "Nice, Italy," his colleague nodded. "When you thinking of, then? I was wondering about August for the Maldives, meself."

  "Now," said Ken.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Darcy was starving. All the way up the narrow, winding street of the village, she had been assaulted on all sides by tantalising smells of cooking issuing from the houses on either side. Powerful whiffs of garlic and onions, snatches of tomato, deep base notes of wine and beef, and sharp, grassy jabs of herb. She had not eaten since leaving the hotel in Florence that morning, when there had been only time to snatch a roll and a quick cappuccino.

  Admittedly, until now she had hardly noticed the state of her stomach. She had spent the entire time she was driven down the motorway on the mobile. First, there had been a long call from Mitch about the fact principal photography was being delayed in starting— "They always are, and it's only to be expected, baby, on something so goddamn big and complicated as this one"—and then another from Sam at Wild about another forthcoming fashion shoot, this time for shoes. The prospect, after what she had endured at Rumtopf's hands, made Darcy's heart sink.

  As Sam finally rang off, Darcy noticed, with a jolt of joy, that they were off the motorway and driving through some of the loveliest countryside she had ever seen.

  So this was the famous Chianti. It was like the most beautiful garden. The countryside they were passing through, on winding grey roads that dived up and down, was full of gentle green hills packed with verdant, decorative detail: some hills fluffy with pines, others ridged neatly with vines, still others topped with the dark-green flames of cypress. Here and there, a glimpse of sun-warmed, golden stone, a hint of red-tiled roof, the occasional exciting turret even, denoted some dwelling.

  It was so extraordinarily neat and ordered, Darcy thought, framing the tranquil scene in her fingers and thumbs. It glowed richly in the afternoon sun, below the hot purple-blue of the sky. She felt a warmth
inside, a sense almost of recognition. For all the fact that the place was new to her, she felt immediately at home. She slid the window down, and a gust of hot, herby air sprang into the car.

  A wave of energy and excitement seemed to spring in with it. Darcy felt suddenly refreshed. The vision came to her again, as it had during the Rumtopf shoot, of vine-shaded tavernas in ancient hilltop villages where dark, cool streets wound up to sunny main squares presided over by a barn-like churches with marble fronts. She thought of brilliant sunshine and cool shadows, of resonant flavours: thick-crusted breads, golden slicks of oil, and red wine that was almost black. In short, lunch could be delayed no longer.

  She leant forward and asked the driver, Marcello, if there was anywhere good to eat in the area. She watched the back of his neatly trimmed black head nod enthusiastically. "Si, signora. Very good restaurant in Rocolo."

  "Rocolo? That's a village?"

  "Si. Ees over there."

  They were passing a hill on which a village crouched in the sun. Houses in all shapes and sizes and all shades of the spectrum from cinnamon to apricot were crammed and piled one on top of the other, like a fantastical and ornate stone hat. On top, the yellow stone towers of what was presumably the church protruded like two yellow stone fingers.

  "There's a good restaurant there?"

  "The best. Marco's. On the bend as you reach the top."

  Try as Darcy might to persuade Marcello to come with her, he refused. He seemed amazed by the offer. "My wife, she pack me lunch," he smiled as they drove into Rocolo's carpark. "I sit here. I read the paper. I fine."

  The village was, Marcello explained, reached on foot. He seemed anxious about how she would receive this, but Darcy was delighted, glad to be out of the car and under this deep blue sky, relishing the heat. The climb up the cobbled street pulled enjoyably on her muscles as the gradient steepened and twisted. The clearly ancient buildings on each side rose sheer as cliffs, albeit cliffs covered in flaking plaster and romantically rioting creeper and vine and, via deep-silled windows, emitting delicious smells from their shadowy depths.

  As she walked, Darcy, getting steadily hungrier, looked about her for the restaurant Marcello had mentioned. Ah, yes, that must be it. On the bend, with white sunshades and pretty pale-green chairs and tables. And that strange-looking, wild-haired man outside, who was staring at her for some reason.

  The chaotic-looking chef with the big sunken eyes stood outside his establishment in his creased whites, frowning in the bright sunshine. He was trying to look at the front of his restaurant dispassionately. As someone who didn't live, breathe, sleep, and, most of all, eat it might.

  Rodolfo, his old schoolfriend, now a decorator, had painted the place. He had been doubtful about the colour. But I was right, Marco decided now. The sage did work. It was a cool, pretty colour that gave the place a contemporary lift and made the heat less oppressive on an intensely warm day like this one. Anyway, sage was one of his favourite herbs. The only herb Marco loved more than sage was basil, but basil green was not right for the restaurant: too dark. He had, however, planted basil in the two large terra-cotta pots that flanked the restaurant entrance.

  His mind drifted back to sage. It perfumed and gave character to one of his favourite dishes, the saltimbocca of Rome, that combination of veal, proscuitto, and sage that, with a squeeze of lemon, jumped in the mouth, which was what the name meant.

  Marco swallowed, just thinking about it. Was there anything better than a really good saltimbocca? Well, there was plenty that was just as good, he thought, an image of the perfect San Daniele ham leaping effortlessly to mind; the waxy, near-transparent, light red slices edged with white fat rippling over a heap of fresh arugula dressed with oil and shaved Parmigiano.

  Parmesan cheese, now there was another thing, and a thing he often ate for supper, late at night after the restaurant closed. Just a lump of Parmesan: rocky, saltily pungent, pale yellow, and dressed with a little balsamic vinegar, nothing more. Except for a handful of peppery arugula, perhaps, the real stuff that blasted back down your nostrils. Sensational flavours. Italian flavours.

  Flavours that were the reason why, after chef school, after honing his trade in some of the great kitchens of Europe, he had come back to focus on the country cuisine of his homeland and youth. The memories of the simple food he had eaten as a child, food that had its roots in necessity, resourcefulness, and whatever ingredients came to hand at the time, came to dominate his thinking and his cooking. Cucina povera, as the magazines liked to call it. Simple flavours that spoke for themselves.

  Marco, while grateful for the praise, was always embarrassed by the descriptions of himself. "Rumpled charm" was a phrase that occurred frequently. Marco wasn't sure about the charm. He was hardly most women's idea of good-looking. First, there was his hair, dangling in curly clumps, chopped at with the kitchen scissors whenever it got too long. His face, with its great, wide eyes, long cheeks, and squashed nose, looked, even to him, as if someone had trodden on it.

  His towering height, with long arms and big hands that seemed to wave about awkwardly and redundantly whenever—and admittedly, these occasions were rare—they found themselves without a knife or ingredient of some kind. His long legs, forever becoming tangled in things, and his large feet, forever stumbling over things. Outside the kitchen, he was clumsy and ill at ease. Only within it were his movements sure, fluid, and graceful.

  But he was amused by the way the write-ups made it sound as if his décor was the result of months of agonising with a team of interior designers.

  "Artfully simple" was the term most often used. But there had been nothing artful about it; simple had been the no-choice option. When he opened, money had been tight. He had not been able to afford carpets, or even particularly nice tiles, so the oak floors that had been there for centuries had been sanded and polished. He had done the sanding himself and now had those scars to add to various cut and burn injuries. The place had been filled with utilitarian wooden chairs and tables, bought secondhand.

  Marco pushed back some of his rumpled dark hair from his forehead and pushed his big, clumsy-looking hands into his violetcircled eye sockets. The effect as he rubbed his closed lids produced, he noticed, a light red similar to that of a new Chianti.

  He looked at his watch. Time to put the oxtail on. In six hours' time, it would be a thick, dark, silky sauce rich with meaty, winey, bone-marrow flavour. After that, he'd peel the peas. No other chef would bother, he knew, but getting the puree completely smooth was a point of pride.

  He remembered how Rodolfo had laughed about his pea puree. "You've got it wrong," the decorator had declared.

  "Have I?" Marco's heart had quickened. While he had never thought of Rodolfo as much of a cook, he had learnt over time that tips come from the most unexpected places.

  Rodolfo grinned. "You're missing something."

  "Yes? Yes?"

  "It's obvious."

  "What is it? What am I missing?" What did Rodolfo know about pea puree that he didn't?

  "A life, amico mio." And with that, Rodolfo had plunged his brush into his pot and cheerfully carried on.

  Rodolfo didn't understand, Marco mused, how much food meant to him, how much pleasure he got from the simplest of things. How the taste of a fresh carrot could bring tears to the eyes. He had said this to Rodolfo who had laughed and said that, personally, onions were the only vegetables that made him cry.

  He looked at his restaurant again and felt a hot wave of love and pride. It was a former wine cellar, whose cave-like mouth stretched across the entire front of the building in a shallow arch. Inside was a long, wide space with a plain wooden floor and a brick barreled ceiling painted white. It was simple and intimate, as well as wonderfully cool on hot days, especially given the elderly but nonetheless vigorous vine that trailed around the doorway. At the top of the building, in the roof, were the tiny pair of low-ceilinged, whitewashed rooms—bathroom and bed-sitting room—in which Marco slept the few hour
s he was not in his restaurant. Or, as now, outside it in the cobbled, table-covered courtyard.

  The building containing his restaurant and his home was one of a row—or rather a curve—of similarly ancient, mellow, and slightly crumbling structures that followed a winding, cobbled street rising from the bottom of the hill, on which the village was built, up to the main square at the top where the church and the shops were. Everyone in Rocolo passed it regularly—had to—as cars were not allowed.

  As a result, there were few locals who didn't partake of a morning cappuccino, daytime espresso, or evening prosecco. At dinner and lunch, moreover, especially on Sundays, the courtyard was heaving with Rocolo families crowded under the big, white parasols shading tables piled with bread, wine, pasta, and whatever big-flavoured delicacy the popular local chef had produced that morning.