by Jules Wake
‘Oh Belissima. Poor you. It’s okay. This isn’t high. Really. Look,’ he pointed downwards.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
‘It’s not like New York. This is the tallest building in this part of Rome. No building is permitted to be taller than St Peter’s Basilica. You can’t be frightened.’
Rooted to the spot, she looked at him.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. Look, we’re here now.’
The lift did that floaty up-and-down thing as it came to a halt, which didn’t reassure her at all. It made her stomach clench, but at least it signified they’d arrived.
‘See. Nothing to be frightened of.’
Sure, nothing, except falling, dying or a heart attack. Over the years every rational argument had been played through her head, but when it came to it, something else took over and she couldn’t fight the irrational fear that flooded her body, leaving her stiff with terror.
Like an old lady, finding her way into her slippers, she shuffled out of the lift, barely able to take in the swish bar in front of them.
‘I think I’ll find the ladies.’
‘Okay.’ Giovanni hailed the maître d’.
Lisa sank onto the loo seat, her legs now feeling like jelly. She was such a noodle but she couldn’t help it, she bloody hated heights. At least on a plane you couldn’t see down unless you chose to look out the window. She had no idea how many floors up they were: twenty, a hundred, she didn’t care. She would be taking the stairs when they left.
She leaned against the cubicle wall, grateful for the cool tiles against her cheek, suddenly exhausted by the rush of adrenaline that had spiked through her system.
The table offered a bird’s-eye view of the city, which she could cope with because it wasn’t looking directly down. Even so she sat with her back to the view, much to Giovanni’s amusement.
‘Poor Lisa. Here, have a glass of Prosecco.’ He lifted the bottle from a glossy, black wine cooler. Nothing in here had been left to chance. Every item had clearly been designer-sourced. The wine cooler, in the centre of the table, no exception.
Lisa shifted in the Perspex Philippe Starck chair, her thighs sticking to the hard surface. She only knew it was because she’d seen this very chair in a Sunday supplement once.
‘Salut,’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘To Rome and family.’
‘To Rome and family,’ she responded, taking a cautious sip of the sparkling wine. Bubbles frothed in her mouth and slipped down her throat. Family. She ought to cut Giovanni some slack. He did understand about family and, left to her own devices, with her map-reading skills she might end up in Sicily. He was on home turf, which was alien to her, any cultural differences were bound to come up. It was natural.
‘Better?’
‘Much better.’ She took a deep breath and rolled her neck, all the tension had gone. ‘Sorry, I’m not very good with heights.’
Giovanni looked despondent. ‘This is one of the best places in Rome to see the view.’
She peeked over her shoulder at the panorama of the city spread out all around.
‘It is wonderful.’ As long as she kept her eyes on the skyline. Domes and church towers predominated, terracotta roofs, crosses and statues. ‘I’m okay if I look at the horizon and don’t look directly down.’
Suddenly Giovanni was all smiles again. He came to stand at her shoulder.
‘Look, there’s St Peter’s,’ he pointed. There it was, the huge dome, topped by a golden ball and an ornate cross. From here you could see the statues atop the balustrades around the roof area. A definite must-visit on her list. You couldn’t come to Rome and not go to the Vatican.
‘What’s that?’ She kept her head up, focusing on the panorama. ‘The green horses and winged creature.’ The brilliant white wedding cake of a building dominated the horizon.
‘That’s the Altare della Patria, something to do with the first king of Italy. Unified the country or something. What do you think of the Prosecco? Good, eh? Now, the food here is very good. Asian fusion.’
She wanted to know more about the building, but clearly Giovanni wasn’t interested in such things. ‘Not Italian food?’ She couldn’t resist teasing him as she took another sip of wine. Lunchtime wine, not a good idea; she could already feel it going to her head.
‘No, the chef here is very famous in Italy for opening the first Japanese restaurant.’
Did she dare admit she’d never tried Sushi? It all looked too fiddly and slimy and revolting. Raw fish? Seriously? Just the thought of it had the potential to make her gag. Urgh. Nope, she was not going there. Ever.
On the positive side, the menu, with its beaten-metal cover, which she realised was a copy of the fancy doors downstairs, featured a variety of Asian flavours, some of which were cooked. On the down side, it was staunchly written in Italian; no tourists here. Lisa had to rely on Giovanni’s translation.
Once done with the menu, Giovanni nodded, with a discreet head jerk towards a couple on the far side of the room.
‘Don’t turn around but that’s the minster for the interior and that’s not his wife.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘She’s a game-show host on AGR. And the man over there in the glasses, he’s a DJ on the radio.’
Lisa smoothed the linen skirt of her dress and tucked her shoes under the table.
‘And at the far side, in that corner, that’s Sophia Jensen. A very famous star – lives here and in Sweden. She once lived with … now was it Henry Mancini or Franco Zeffirelli? I can’t remember.’
Oh God, what was she doing here? The girl who couldn’t be trusted not to spill her soup down her front.
When it arrived, thankfully the spicy prawn dish was a lot less complicated and fancy than she’d feared, although nothing like she’d expected. Two butterfly prawns, sprinkled with what Giovanni had translated as ‘dust’, but looked to her like ground-up spices and accompanied by a sweet-basil foam, the less said about which the better.
She pointed her fork at Giovanni as she ate the last mouthful of prawn, one of six in total. Luckily she’d managed to scrape off the green-cuckoo-spit-looking stuff. ‘You do realise I’ve been in Italy for twenty-four hours now and I haven’t had a proper Italian meal.’ Good as it had been, she didn’t count Will’s amazing pasta dish last night. ‘You owe me pizza.’
‘Sh,’ Giovanni held his finger up to his lips, ‘Don’t say the pizza word in here.’ He winked at her.
Disappointingly, even the dessert menu stuck to the Asian theme. Dessert should contain chocolate or ice cream. You’d have thought in Italy it was statutory. Mango and sticky rice were not pudding foods. She kept glancing at her watch, the day was slipping away and this seat seemed to be getting harder by the minute. Her backside bones ached.
Her goosebumps retreated in graceful defeat, when they finally stepped back out in the Italian sunshine, the skin on her legs returning to their normal colour instead of mottled blue. Her shoulders relaxed and she immediately felt brighter.
She pulled out her map.
‘Show me where we are?’
‘Is it going to help?’ He asked, smoothing out the creases and opening it up.
‘Probably not.’ She gave him an impish smile.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go shopping?’ asked Giovanni, a hopeful look on his face. ‘If we go this way,’ he pointed to the opposite direction from which they’d originally come, ‘there are some wonderful shops.’
‘No,’ she linked her arm through his. ‘We can go shopping anywhere.’
‘But Italian fashion … Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Armani.’ He opened his arms in expansive enthusiasm.
‘Aren’t in my price range,’ she said with a cheerful grin, putting her arms on his forearms and shuffling him around in the opposite direction. ‘Come on, you. Let’s wander. According to the map there’s loads to see on the way … I think.’
Giovanni sighed, his good-natured face reminding her of a mournful spaniel.
‘Okay, Bellissima. I will show you something truly beyond compare in Rome.’ He clapped his hands together, suddenly full of enthusiasm again. The chivalrous knight escorting his lady. ‘The Pantheon. That is one of the prima sights in Rome.’
They spent the rest of the afternoon meandering through quieter shady streets, stumbling across church after church, often tucked between buildings like determined cuckoos surviving ongoing development.
When they rounded a corner, coming face to face with the huge columns of the Pantheon, Lisa couldn’t help letting out a gasp and putting her hand to her stomach, where a little squiggle of surprise jumped about inside her belly.
This had been here for hundreds of years. It seemed too enormous to take in.
They crossed through huge bronze doors inside, where its hushed and rather gloomy atmosphere amazed and intrigued her. The windowless building felt slightly oppressive, although very cool on the hot summer day.
She stared up at the vast dome above, craning her neck as she turned in a full circle, trying to absorb the full majesty of the building.
‘I guess it doesn’t rain very often,’ she said to Giovanni, pointing up to the perfect circular hole in the roof of the domed structure.
‘Look at the floor.’
Lisa looked down and saw several drains in the marble floor.
They wandered around the edge of the Pantheon, stopping to read the different information boards.
‘I’ll go and wait outside for you,’ said Giovanni when Lisa stopped again to read the words beneath a painting and stepped back to admire the picture in greater depth.
‘Okay,’ said Lisa and patted his arm. ‘You’ve done well. You can take a culture break.’
When she joined him outside she glanced at her watch. ‘Have you seen the time?’ Lisa couldn’t believe it was nearly five-thirty.
‘It’s early by Italian standards. We don’t go out to eat until late. Shall we stop for a drink on the way home? There’s a nice bar near San Giovanni in Laterno.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Lisa’s head swam with history. Should she know what San Giovanni was? Around every corner there was always something to see, another statue, a fountain or a church.
‘San Giovanni in Laterno is the Roman Cathedral, the official church of the Pope, not St Peter’s, as everyone thinks.’
‘I feel woefully ignorant, you know. There’s so much history here and I haven’t a clue about any of it.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He picked up his pace. ‘Come on, I’m ready for a Peroni.’
‘Now, that does sound lovely. I feel positively hot and sticky.’ Part of her wondered if she lived in a city like Rome, whether she would know more about its history and the places they’d visited. She guessed it was like anything; you took your own history for granted, but she wished they could have done more today. Maybe in future, she’d be a bit more assertive. While she didn’t want to upset him, she wanted to make the most of being here.
As she came back from the toilets in the cool marble-clad interior of the bar, and outside onto the pavement terrace, she found Giovanni sitting at a table on the phone, again, this time having a conversation with someone. He was worse than a teenager. When she sat down he didn’t look up. Happy to sit and watch the world go by, she stared out across the road alongside them and took a long grateful slug of the ice-cold beer before holding the glass dripping with condensation against her cheek. She felt pink inside and out. Hotter than she’d ever been in her life.
Giovanni’s face had darkened, his frown now a full-scale scowl. His voice rose as he rained urgent questions down the line to whoever was on the other end. His hand jigged up and down on his crossed knee, which was also bouncing up and down.
Lisa deliberately looked away. Even though she couldn’t understand a word he said, she felt that she was intruding on something very private.
Finally, he put down his phone on the table, his hand resting on top of it, his shoulders sagging in mournful defeat as he stared sightlessly away to Lisa’s left.
She paused a minute, giving him time to get the sheen of tears under control and placed a gentle hand on top of his. He looked up, as if just noticing her.
Her mouth lifted in a soft sympathetic smile. It was pointless asking if everything was okay because clearly something was wrong.
Giovanni looked up at the sky, his throat convulsing, as if he was trying to round up the words.
‘Nonna. Mia nonna … That was my mother, she says Nonna is ill.’
Lisa’s heart missed a beat and she squeezed his hand as she breathed a heartfelt, ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘My parents want me to go. Back to Montefiascone. I …’ he looked around. ‘This evening. Nonna’s in the hospital. They think she’s had a stroke.’ His face crumpled. ‘She’s seventy-nine.’
Cold washed over her. Six years younger than Nan. What would she do if Nan had a stroke? She’d always seemed indomitable, but the consultant had been quite clear. She’d better be taking her tablets while Lisa was away. It was tempting to text her a reminder, except it would probably make her dig her heels in even more.
Digging into her bag to find her purse, her fingers brushed one of the leaflets she’d been given by the doctor. She wasn’t sure that he’d find it helpful. Instead she pulled out some money and thrust a ten-euro note at a passing waiter, praying it was enough, and scooped a hand under Giovanni’s elbow.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here and get you on the road … are you sure you’ll be alright to drive? Can you get a train or something?’
‘My father is sending a car. It’s on the way.’
Lisa nodded. Of course, it was.
Oh, shit, he hadn’t phoned his friend about the information on her father. She looked at his bleak face. Now was not the time to ask him.
Chapter 11
Day one couldn’t have been better. Will swung his leg off the scooter and stretched, looking at the long stone-built farmhouse shaded by leafy laurels running along the ridge of the hill. Fun as the Vespa was, it was made for the city streets, not careering along long roads out to a hillside hamlet. The little red scooter had whined in protest as it valiantly climbed the steep incline to the hilltop not far outside Rome. But they were here, safe and sound. A small miracle. Gisella gave as good as she got on the road. It was true what they said about Italian drivers.
Gisella had been an excellent guide, happy to humour him as he’d examined bar after bar and restaurant after restaurant this morning. They were almost awash with coffee, as he’d needed to check out the menus in a variety of different places. Good job they only drank the small ferocious doses of espresso. He knew better than to ask for a cappuccino after ten o’clock in the morning. Italian coffee culture had its own rituals, which you flouted at your peril.
Gisella pulled off her helmet, letting her hair spill out with studied nonchalance and paused for a fraction of a second, which told him it was no idle pose. Glorious – and she knew it. Tempting as she was, business came first. Today at any rate.
‘I do hope Signor Fancini is expecting you,’ she said with a slight pout.
He smiled. ‘If not, I shall have to take you out to dinner instead,’ he smiled at her. The pout was replaced with an expansive feline smile.
‘We eat late in Italy, there’s plenty of time.’
The sign with an arrow that read ‘ricezione’ seemed close enough to English to gamble that this was the correct way to reception.
‘You’re so excited.’ Gisella shook her head. ‘About coffee. About pasta. About cheese. Are you sure you’re a proper Englishman?’
‘Was last time I looked.’
‘Since you tried the cheese in the Salumeria in Travastere this morning you’ve been jumping up and down all day, do you realise?’
Will gave her a sheepish smile. He couldn’t deny it. That taste of the Fancini pecorino this morning had stayed with him all day, in a good way. Sharp and salty, he knew exactly how he’d incorporate it into the me
nus at the new trattoria. It would make a fabulous addition to a simple rocket and radish salad with a lemon dressing or in a courgette and squash salad, the vegetables thinly sliced with a mandolin.
There was also a great story behind the cheese, which always went down well with customers. Signor Fancini had turned a failing family business into a thriving concern, with growing demand for their boutique cheeses.
Will hadn’t met him yet, but could relate to turning the family fortunes around.
‘This must be him, now.’ A tall man, with a thick, dark moustache so cartoonish it didn’t look real, came striding towards them.
‘Signor William. Welcome. Welcome.’
‘Signor Fancini.’
‘Please call me Mario.’
Will held onto bubbling laughter by sheer willpower and deliberately avoided looking at the luxuriant moustache. A red hat and a pair of dungarees were all that was required to complete the Super Mario look.
‘And please call me Will. Only my mother ever calls me William.’ He emphasised the name with a strident falsetto, which made Mario grin and shake his hand that bit harder.
‘It’s the same with Mama.’ He inclined his head towards the main farmhouse. ‘When I hear Mario Guiseppe Fancini, I know it’s trouble.’
He and Will exchanged a long-suffering, sympathetic nod at which point Gisella insinuated herself between the two men.
‘And I’m Gisella, chauffeur and guide.’ Her wide, winsome smile encompassed the two of them and for a minute Will had visions of her linking arms with both men like Dorothy with the Tin Man and the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.
Mario inclined his head and his moustache twitched, as if hiding a smile under there.
‘Welcome. Let me show you around.’
Will had fixed up the meeting weeks ago, having done his research through the Italian Trade Delegation in London and had planned his itinerary accordingly. Realistically he couldn’t deal directly with more than a couple of suppliers, but he wanted to find signature products that he could talk about at length on the menu and sell within the delicatessen area of the restaurant. Part of this trip was to hunt those products down as well as to seek inspiration for authentic recipes.
