From Rome with Love

by Jules Wake

  ‘How come you’re saying that … when, your dad is like that?’

  ‘Because it rubs at part of me inside, always wondering what it is that I can’t get right.’ Will’s sad admission made her heart ache. Super-confident, sometimes arrogant and always cocky Will? It was a side to him she could never have imagined. Her fingers curled around her legs as he added, his voice so quiet that she had to strain to hear it in the noisy coffee shop, ‘I’d like nothing better than to have a relationship with him – and I keep trying. And you have to try too.’

  ‘I guess I’m scared of being rejected to my face.’

  ‘But he left your mum, not you.’

  ‘Yes, but he could have come back for me. Especially after Mum had died.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘That’s the bit that hurts.’

  ‘Maybe …’ Will pulled a face, ‘he thought you’d be better off with your nan.’

  With a reluctant smile, she batted his arm. ‘She looked after me well. I know she can be outspoken and difficult, but she loves me.’

  ‘Hmm, I’ll take your word for that.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Right, well, we’d better get back to the Colosseum. We have to get that photo back.’ Will’s man-of-action tone brought a grin to her face and a slight flutter in her chest.

  ‘Hold your fire, hot pants. Don’t go calling the Batmobile just yet. I didn’t write the address down but I’ve looked at it enough times. I’d know the name of the street if I saw it, something like Via del My tomato, except it’s tonata.’

  Will sat down again with a thump. ‘Well, that narrows it down a bit. He pulled out his phone.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I did try and look it up on a map, but couldn’t find it … but then mine only covers the city centre.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you remember the postcode?’ Will tapped at his phone screen.

  Lisa felt slightly sick. ‘I think it might have begun with a 001.’

  Will’s cheek dimpled and his mouth dropped in a downward curve with a rueful smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All Rome postcodes start with 001.’

  ‘And you would know that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Because Gisella explained it to me.’

  Of course she had.

  ‘When we were driving around the city yesterday.’

  No doubt she’d whispered it in his ear while they were whizzing around on her Vespa.

  ‘At least you know it is in Rome.’

  ‘Yes, Sherlock,’ she said, her words loaded with sarcasm, grateful for the pertinent reminder of who she was dealing with. ‘I did get that much. He came from Rome. He was Roman.’

  He looked up from the phone. ‘Okay, how about this Via del Mattonato?’ He showed her the screen.

  ‘That’s it! Exactly it.’

  ‘We could just go.’ He turned the phone around and held it up with a triumphant flourish.

  There it was on the maps app, a little red pin throbbing with portent.

  In one fell swoop, Will had swept aside all the procrastination and excuses she’d been surviving on since she’d arrived.

  With her index finger, she traced one of the darker veins striping the marble table.

  When she finally looked up at him, the silence being too much to ignore, he met her gaze, the blue eyes direct and clear, steadily looking at her and holding the connection between them full on, as if he could see right inside her.

  Bugger, now there was nowhere to hide.

  He continued to stare at her, using that brilliant interrogator’s technique of not saying anything. He made it sound reasonable and sensible. Didn’t he realise it was such a long shot after all these years?

  ‘Seems a bit dumb now. I mean it’s years ago. He might not be there any more.’

  Forcing herself to look away, she glanced over his shoulder to watch one of the female baristas manhandling a sack of coffee beans behind the service desk. Quickly and efficiently, the girl in her apron poured coffee beans into a large glass jar, the beans cascading in with a rush and a rattle. No matter how hard Lisa concentrated on the scene, her peripheral vision couldn’t ignore Will’s unblinking gaze, intent and utterly serious.

  He ought to work for the CIA or something; he was like some bloody truth serum.

  Only when she finally turned back to him, exasperated and about to crack, did he speak.

  ‘And he might be.’

  ‘Okay, he might be.’

  ‘People in Italy are more traditional. I suspect property tends to stay in the family.’

  He looked around at the building, as if to make his point. On the bricked arches and walls were lots of black-and-white photos, testament to the generations that had run the bar.

  ‘It might be a waste of time. He might not be there,’ she insisted again.

  Once again, Will, the bastard, didn’t say a word. He looked at her.

  She blinked. ‘Stop that.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘That mind-melding thing you have going on.’

  He held up his hands. ‘No tricks.’

  ‘Well, stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘I’m not looking at you in any particular way.’ He looked amused now.

  She glared at him.

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Can’t do what?’

  Her fingers clenched in her lap.

  ‘I can’t bowl up to his front door and just ring the doorbell.’

  Will looked at her. ‘Yes, you can.’

  He made it sound so bloody simple. She shook her head, her hand shaking slightly. ‘No, I can’t.’ And then felt slightly ashamed. Will took his father’s rejection on the chin regularly and kept trying.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  The quiet, softly spoken words almost undid her. It felt as if the floor had fallen through, her stomach dropping along with it.

  He looked completely serious, his face expressionless.

  The minute he offered, all the clouds of doubt parted.

  ‘Are you sure?’ She peered at him

  ‘I said I would.’ The matter-of-fact words reminded her that Will was nothing if not totally practical.

  He lifted his empty coffee cup and toasted her, his mouth twisting in his usual amused smile. ‘With your map-reading skills, you’d probably end up in Lazio.’

  Chapter 14

  As they walked along, after leaving the café, Lisa realised that ever since she’d arrived in Rome, indecision had dogged her like a little black shadow, making her feel a slight sense of shame at her lack of spirit. Even her feet felt lighter on the pavement. They’d decided to go to the address later in the day, when people were more likely to be home after work.

  ‘Which way?’ Lisa peered down at the map as they stopped on a street corner. They’d agreed that it was far too late to attempt to visit the Vatican City and were headed towards the Spanish Steps.

  ‘I think it’s that way.’ Will pointed up the street.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Lisa looked back at the map, her brain not able to compute how they could possibly be turning right when the map showed they should be heading left.

  ‘Am I sure?’ She could see the amusement, crinkling in the fine lines around his mouth. ‘Here,’ he turned the map upside down and suddenly it made complete sense.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He didn’t say a word but she saw his mouth clamp shut. ‘Okay, I’m not good with maps.’

  ‘I didn’t say a word,’ he protested.

  ‘Hmm, you thought it. I’ll have you know it’s to do with evolution and male/female hunter-gatherer roles. It’s why you can’t find things, even when you look for them.’

  ‘Really?’ With a sceptical, knowing look he guided her down the street in the right direction. ‘I’ve never had a problem.’

  ‘Well, you’re the exception, then.’

  ‘Sounds like one of those pop psychology things based on a survey of a handful of people. It’s a bit like saying all women love shoppi
ng.’

  ‘The women you go out with probably do,’ said Lisa, without thinking.

  ‘As long as they don’t drag me along, I don’t mind,’ said Will equably.

  Very true. She couldn’t imagine Will ever doing anything he didn’t want to do.

  ‘You like them to do all the running. Dance to your tune.’

  ‘Why are you having a pop at me?’

  Lisa looked up, surprised by the irritation in his voice.

  ‘I work unsociable hours, so they have to fit around me. I always make it clear from the outset. I run a pub. Saturdays and Sundays are my busiest days.’

  They walked along the narrow cobbled street, shaded by the high walls of buildings on either side.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to put them off,’ said Lisa, some imp pushing her on. ‘I don’t know how you keep track of them all. Do you have to write their names down?’

  She almost thought Will looked angry, but he said, with his usual charming smile and a self-deprecating lift of his shoulders, ‘No, I call everyone Babe.’

  Shame washed over her. He didn’t deserve her carping. He’d shown another side to himself today that made her think that he hid a lot away. Even though she’d seen his parents at first hand, she hadn’t appreciated just how self-centred they were or how little care they’d put into looking after their children.

  Even as he winked at her, she thought she could see through him. This was Will overcompensating and not taking things seriously, which was fine until he lowered his voice, adding, with a sultry edge, that caused that annoying flutter in her chest again. ‘No one’s complained yet.’

  ‘Oh my, look at that.’ Lisa pointed to a car wedged in between two other cars, bumper to bumper. ‘It’s true what they say, the parking here is mad.’ Her palms had suddenly become very clammy. It had to be the heat.

  As Will made desultory comments about the haphazard parking, Lisa lapsed into silence, wondering how often he played to the crowd and avoided letting anyone see his real feelings.

  The street market burst upon them, as lively as a circus as they rounded the next corner and almost as if inflamed by the carnival atmosphere, Will grabbed her hand and, like a tug boat, pulled her along in a determined trajectory to a gaily decorated stall that looked more like a fairground attraction.

  The hand-grabbing unnerved her at first. Holding hands was, well, it wasn’t them, whatever it was, but if she yanked her hand away, it would make a thing of it and it was rather nice in a feeling-looked-after sort of way. She left it there as Will homed in on one particular stall.

  Pasta in every guise festooned the tented stall, cellophane bags in rustling rows bulging in baskets on the front, egg-yellow spaghetti bundled in loose loops and long trails of tagliatelle hanging in strips over wooden ladders, as well as candy-striped shapes in black, pink, orange and green.

  To her relief, Will let go of her hand to pick up a bag of what looked like faded black liquorice laces.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ asked Lisa, fascinated but repelled at the same time. Pasta was cream-coloured, golden-yellow at a push, but not this greyish black colour. ‘Surely not pasta?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s made with squid ink to give it flavour and colour.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sounded revolting to her. ‘And what about those?’ She pointed to some festive-looking bags of Neapolitan-striped bow-tie shapes.

  ‘They make the green by adding spinach water or sometimes broccoli. The orange is from tomato paste and the pink, beetroot juice.’

  ‘They’d be fabulous …’ she deliberately paused, almost laughing out loud at Will’s expectant face, ‘for the nursery. The children could stick them on collages, like little butterflies. I wonder how well they’d stick with PVC glue.’

  She giggled as he swatted at her, saying, ‘They’d be fabulous served with a light creamy sauce, you philistine.’

  ‘Mm, I’m not sure.’ She wrinkled her nose.

  Despite the language barrier, Will managed to start an enthusiastic conversation with the stall owner. The two of them, one dark head and one light bobbing up and down, talking in pidgin English, pointing and gesticulating around the stall.

  By the time Will had purchased a bag of the black squid-ink spaghetti and a normal tagliatelle, as well as having had another two bags of pasta pressed upon him free of charge, he and the stall owner seemed to be best friends.

  ‘Well, that was a result.’ Will flashed a business card before tucking it into his wallet. ‘Signor Gordano has given me the details of his pasta supplier.’

  Lisa hoped the black squid-ink pasta wouldn’t top his shopping list and that he wouldn’t be cooking it for dinner.

  They wandered on through stalls, where the fruit and vegetables looked glossy and bursting with goodness, everything that bit plumper and bigger than she’d seen at home. Dried chillies, like witches’ gnarled fingers, were strung up in bunches, and huge bowls of herb-covered chubby olives and bottles of olive oil in varying shades of green were displayed, alongside samples in little white dishes with rustic bread.

  He stopped at the oil stall and picked up a bottle, examining the label and holding it up to the light. The owner nodded approvingly and indicated the samples. Will needed no second invitation – like a terrier down a rat hole he was straight in there.

  ‘Go on, try some.’ He turned to Lisa. ‘Here, this one first. It’s fruity and rich.’

  Lisa wrinkled her nose. ‘What, on its own? No thank you.’

  ‘With the bread.’ He pointed to the basket of bread chunks and then indicated a dark-green oil that had a distinct seaweedy hue.

  She watched as he dipped the bread into the bowl, pretty sure that anything that shade of green was bound to taste fairly disgusting. ‘Mmm.’ Will inhaled deeply and sniffed. ‘That’s good. Lovely grassy flavour.’

  Seriously?

  ‘Go on, try some.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘It’s a first-pressing olive oil from Lucca.’ Will’s face was alight with enthusiasm, watching her as if her opinion mattered. It could be a first-pressing chip-fat oil from Aberdeen for all she knew.

  The tourist couple next to Will, who’d been avidly watching, each grabbed a chunk of bread and started dipping and tastings oils.

  ‘That is good,’ said the woman to her husband, both of them sporting matching baseball caps with maple leaves decorating the brims, as she nodded her appreciation towards Will.

  He was like the Pied Piper. ‘Now try that one.’ He pointed to a paler one and dipped in his bread, the other couple following suit.

  ‘Come on, Lisa.’

  Did she have to? Tentatively, she dipped her bread in the palest oil.

  Luckily Will had turned his attention back to Mr and Mrs Baseball Cap from Toronto, who might have been talking basic English but it was a language she didn’t know.

  The words ‘grassy, fruity, floral, eucalyptus, buttery and green’, were all murmured with reverent tones. It was oil, for God’s sake. It tasted oily.

  Will turned his attention back to her as the other couple moved on to another stall. What? Was she supposed to shout ‘eureka’ and jump up and down?

  ‘It’s a bit … er …’ She moved her mouth a lot, more to get rid of the slightly claggy feeling. ‘You know.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, his voice suddenly husky and his attention dropping to her lips.

  A sudden flush raced up her body.

  For flip’s sake, it was oil and would he quit staring at her lips like that. She licked them and immediately realised it was the wrong thing to do. ‘It’s got a slight … slight,’ Oh Lord, she felt too hot. ‘Washing-up-liquidy flavour.’

  ‘Washing-up-liquidy … that’s not even a—’

  ‘Yes, definite tones of washing-up liquid,’ she said, with a wicked smile, as she warmed to her theme, delighted with the expression on Will’s face, ‘combined with a waxy finish and hints of river water’.

  ‘Do you really have Italian blood in your veins, Vettese?
’ Will shook his head in mock despair.

  ‘It’s oil, Will. It tastes like oil. Sorry but …’ she shrugged her shoulders, grinning up at him.

  ‘Hmph – at least you’re honest about it. Come on.’ He took her hand again. Why did he keep doing that? And turned his attention to a row of balsamic vinegars.

  ‘Fig, almond, aged.’ He murmured, as he perused the line. ‘You might like these a bit more.’

  ‘Will, I think you’re going to have to accept I’m a complete food philistine.’

  ‘Never.’

  As far as Lisa was concerned good old malt vinegar was just fine, preferably on fish and chips, and was about to say so when she caught the expression on Will’s face. His lips curved in an unconscious smile, anticipation shining from his eyes. He looked down the row, his hand reaching out towards one bottle and then another, as if he couldn’t decide which to try first, and she could feel the suppressed energy held in restraint by the ever-so-slight bounce of his movement, as if he had to force the heels of his feet to stay in touch with the floor.

  From somewhere, a flood of affection bloomed in her chest as his passion for food positively glowed. The lines of his body seemed sharper, as if he’d abandoned his usual laid-back, surfer-dude attitude and the cynicism, in the twist of his lips she’d so often spotted, had gone. This was a Will he kept hidden, a side that few other people ever got to see. Even with Jason, though they were business partners, they had that jokey-bloke piss-taking relationship. Who did Will reveal this side of himself to?

  She watched as he dipped a piece of bread into a molasses-dark dish of balsamic. He moaned, his eyes closed in bliss. ‘Wow, that is amazing.’

  With a beatific smile, he grinned at her, ‘Try.’

  ‘Is it more amazing than washing-up liquid?’

  ‘Just try it, woman.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Have you ever seen a fig?’

  They looked nasty, reminiscent of shrivelled dead organs of small animals, like ferret hearts or dog kidneys.

  Snagging a second piece of bread, he dipped it and held it towards her. Damn, but he was impossible to resist. Her breath caught in her throat when his fingers grazed her lips as he pushed the bread towards her mouth, the brief touch sparking a sudden tingle that almost had her jumping out of her skin. Narrowly avoiding choking, she concentrated hard on the bread, manfully chewing the rustic crust and avoiding Will’s intent assessment.