by Lucy Diamond
‘What’s the plan when this has all been cleared?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to plant vegetables and stuff here?’
‘We want to create a community garden,’ Jane told her. ‘Nothing mega, just some lawn, maybe a wild flower garden and a vegetable plot … a place for people to hang out, basically. There are lots of flats around here, so not everyone’s got their own garden. This could be their place.’
‘I’d love to hold a big party here in the summer,’ Cal said dreamily. ‘Maybe even a barbecue, invite the whole estate, get everyone together. That’s what it’s all about.’
Catherine gazed around, imagining music and dancing and the smell of sausages on a barbecue. ‘I feel guilty for not doing more with my garden now,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve neglected it lately.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been busy with lots of other things,’ George said, picking up a pair of old Y-fronts with a grimace and stuffing them in his binbag.
‘Yeah,’ Catherine said. ‘The annoying thing is, I’ve got a whole sackful of bulbs in the shed that I didn’t plant last autumn. I kept meaning to, but then with …’ She lowered her voice so the others wouldn’t hear. ‘With Mike going, I just didn’t get round to it. I wouldn’t mind, but I’d bought these lovely tulip bulbs – they’re my favourites and they’d all be starting to come up soon. Oh well. Next year, I suppose.’
Once they’d cleared the site of rubbish, Cal marked out an area for a raised bed against the wall of a disused building. He’d brought along some old railway sleepers which they used to edge it, then they dug over the soil and mixed in bucketfuls of compost. Finally, they dug holes and planted some blackcurrant bushes, a small pear tree and a couple of plum trees.
‘It looks so much better already,’ Catherine said, standing back and marvelling at what the five of them had achieved in one afternoon.
‘It’s going to be great,’ Cal agreed. ‘Are you up for coming along some other time?’
‘Definitely,’ Catherine said. She grinned at George. ‘Looking forward to it.’
Chapter Thirty
La verita – The truth
‘So,’ said Anna, staring intently at her mum. ‘Tell me.’
They were sitting in Tracey’s conservatory in creaky wicker chairs with fat, faded cushions and a coffee each (‘Better make it a strong one,’ Tracey had said, her smile not reaching her eyes). Thirty-two years of stubborn silence was almost over.
Tracey took a deep breath. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So. What’s your nan been saying then?’
And they’re off. ‘She said my dad was – is? – called Gino and he’s Italian,’ Anna replied shakily. She could hardly believe they were having this conversation at last. ‘She said he was nothing but trouble. And then you mentioned you went to Rimini as the last holiday before I was born, and I thought, Aha.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Aunty Marie let me see her pictures of your holiday,’ Anna went on, unable to stop now she had started, ‘and I just put two and two together. Is this him?’ She pulled out the photograph from her handbag, hands clammy. ‘I’ve been told that this is Lungomare Augusto. Is that where you and Dad met?’
It was her Sherlock Holmes moment: evidence revealed, her hand played. Da-dah! In the car driving over here, she’d pictured Tracey’s undisguised surprise at this point, and yes, sheer admiration that Anna had pieced together the puzzle. Elementary, my dear mother.
Yet her mum was looking from Anna to the photo and back again, her expression becoming increasingly bewildered. Then she shook her head.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said. ‘You must have misunderstood. I’ve no idea who that bloke in the photo is, but he’s not your father.’
‘He’s … not?’
‘No. Tell me exactly what your nan said, if you can remember.’
Stunned by this setback, Anna tried her hardest to think. ‘She said I looked like him,’ she remembered. ‘And then she said, The Italian. Your father. Nothing but trouble.’
There was silence for a moment save for the ticking of the oil heater plugged in nearby. Then Tracey sighed. ‘When Mum said “the Italian”,’ she began wearily, ‘she meant the Italian restaurant in Clay Cross where I worked as a waitress. I was eighteen and just out of nursing college. I worked evenings and weekends there that summer while I looked for a proper job.’
Anna stared at her aghast. What? The Italian was a restaurant?
‘Gino’s, it was called,’ Tracey said. ‘It’s closed now. I think it’s a Costa Coffee these days.’
Gino’s. The restaurant was called Gino’s. ‘So my dad was Gino – your boss?’ Anna asked, her mouth dry, her brain struggling to catch up.
Tracey shook her head. ‘There was no Gino,’ she replied. ‘That was just a made-up name to sound authentic. The manager was called Bob Woldesley. Dirty old letch he was, too.’
‘Oh no,’ Anna said, besieged by visions of dirty old Bob Woldesley accosting her poor teenage mother in the stock room. (Even worse, her dad was called Bob Woldesley? He sounded like a wedge of stinking cheese.) ‘So … it was him? And that was why you never wanted to talk about it?’ She felt like crying. What had the bastard done to her mum?
‘God, no, what kind of girl do you take me for?’ Now it was Tracey who looked horrified. ‘I told Bob where to get off. Catch me taking my knickers down for … Anyway. No. Your dad was the chef.’ Her lips tightened. ‘He was really nice. Funny. Handsome.’
Her dad was a chef. A chef! Hope suddenly lit up inside her. ‘And was he Italian?’
‘Tony? No, love. He was a Londoner.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Southern gobshite. I should have known he’d be no good.’
Anna was reeling. A Londoner? This didn’t make sense. She had felt so Italian. She had come to love all things Italian! And yet her new-found knowledge of the culture, the language, the cookery … it had nothing to do with her. Not a drop of Mediterranean blood ran in her veins. ‘So what happened?’ she managed to say.
‘It was only ever a fling,’ Tracey said sadly. ‘All on his terms, more fool me. We went out four or five times, then he said he had to stop seeing me because he was going to get married.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ It might have been thirty-two years ago but Anna could still see the hurt in her eyes.
‘By then, it was too late of course. He moved away and I didn’t realize I was pregnant until a few months down the line when I began to show. It’s hard to believe now, but I was skinny as anything back then – until all of a sudden, I had these whopping great boobs and a belly poking out. Talk about a shock.’
‘Did you let him know? Were you able to track him down?’
‘Not at the time. I was too proud. Besides, I didn’t have a clue where he lived. London’s a big place. I went to the library and tried looking him up in the London phone book but got nowhere.’
Anna’s head was whirling. She’d got it all so wrong. She wasn’t Italian. Her dad wasn’t Gino. There would be no papa-hunt in Rimini. ‘That must have been awful,’ she managed to say.
‘Yeah. Mum went ballistic at me – she’d always told me to keep my legs crossed until I was married, see, and …’ Her mouth twisted in a grimace. ‘Well, it wasn’t the happiest of times.’
Anna reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I can imagine.’
Tracey’s eyes were shining. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t tell you your dad was some gorgeous Italian fella,’ she said. ‘I really wish I could. I should have said something to you before now, but it’s been difficult. I felt such an idiot.’
Anna put her arms around her mum and hugged her tightly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I understand.’
Dear Dad,
This is a strange letter to write, but …
She screwed up the paper and put it in the bin. No. She shouldn’t even say ‘Dear Dad’ – it was too informal too soon. For all she knew, she might even have got the wrong Tony Sandbrookes, although as far as she could tell, there was only one person in Lo
ndon with that name. Maybe if she began with a simple ‘Hello’—
‘How much longer are you planning to do this anyway?’ came an icy voice just then.
Or maybe she shouldn’t be trying to write a letter introducing herself to her never-met father in work time in the first place. ‘What was that?’ She raised her head to see Marla glowering down at her.
‘How much longer,’ Marla repeated bitterly, ‘are you planning to steal my column?’
Ahh.
‘Because I hate being on the news desk,’ she said, eyes blazing, looking very much as if she’d like to stamp her foot. ‘And I think it’s totally unfair that you just waltz in and take over behind my back.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘We both know it was. You and Joe, plotting together. Smarming up to Imogen. And now you’ve got the Valentine’s dinner to review and—’
‘Two more restaurants, that’s all Imogen wants,’ Anna said, trying to placate her. Two more restaurants, and then she was meant to be going to Rome, although even that felt like a slap in the face now that she knew her dad was more Rotherhithe than Rimini. She hadn’t told Joe yet; hadn’t told anyone. Maybe if she kept it in her head, it wouldn’t really be true. ‘Then the column’s all yours again, I’m sure,’ she added wearily. She didn’t care any more.
Marla narrowed her eyes. ‘You know he’s tried it on with me before, don’t you?’ she snarled. ‘Joe. At the Christmas meal. Put his hand up my skirt during the dessert course, asked me if I’d be his little Christmas cracker.’
‘No!’ Anna didn’t believe her. Did she? Marla seemed very certain of her facts.
Sensing she’d hit a nerve, Marla carried on. ‘He does it to everyone. Didn’t you know? He’s one of those blokes who’s just out for what he can get.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘If I were you, I’d nip this sham romance in the bud before he makes his move on you. If it’s not too late, that is.’
She swept away, nose in the air, and Anna watched her go. Stirring, that’s what Marla was doing, she told herself. A transparent attempt to snatch back ‘her’ column. And yet … It couldn’t be true about Joe being a ladies’ man, could it? Sure, he’d always been charming and, yes, okay, a bit flirtatious too – but a hand up Marla’s skirt? Christmas crackers? Doing it to everyone?
Gritting her teeth, she turned back to her computer. She didn’t have time to think about this now that she had two columns to finish and a ton of correspondence to get through, not to mention the letter to her dad that she kept trying and failing to write. With the Valentine’s review coming up, and Rome the following week, as well as the news about her dad – London Tony – to get her head around, she felt as if there were a lot of plates to keep spinning right now.
Thursday was Valentine’s Day. For the first time in years, there was no daft card from Pete to open over breakfast, no smutty limerick to giggle over (he was proud of those; they had become a tradition) and no penis-shaped chocolate to unwrap (a blessing, admittedly). Shovelling muesli into her mouth, she thought of the umpteen romantic breakfasts taking place in bedrooms around the country and felt horribly alone, sat there in her threadbare dressing gown with only John Humphrys and the Today programme for company.
Pete had vanished out of her life astonishingly quickly, leaving no trace once he’d sheepishly picked up his belongings and removed them from her flat. No text messages, no sightings, nothing. Gone, just like that. Over. She thought of him writing a silly limerick for his new girlfriend (There was a hot chick, Katerina …) and was surprised by how much it made her want to cry.
She cycled into work trying to feel don’t-care-ish and free, but the two garages she passed had buckets of cellophane-wrapped bouquets on the forecourt, and all the windows of the shops near the office were a riot of red and pink love-hearts. The rest of the country was carrying on with Valentine’s Day regardless of her.
Still, at least she was going out that evening, even if it was only a pretend date for a restaurant review. Having slaved over her Valentine’s cookery column, Anna would have been quite happy to sack the romantic element and go for fish and chips somewhere, but unfortunately they were booked in for a table for two at The White House, which had the naffest Valentine’s-themed menu in the city. Normally, she would have steered several miles clear, but Imogen, buoyed by the success of Anna’s last two reviews featuring ‘Handsome Colleague’, had decided to crank up the romance a notch and insisted on choosing the venue.
‘Don’t be a snob, I’m sure you’ll have a great time,’ she’d said bossily. ‘And even if you don’t, pretend you did; my husband plays golf with one of the owners.’
The White House, like many other restaurants with an eye on their profits, was running two dinner sittings for Valentine’s night, so Anna had booked them in for the early slot at six-thirty. That way, she figured, Joe could at least go on to meet Julia afterwards like a proper boyfriend.
She had mixed feelings about the evening, she realized, as she put on her make-up and pinned up her hair in the office loos after work. Since her recent contretemps with Marla, Anna hadn’t been able to look at Joe in the same way. Hearing that he’d tried it on with her – and countless others, by the sound of things – had totally spoiled all the vague fuzzy feelings she’d been having about him. She just hadn’t figured him for the sleazy type – no way.
Marla was probably lying to spite her, she reminded herself as she added a last coat of mascara. All the same, she felt about as unromantic as it was possible to feel. She’d just got shot of one crap bloke. She sure as hell wouldn’t let herself get tangled up with another in a hurry.
Joe was already at the restaurant, sniggering over the menu when she arrived. He’d spent the afternoon over at Hillsborough interviewing some of the Wednesday players, but had obviously found time to go home and get changed because he was now wearing full black tie as if he were expecting to dine at a glamorous banquet. She burst out laughing when she saw him.
‘Nice togs,’ she spluttered.
‘Thought I’d dress for the occasion. Anywhere that has a dish called Salmon Caress on the menu has to be classy, right?’
She laughed again. ‘Salmon Caress? You just made that up.’
‘I did not.’ He jabbed at the menu. ‘Some other prat did. Apparently it’s roasted salmon with “an embrace of salsa verde and parmentier potatoes”.’
‘Salmon Caress, indeed.’ Anna snorted. ‘Who in their right mind would want to be caressed by a salmon?’
‘Another salmon might,’ Joe replied, doing a fishface at her. ‘It is Valentine’s Day, Anna.’ He glanced down at the menu again. ‘Still, if that doesn’t tempt you, there’s always the Sole Seduction.’
‘The Sole …? Oh God. You’re not even kidding, are you?’ She glanced around, taking in the surroundings properly for the first time. Pink and silver helium balloons floated up as table decorations. A single red rose stood phallically in a stem glass on each table with a sprinkling of silver confetti around it. They were just missing the violin player and some lovebirds flitting about, and it would have been Full House on the Valentine’s bingo card.
She sat down. Actually, the Valentine overkill was oddly cheering now that she was here; you could imagine the staff laughing uproariously as they put the whole thing together. ‘Well, if there’s not pink champagne on the wine list, there had better be a damn good reason why,’ she declared. She snorted as she started reading the menu herself. ‘I’m going to have to try the Prawn Pleasure Pinnacle just to see if I can order it with a straight face.’
‘Now there’s a challenge,’ Joe said. ‘Just think, when we’re in Rome, eating boring risotto or cannelloni, we’ll be wishing we could enjoy a Hopelessly Devoted Duck one last time.’
‘A devoted what?’ Anna was starting to feel slightly hysterical.
‘Don’t you start.’ He grinned at her. ‘Hey, I can’t believe we’ve managed to wangle Rome, can you? It’s going to be amazing.’
She hesit
ated, the laugh in her throat suddenly disappearing. ‘Yeah.’
‘I was looking at flights; there’s a direct one from Manchester on Saturday morning but it leaves at seven a.m. which is a bit of a mare. So I reckon if we fly out the night before, we can have a couple of nights there, then there won’t be any rushing around at the crack of dawn. When were you thinking of going to Rimini, by the way? Because I started looking at trains and—’
She held up a hand. Stop right there. ‘I’m not going to Rimini any more.’
His forehead crinkled. ‘You’re not? How come? I thought …’
‘He’s not Italian after all. I got it wrong. There is no dad in Rimini.’ To her horror, she felt tears swelling in her eyes and couldn’t bring herself to look at him, fearful that he might laugh. ‘What a pillock, eh?’
‘Oh no.’ He reached across the table and put a hand on hers. ‘Are you sure?’
‘That I’m a pillock, or that my dad’s not Italian? Both. My mum told me.’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘He’s a bloody Londoner. Jellied eels and doing the Lambeth bleeding walk – that’s my real heritage. So all my cooking, learning the language, going to Rome … it’s been for nothing.’
‘It hasn’t,’ he said gently. ‘Because you’ve loved doing it all and seemed so happy lately. From what you’ve told me, your evening class has been brilliant, and the cooking has gone great guns too – and it got you your own column! Who cares where you’re from? London Schmondon. You can still enjoy those things.’
He was being so sweet and kind that now she really was in danger of blubbing. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she said with a watery smile.
‘And we’ll have a brilliant time in Rome too,’ he reminded her. ‘In fact, you might even enjoy it more – the pressure’s off! You won’t have this stressful trip to Rimini hanging over your head.’
‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘I can still do my course even if I’m not Italian.’
‘Damn right you can. They’re not going to be taking DNA samples at the door, are they?’
