One Night in Italy

by Lucy Diamond

  She took a deep breath and started typing, tentatively at first, but then with more conviction, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her coffee cooled beside her as the words poured out faster and faster. Then she read the whole review through, her heart thumping. There it was in black and white: the most honest thing she’d ever written. Could she seriously send this to be published?

  The front door buzzer went just then. ‘It’s the postman,’ she heard when she answered the intercom. ‘I’ve got a letter here, needs signing for.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and pressed ‘Send’ on the email before she could change her mind. Let’s see what Imogen makes of that, she thought, hurrying down to open the door.

  She signed for her letter and had a little chat with the postman, then came back upstairs and made herself a strong coffee. Her phone pinged with an email from Imogen. PERFECT, was all it said.

  Anna gulped. Too late to change her mind now. She ripped open the envelope distractedly, hoping she hadn’t just made an enormous mistake. Then she started reading the letter and everything else was forgotten.

  Dear Anna,

  Thank you for your letter. It came as quite a shock to me, but I do remember Tracey, and working at Gino’s so you’ve definitely got the right man. I’m just sorry I haven’t been part of your life for the last thirty-two years. My wife and I – Dina, she’s called – were not able to have children, and this has been a great sadness to us. Please believe me when I say I am delighted to know I am a father after all. I would love to meet you if that is possible?

  You asked about my life after I left Yorkshire. I married Dina and we rented a little flat off the Clerkenwell Road in London. We have been very happy there, working at what used to be my grandparents’ restaurant, called Pappa’s. I am the head chef and Dina still works at front of house. Pappa’s is in an area called ‘Little Italy’ (my mother is Italian) and the customers and staff have become like our family over the years.

  Thank you for sending the clippings of your work. I am so pleased that my daughter is a food writer! I tried your zabaglione recipe and even my mother – your ‘nonna’! – said it was the best she had ever tasted. I would love to cook for you one day. Please come and visit us. Everyone is so excited to hear about the new addition to the family.

  I am enclosing a photo of Dina and I, and another of my parents. We all hope we can meet you very soon.

  With much love,

  Your father, Antonio

  Tears brimmed in Anna’s eyes as she reached the end of the letter. Happy tears. Tears of delight and wonder. She read the whole thing through again, and then a third time. Wait until she told Joe about this!

  Eight hours later, she and Joe were sitting in a trattoria in Piazza di Spagna, at the base of the Spanish Steps. In Rome!

  The sky was a velvety black above them but the square still bustled with tourists climbing the famous Scalinata (the widest staircase in Europe, according to Joe’s guidebook), admiring the beautifully lit bell towers of the church at the top, and taking photographs of each other around the fountain below. Inside her, a deep pride stirred. This was her country; hadn’t she known all along?

  She had hugged the secret to herself for the rest of the day, not wanting to tell Joe her news in such boring surroundings as the airport or the bus into the city centre. A brilliant story like hers deserved the best kind of setting for its telling. She waited until they were sitting in the restaurant with a glass of prosecco each, then told him everything.

  Joe’s mouth fell open. ‘So he is Italian after all,’ he laughed. ‘Wow, Anna. You were right the whole time!’

  ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ Anna admitted. ‘His family are Italian, he’s a chef at their Italian restaurant … I mean, how perfect can you get?’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Joe said. ‘Totally cool. And your mum had no idea?’

  ‘As far as she was concerned, his name was Tony Sandbrookes – his dad’s English, you see. Except really he was – is – Antonio, with an Italian mum and grandparents. Which, in my book, is even better than having a dad actually living in Italy, who I probably wouldn’t get to see all that often, and who might not even understand English.’ She hugged herself, beaming. ‘Now I can hop on a train to London whenever I want to see him. Just like that!’

  ‘Well, cheers to you,’ Joe said, refilling their glasses. ‘What great news, Anna. Here’s to family, and new beginnings – and being in Italy, land of your father.’ They clinked their glasses and he grinned. ‘I’m still in shock that we’re actually here at all, you know.’

  ‘Me too. I kept expecting Imogen to pop up at the airport and haul us back to the office.’ Anna breathed in the scents of tomato, oregano and wine, enjoying the sound of Italian voices all around her. ‘This is all down to you. Thank you to the power of a billion for having the nous to even suggest this to her.’

  ‘Well, thanks to you for writing such fantastic restaurant reviews that she actually went along with it,’ he replied.

  ‘What a team,’ she said, savouring the creamy bubbles of the prosecco as it fizzed on her tongue.

  ‘Go us,’ he agreed and they smiled at each other. He really was extremely handsome, she thought to herself. What a stroke of luck, her getting the restaurant gig in the first place, and him coming along like that. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that they’d end up here together.

  ‘Talking of London,’ he said just then, looking rather awkward, and she jerked out of her reverie. London? ‘I was going to tell you – I’m going down there myself in a couple of weeks. I’ve got an interview for a job.’

  She spluttered on her drink in shock. ‘What, you? In London?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re looking for a new sports writer at the Guardian. I just chucked them a CV, not really holding out much hope, but they’ve asked me to come in.’

  She felt as if she’d had a bucket of cold water tipped over her. ‘Wow. So … you’d move down there?’

  ‘Well, yeah, if I get it. I reckon it would be a bit of a bastard commute from Sheffield.’

  Her good mood had evaporated just like that, replaced by an ache of loss. The office would be rubbish without him. Her life would be rubbish without him, she realized. ‘I’d really miss you,’ she blurted out.

  He pulled a face. ‘I haven’t gone yet! I might not even get the job. It just seemed like a good opportunity. The next step up.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, trying to sound jovial. ‘Well, best of luck.’ She managed a faint smile but couldn’t help feeling gutted at the thought of him going. Then she remembered her last restaurant review, due to be published tomorrow, and cringed. Oh no. Why on earth had she decided to make it so personal, so candid? It crossed her mind to dash to the loo and make an urgent call to Imogen, begging her to pull the piece, offering her anything: money, the rest of her writing career, her soul … but it was already too late. The newspaper would be printing right now.

  ‘You’ll have to pop in and see my dad while you’re down there. Check out Pappa’s,’ she said brightly as the waiter put some bruschetta and black olives between them. ‘Grazie.’

  ‘Definitely,’ he said, popping an olive into his mouth. ‘How about you anyway, what are your career plans? Surely we’re due a cookery book soon, or your own TV series. You could be the next Nigella, licking wooden spoons in your kitchen and giving smouldering looks to camera.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied, rolling her eyes.

  ‘The brilliant thing about writing is you can do it anywhere,’ he reminded her. ‘You’ve got solid reporting experience as well as the cookery and restaurant reviewing. And you’re good. You’re really good, Anna. What’s to stop you writing for magazines now, or a bigger newspaper? What’s to stop you taking the leap too?’

  She realized she’d eaten an entire piece of bruschetta without even tasting it, breaking the first rule of food writing in three bites. She couldn’t look him in the eye. He might not think she was all th
at good a journalist any more when he read her Maxwell’s review the next day, let’s face it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said warily. ‘Inertia, I guess. Fear of the unknown.’ She swallowed. ‘Joe, there’s something I should tell you. About tomorrow’s paper.’

  ‘Hmm?’ A large group of Welsh rugby fans chose that moment to walk past the restaurant window, draped in red-dragon flags, with two of them wearing huge daffodil heads around their faces. Joe was distracted watching them, then turned back to her. ‘What were you saying?’

  She drained her prosecco in a single glug. Sod it. He’d find out for himself soon enough. She wouldn’t ruin the evening. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Shall we order another bottle?’

  The newspaper had paid for them to stay in a basic hotel near the Spanish Steps – two rooms, obviously – and Anna felt incredibly drunk as they trailed back there after dinner. She hadn’t managed to bring up the subject of her review again, but in her mind it had overshadowed the rest of the evening. What had she done? For all their talk of inertia and finding it difficult to leave their current jobs, the idea of handing in her notice on Monday morning and never coming back was becoming more appealing by the minute. The first Handsome Colleague review had been bad enough. How would she ever live this one down?

  ‘Well,’ he said, when they got back to the hotel and up to their floor. ‘I know you’ve got an early start in the morning …’

  ‘Yeah, I’d better call it a night,’ she said quickly before he did.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Can’t tempt you with a nightcap?’

  Tempt her? If only he knew. But she was already sloshed and if she had any more to drink, she would probably make a gigantic fool of herself. ‘Better not,’ she said, slotting her key-card into the lock of her door and jiggling it until a green light appeared. ‘Night then,’ she said. ‘Hope it goes well tomorrow.’ Hope you don’t get an avalanche of texts from your mates taking the piss out of you because of me. She sighed. Oh bollocks. She couldn’t just say nothing. ‘Listen, Joe. I’d better warn you,’ she blurted out. ‘The review tomorrow … I’m sorry, all right? I hope it doesn’t piss you off.’

  His eyes were liquid black in the dim light of the corridor; it was hard to read his expression. ‘Why, what have you said?’

  She looked away. ‘You’ll see. But I’m sorry, okay? I hope that … we’re still cool.’

  ‘God. What on earth have you …? Wait, Anna, you can’t just—’

  She pushed her bedroom door open and scuttled inside, letting it shut behind her. Then she stood there in the darkness, heart pounding, wishing she hadn’t been so impulsive earlier. Perfect!, Imogen had said – and it had seemed perfect at the time. Only now …

  Joe was knocking at the door. ‘Anna! Let me in.’

  It was excruciating. What should she do? She shut her eyes and willed him to go away. What a mess she’d made of everything! ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said eventually. Please go now. Just go.

  There was a pause. ‘Okay,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Listen, don’t worry about it. I’m sure whatever you’ve said is fine.’

  Wanna bet? she thought miserably. She sat down on the saggy single bed that gave a little sigh of escaping air. Oh well. At least she’d warned him. What was done was done. And tomorrow was another day …

  Restaurant Round-Up: Maxwell’s Steak House

  By Anna Morley

  On paper, Maxwell’s looks like a smart new addition to the Leopold Square set; a sleek, elegant restaurant that punches above its weight with a range of prime dry-aged steaks and seafood, a decent wine list and cocktail menu, and classy, upmarket décor. Handsome Colleague and I scrubbed up accordingly, reckoning we might just be in for a treat.

  But here’s where I need to make a confession. This is my last review for the Herald and I wanted to go out with a bang. And so, as we sat nibbling our starters (mine: a delicious crab and avocado salad; his: two gorgeously crispy goats’ cheese medallions with baby spinach), we began plotting together, both suggesting ways to make this a truly memorable piece of writing. We joked about inventing a love rival, a dramatic hospital dash due to an errant fishbone (note to the lawyers: this did not happen), even some spontaneous passion between us. From the comments I’ve received after previous reviews, I know that readers of the Herald do love a bit of intrigue across a restaurant table, after all.

  We moved on to our main courses, still discussing how to angle the review. I went for a 10 oz rib-eye super-marbled steak with gratin dauphinoise and a side salad (amazing), whereas Handsome Colleague professed to be starving and ordered the 16 oz Porter-house steak with the truffle Parmesan fries (he devoured the lot). And then it struck me. Why was I trying to trump up some silly story to please you, my readers, when I was in denial about the best story of all? Why didn’t I just come out and be honest with myself, and everyone else: I was (still am) in love with Handsome Colleague.

  There. I’ve said it. Maybe you’d guessed it from the start, but believe me, I hadn’t. Over the last four weeks, as we’ve dined out together around the city, we have talked and laughed and had so much fun, I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to do it. Reader – I’m nuts about him. The only trouble is, I’ve no idea if he feels the same way.

  Anyway. Back to the restaurant. The food was fantastic – I couldn’t fault a thing. The staff were friendly and helpful, the ambience was warm and buzzy, and in short, this is a great place to come either for a romantic meal for two, or with a group of friends. Thank you, Maxwell’s, for an excellent night out – and for helping me realize what was under my nose all along.

  When Anna’s alarm sounded the next morning she felt fuzzy and disoriented for a moment, until the fragments of the day before rattled into her head with dizzying speed. Her dad’s letter. The flight to Rome. Dinner with Joe. Her restaurant review …

  Shit. Suddenly she was wide awake, throwing off the baggy T-shirt she’d slept in and leaping into the drizzly shower. Her restaurant review. She had to get out of here and off to her course before Joe had a chance to see it.

  Five minutes later, she was dragging a comb through her wet hair and throwing on her clothes, then she grabbed her handbag and headed downstairs. The cookery course began with a trip around a food market, Trionfale, to buy ingredients with Stefano, their chef, before returning to Stefano’s kitchen near the gardens of the Vatican City to cook a feast together. She’d ordered a taxi to take her to the market but had fifteen minutes to grab some breakfast before then. Luckily for her, Joe had a more leisurely start as the match didn’t start until two-thirty that afternoon. He’d still be in bed, blissfully unaware of what she’d done.

  The hotel restaurant was small and rather dingy but smelled reassuringly of coffee and toast. After loading up her tray with breakfast, she sat at an empty table and took her first sip of coffee. Yum. Even hotel coffee from a machine tasted better in Italy.

  She unfolded the print-out of her itinerary and read it for the hundredth time. It was going to be a great day, cooking with a real Italian chef, learning from a master. Hopefully it would be so interesting and enjoyable she wouldn’t have time to think about Joe the whole day. As for tonight … Well, tonight she’d find out if Joe was still talking to her. She’d have to worry about that later.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  She almost jumped out of her skin at the voice, then Joe sat down opposite her, his hair still wet from the shower.

  ‘Oh,’ she gulped. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning.’

  ‘I saw the review,’ he said without preamble. ‘Looked it up online last night. Talk about leaving a guy wondering.’

  ‘Oh God.’ She buried her face in her hands. This was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid. Her and her big gob! ‘I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t know what came over me. You must think I’m such a—’

  ‘Did you mean it? Or did Imogen put you up to it?’

  Her eyes were still covered; she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
But he’d handed her an escape route if she wanted it. She could say yes, Imogen put me up to it, she told me what to write …

  She swallowed. No. That would be a lie. Slowly she peeled her hands away and looked at him. Then she took a deep breath and told him the truth. ‘I meant it,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And I know you’ve only just split up with Julia and you’re probably not interested and—’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he said and took hold of her hands across the table. ‘Because I feel the same way about you.’

  Her breath caught in her throat. ‘You … You do?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Of course I do. Have done for ages. I think you’re gorgeous and funny and clever …’

  She laughed in delight. The world was spinning. ‘Really?’

  ‘Definitely. Why do you think me and Julia split up? I knew that I didn’t feel the same way about her.’

  They beamed at each other for a giddy, breathless moment. Her heart boomed. ‘Does that mean … we can kiss each other?’ she asked recklessly.

  ‘When in Rome …’ he said. ‘You bet.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Qual è il tuo numero di telefono? – What is your telephone number?

  George seemed to have vanished from Sheffield, much to Catherine’s dismay. He hadn’t appeared at the Italian class on the Tuesday after their non-date. He hadn’t made it to Sophie’s play two days later, even though Anna had bought him a ticket. And then when Catherine went along to the Fox Hill estate on Sunday to help with the new community garden, he wasn’t there either. ‘George?’ Cal repeated when she asked about him. ‘Haven’t seen him all week. Must have a lot of work on or something.’

  Now it was Tuesday evening again and time for Italian. She found she was holding her breath as she walked into the classroom – only to exhale in disappointment when he wasn’t there. She wished now that she’d phoned him rather than texted the week before. You could misread a text so easily, couldn’t you? If she’d just spoken to him, he would have heard the regret in her voice. Oh, why did it all have to be so difficult?