Three Days in Florence

by Chrissie Manby

Nico’s ears pricked up.

  Carla continued to lay on the patter. ‘The great thing about this colour is that you can accessorise it with so many other accent colours. You can be subtle with black or a dark brown. You can be bright. You can go for a metallic.’ Carla whipped the red belt away from Kathy’s waist and replaced it with a stretchy elasticated belt in silver with a big shiny buckle. The apple bag was swapped for one shaped like a rocket. It was similarly impractical and flash. But somehow the gunmetal grey of the fabric made even the gaudiest gew-gaw Nico’s shop had to offer look classy. It made any old piece of tat look like a deliberate touch of kitsch humour.

  When Carla handed Kathy a pair of silver sandals, Nico stepped in. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s much too obvious. Too matchy-matchy. Try these.’ He swapped the silver sandals for a pair of black sandals with a flat-form sole that gave them the look of a geisha’s wooden shoes.

  ‘They’re … comfortable,’ Kathy said.

  This time Nico managed to laugh. ‘Let’s try it with white,’ he said. ‘Or blue.’

  Kathy felt like Cinderella in the Disney cartoon as Carla and Nico whirled around her, draping her with scarves and necklaces, swapping bags and offering her different shoes to try.

  While all this was going on, three more people had walked into the shop. Three women of what Nico would doubtless refer to as ‘a certain age’. Like Kathy, they first pawed through the racks closest to the door, the disappointment easily readable on their faces as they realised that anything they picked up was too small, too bright, too skimpy and probably way too expensive. Clothes for a fantasy woman, unlike anyone they knew.

  All the same, they came further into the store because they were fascinated by Kathy’s transformation, which was unfolding like a piece of performance art. They pretended not to be watching but Kathy and Carla knew they were, and when the first of the three picked up a dress similar to the one Kathy was wearing from Carla’s suitcase and stroked the fabric, Kathy knew they were interested too.

  ‘Can I try this?’ asked the woman. She was English.

  ‘Of course,’ said Carla. She opened a second changing cubicle. While Nico was distracted, tying a golden rope belt around Kathy’s waist this time, Carla winked at Kathy over his head and mouthed, ‘It’s working!’

  Moments later, the genuine customer was on the shop floor, twirling modestly, and Nico was in his element suggesting how she might liven up her ‘Carla’ dress.

  ‘I never would have thought of buying a bag like this,’ she said, as Nico handed her the silver rocket. ‘But it works, doesn’t it?’

  ‘A piece so special needs a plain background to truly make it shine,’ Nico said, echoing the sentiment of Carla’s earlier pronouncement. Carla shook her head in delighted exasperation. ‘Now, what would finish off this look is one of these.’

  Nico flourished a necklace that looked as though it might have belonged to the pope. The English woman cooed, ‘That is lovely.’ When a second woman asked if she could try on the blue version of the dress Kathy was wearing, Kathy knew for sure the plan she and Carla had cooked up over lunchtime had worked.

  ‘I sold four of my dresses straight after you left,’ Carla confirmed, when she came back to the Casa Innocenti at the end of her working day. ‘Four! At full price. And Nico sold four of his hideous necklaces to go with them. They actually made quite a good combination. He was delighted. He’s put one of my dresses in the window. You should have heard him talking to the other customers, telling them that true Italian style in the twenty-first century is all about understated chic. Understated chic! Nico! I nearly died from laughing.’

  Carla grabbed Kathy by both hands and danced her round the kitchen. ‘You were brilliant. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘I still feel a little weird about it,’ Kathy admitted.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Carla. ‘This afternoon Nico made a thousand euros in genuine sales that wouldn’t have happened without our little kick-start. He’s happy. I’m happy. And you looked beautiful.’

  Carla leaned back, still holding Kathy’s hands, and observed her from arm’s length. ‘You should wear more colour,’ she said. ‘You have a beautiful complexion but all this black and white you wear drains you. I don’t mean to be rude,’ she added.

  ‘I understand,’ said Kathy. ‘It’s just that I don’t know where to start when it comes to clothes.’

  ‘Then it’s lucky you have met me,’ Carla said. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Kathy.’

  Inside, Cross-eyed Kathy blushed hard. And Chicken Licken blushed harder. It was difficult to feel beautiful when you shared your life with two teenage girls who had all the advantages of youth. There was no doubt that Kathy’s style had changed since she’d been living with Neil. For the worse. It was easier to be invisible than be critiqued by a nineteen-year-old. But it had been fun dressing up. Really good fun. Kathy handed Carla the dress she’d pretended to buy. Nico had wrapped up a pair of red tassel earrings as a free gift with the purchase.

  ‘I suppose you ought to have these back as well,’ Kathy said.

  ‘No way,’ said Carla. ‘Consider them your fee.’

  They were the same red as the geranium on the windowsill across the street, Kathy noticed, when she was back upstairs in the attic room. She put them on and admired the way they moved in the old wardrobe mirror. Just a tiny splash of colour but they seemed to bring her face to life. Even the old black linen shift she was wearing looked better. The dash of red was like a pinch of salt for her appearance. She decided she would keep them on.

  Chapter Thirty

  Shortly afterwards, Kathy found herself alone in the kitchen with Ernesto, who had just arrived to prepare that evening’s dinner. He nodded a greeting at her, which was an improvement on before, then busied himself with fetching out of the fridge the ingredients he would need for the guests. He was not one for small-talk, which was probably for the best, considering Kathy’s lack of Italian.

  He pulled out the vegetables Manu and Kathy had bought that morning. He sniffed them, squeezed them, put some back into the fridge and discarded others with a tut.

  ‘What are you making this evening?’ Kathy asked, embarrassed that she couldn’t ask in Italian but sure that, spending so much time around Roberta and her family, Ernesto must have a smattering of English.

  ‘Huh?’ he asked.

  ‘Mangiare. Sta sera?’ she asked.

  Ernesto gestured towards the tomatoes with a sharp knife.

  ‘Pomodori. Good,’ said Kathy. ‘I mean, bene.’ She knew that much.

  Ernesto nodded.

  So Kathy decided it would be a good moment to try out the phrase that Manu had taught her. She knew that Ernesto had made the pastries they’d eaten for breakfast from scratch. Kathy began haltingly, ‘This morning … the pasticcio …’ Was that the word? It sounded like it should be. ‘The pasticcio, molto bene.’

  Ernesto nodded. He was happy with that.

  So then Kathy trotted out the phrase that Manu claimed was guaranteed to bring a smile to the face of any cook. ‘Sei un grosso culo peloso.’

  Ernesto paused with the end of his knife on the chopping board. As he looked at Kathy, his expression recalled the one she’d seen on the face of the man in the gelato shop that morning: of confusion. Kathy remembered what Manu had said then about her accent. She was 99 per cent sure she had the words right and in the correct order but perhaps they needed different emphasis. She tried the phrase again. This time she added the hand gestures too.

  ‘Sei un grosso culo peloso.’

  And this time, Ernesto threw his knife down on the chopping board. Then he whipped off his chef’s hat and tossed it into the corner of the room. By the time he took off his apron and stuffed it into the food waste bin, Kathy was beginning to get the idea that she had not said what she’d thought she’d said. Not at all.

  Shouting something Kathy couldn’t translate, Ernesto stormed out of the kitchen and away from the house. Even Faustino loo
ked taken aback by his sudden and dramatic departure.

  ‘What was that?’ Roberta asked, when she appeared moments later. ‘Who was shouting?’

  Kathy stood in the doorway of the kitchen, blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘I think I insulted Ernesto.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Ernesto is impossible to insult. Unless he saw you adding salt to one of his dishes before you tasted it.’

  ‘I just wanted him to know how much I like his cooking. I only said …’

  For the third time in five minutes, Kathy repeated the phrase Manu had taught her. With the hand gestures and a perfect accent.

  In response, Roberta clutched at the locket around her neck. ‘You said that?’

  Kathy nodded.

  ‘To Ernesto?’

  Kathy nodded again.

  ‘But why, Kathy? Why would you say that? Hang on. Who taught you? Was it Manu?’

  The penny dropped. Kathy remembered the look on the face of the ice-cream vendor again. Confused? Baffled? Insulted? ‘It doesn’t mean what I think it means, does it?’

  ‘No,’ said Roberta. ‘I don’t think it does. Emanuele!’ she yelled up the stairs. ‘Emanuele! Get down here at once.’

  At the sound of his full name, Manu would know he was in for it. Even Faustino ran for cover beneath Roberta’s favourite chair.

  Of course Manu had taught Kathy a perfect insult. And in using it, she had upset the Casa Innocenti’s cook of twenty-five years by telling him that he was a big fat hairy arse. Of course, as soon as Roberta had finished telling Manu he was in big trouble and would not have access to his tablet for the rest of the weekend, she called her chef on his mobile. Ernesto would not pick up. She left him a sweet, apologetic message but if he listened to it, he didn’t call back.

  ‘Manu,’ said Roberta. ‘You have taken advantage of our guest’s good nature and caused a kitchen crisis!’

  ‘I didn’t think she would say it to Ernesto! I only wanted her to say it to Uncle Henry.’

  Kathy had to smile at that.

  The pan of water Ernesto had put on the stove for that evening’s pasta course had boiled dry on the hob. He’d left at the worst possible moment, before he’d had time to get dinner even halfway prepared. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have mattered. The hotel was rarely full. But that night it was full and Roberta was expecting to serve dinner for fifteen at eight o’clock.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ said Kathy.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Roberta, firmly. ‘It’s not really Manu’s fault either – though he needs to be discouraged from making a habit of leading people up the garden path. It wasn’t that bad an insult. And, to be honest, it wasn’t far from the truth.’ Roberta allowed herself a twitch of a smile. ‘I’m sorry to say that Ernesto is always looking for an excuse to take Saturday night off. He’ll be in the bar telling everyone what a terrible boss I am and how he was so insulted he’s going to call for a tribunal. He’ll come back tomorrow with a hangover.’

  ‘But that doesn’t help you now.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t. But it’s not the worst disaster the Casa Innocenti has ever had to deal with. Kathy, do you cook?’

  ‘After a fashion,’ she said.

  In her mind’s eye, Sophie, Oscar and Amelia all pulled their best ‘yuck’ faces. Prior to meeting Neil, Kathy had enjoyed cooking for her friends. Cooking for a ready-made family turned out to be very different. It seemed no one was obliged to be polite. She wondered if her friends had just been kind for all those years when she’d plied them with her veggie lasagne.

  ‘I can follow a recipe,’ she concluded.

  ‘Perfect. Ernesto’s recipes are simple. It’s all a matter of having the right ingredients and the patience to let them come together. For this evening, Kathy, you are my sous-chef. Manu will be on table service and washing-up.’

  Manu slunk to the sink and started to fill it with hot water. ‘What about Mamma?’ he complained.

  ‘Your mother has a date.’

  ‘Not any more I don’t.’

  Carla tied an apron around her waist and joined them by the stove.

  ‘Then I have a full brigade.’ Roberta beamed.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Roberta handed out instructions. Manu was to wash pots as needed and lay the tables on the terrace. Carla and Kathy were pressed into slicing onions, peeling tomatoes and chopping garlic for a first course of pici with tomato sauce. Sloshing olive oil into a huge pan, Roberta said, ‘This is a cheat’s sauce. A proper Italian mamma would never serve this. But I’m not a proper Italian mamma and since all the guests are English, except Signor Cagliari, no one will ever know anyway. The trick is to pretend that everything is going exactly to plan. After all, no one but us ever knew what the plan was.’

  The onions were put on the stove to brown – ‘for much longer than you think they need’ – before the garlic and the tomatoes were added. Carla threw handfuls of basil into the mix. A generous amount of salt and pepper.

  ‘And a magic ingredient.’

  A big slug of grappa.

  Meanwhile a big slug of Prosecco was to be poured directly into each of the guests. ‘Because nothing makes waiting easier than a free drink,’ said Roberta. She put on her best customer-service face and headed out with two bottles.

  Manu circulated on the terrace with plates of Parmesan, prosciutto and stuffed olives, charming one and all. Except Signor Cagliari, who, according to Manu, had asked what the weird smell from the kitchen was.

  ‘He’s the one making all the weird smells around here,’ Roberta complained.

  ‘No, Mamma,’ said Carla. ‘That’s Faustino.’

  While Roberta and Manu were serving up the pasta, Carla and Kathy began cooking the secondi. There was a set menu for the evening, thank goodness, so everyone was having tagliata di manzo. Sliced steak, flash-cooked on a griddle – just like at Shelley and Dave’s wedding. Kathy arranged rocket and slivers of Parmesan on fifteen plates, while Carla did the grilling, then held the cooked steak with asbestos fingers while she sliced it with one of Ernesto’s best knives.

  The kitchen that evening was like backstage at a fashion show, all creative chaos and last-minute adjustments. When Roberta and Manu went out to the guests bearing plates, they were the supermodels. Unflappable, serenely smiling, they accepted the coos and praise of the audience while the cooks sweated and swore out of sight, like the designer and the dresser. Wine was poured. Bread baskets replenished. Everyone was pleased. Even Signor Cagliari sent his compliments to the chefs.

  ‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ Roberta assured her newest assistant, Kathy.

  Kathy and Carla were getting used to working together, dancing around each other as though they had shared a kitchen their whole lives. Like good friends or flatmates. Like sisters. It was as though they were duetting, just as Kathy had duetted with Henry.

  ‘What’s for pudding?’ Kathy asked, as the last of the steak went out.

  ‘It’s Saturday, so it’s always bloody tiramisu!’ Carla laughed.

  Thankfully, Ernesto had prepared it that morning. Kathy scooped generous portions into colourful glass bowls.

  ‘Save some for me,’ Manu reminded her. He took a spoon and stole a bite in case Kathy forgot. While he was outside delivering the first few dishes, Kathy took a spoonful for herself.

  ‘I saw that,’ said Roberta. She had a spoonful too.

  If any of the guests that night noticed that the food was not authentically Italian, no one said so. The plates that returned to the kitchen were already wiped clean. There were requests for seconds. Manu even got a tip. He showed off the two shiny euro coins proudly.

  ‘Thank you, team,’ said Roberta, when the last table was cleared. ‘We all deserve a round of applause.’

  ‘Do I deserve to be allowed my tech back?’ Manu asked.

  ‘I think that might be up to Kathy,’ said Roberta.

  Manu turned to Kathy with a pair of puppy eyes that could have put Faustino to shame. ‘
Do you forgive me?’ he asked. ‘I’m very, very sorry I told you to say those bad words.’

  ‘I forgive you,’ she said. ‘At least now I know what you should never say when somebody gives you an ice cream. On the other hand, I also know exactly what I should say if I ever meet anyone who has a face like a big hairy bottom.’

  ‘Like Uncle Henry!’ Manu laughed.

  Kathy could think of no one whose face was further from looking like a big hairy bottom.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  So, dinner was finished. The guests had been taken care of. The dishes were all clean and carefully put away. Manu had been sent to bed. Roberta had retired to her bedroom to read. Only Kathy, Carla and Faustino remained downstairs, though even Faustino was yawning. His pink tongue curled extravagantly in his mouth as he performed the classic ‘down dog’ stretch. But it was not bedtime just yet. Carla pulled a bottle of white wine – a Vernaccia di San Gimignano – from the fridge.

  ‘We deserve this,’ she said to Kathy. ‘Let’s sit on the terrace.’

  Kathy followed her outside. It was still warm. The sun had gone down but there was just enough orange-purple light left in the sky to turn the umbrella pines and cypress trees in the palazzo’s garden into a paper-cut silhouette illustration from a children’s fairy-tale book. Bats flittered across the sky. Faustino made a half-hearted snap in the direction of one that dared to fly low over the terrace in pursuit of a moth.

  Kathy and Carla pulled two chairs close to the terrace wall so that they could sit with their feet up. Carla had brought out a silver ice bucket – 1920s, from the palazzo, of course – to keep the wine cool. They settled down. Once he could see that Kathy was comfortable, Faustino leaped onto her lap, which seemed like a real seal of approval. Kathy was glad to have him there. The weight of his little body was comforting. She gently scratched at a spot behind Faustino’s ears, sending him into a sort of happy trance.

  ‘What happened to your date tonight?’ Kathy asked, as Carla poured two glasses of the wine.