Mary nodded.
‘Talking of chapters, I’m more of a self-help book man. Found them really useful, over the years. You know the sort – Become a Millionaire in One Year.’
‘That clearly worked, seeing as you’re stuck in Economy,’ she said and gave a shy grin.
John chuckled. ‘No. But it gave me some ideas on how to push my career forwards. Anyway …’ He passed Mary the book. She didn’t grip tight enough and it almost slipped to the floor. She swallowed. Jake always used to playfully tease her for being clumsy. ‘This is my current favourite.’
‘Hook, Line, and Sinker,’ said Mary. Her brow knitted. ‘No offence, but I’m not interested in learning about fishing.’
John chuckled again. A warm sound it was, and comforting, like hearty soup simmering on a stove. ‘Me neither. No, this book is about setting goals and achieving them. It’s helped me get fit and draw up a savings plan so that the missus and me can eventually move house.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you got a job lined up?’ John pretended to bite his fist. ‘Aarghh, Mr Parker is doing it again …’
Mary slipped the crystal into her shorts’ pocket and smiled. ‘In a pizzeria. With lodgings. It was too good an opportunity to miss.’
He gave a low whistle. ‘Good on you. That takes guts. So, where do you see yourself in five years? What’s your plan?’
‘Should I have one?’ Up until now, her plan had just been to take one day at a time. Pay the rent. And her bills. Hold down a job. Be independent.
‘Good grief, yes. Otherwise life just passes you by. At around your age, let me see …’ He thought for a moment. ‘I gave myself five years to buy my own car and put down a deposit on a home. And I managed that – albeit the wheels were an old banger and the new pad a tiny flat.’
The flight attendant offered them a drink and crisps, whilst Mary digested everything John had said. Perhaps this was her problem – she rarely made concrete plans for the future. There would have been no point in having aspirations, as a child. Her life was wholly in the hands of others. But now could she really, finally, work towards building a solid future of her own volition?
‘Hook, Line, and Sinker contains some great tips,’ said John and yawned. ‘It helps you set realistic goals, so that you aren’t heading for disappointment. It doesn’t matter how small and it says to concentrate on three areas – work, health, and love.’ He yawned again. ‘Right, I’m going to get some shut-eye. Little Ted’s owner kept me and her mum up most of the night.’
As he snuggled back into his seat, Mary looked through the book. Work, health, and love. She could do that – make three resolutions. She stared out of the window and awe extinguished fear as she marvelled at wisps of cloud. If humans could put a giant metal bird in the air then she could take control of her destiny.
First, work – learning to assert herself had to be the number one goal. Landlady Brenda had walked all over her. At twenty-six the legacy of a life in care was that she still feared being rejected by anyone holding an important position in her life. That meant she put up with being taken advantage of, when it came to the nine to five. What if her new boss had the biggest Italian temper? Or didn’t let her keep tips? So that was her first resolution – to stand up for herself at work, whatever the cost, even if it meant returning to England within the first month.
Secondly, health. She took out her iPod and put in her earphones. Her favourite pop salsa song came on. Of course! She should learn to dance. It has always been a dream since she’d first started watching her favourite ballroom dancing television programme. The sparkles and spray tans offered such an escape from the daily humdrum. Back in England she’d felt too self-conscious to join a ballroom class. It meant dancing with a partner and Jake would have rather spent an hour in a straitjacket than Lycra. But in Rome, no one would know her. Okay. So that was her second resolution decided upon.
Now for love. Jake’s last ever words to her still resounded in her ears. Don’t say I didn’t invite you to join me. For Christ’s sake, most people would jump at the chance of moving to Dubai! But not you. Well suit yourself – and thanks for helping me waste the last year of my life.
Santa beards of cloud, floating by, became blurry as she turned down the music. One year. That was the longest she’d ever dated anyone. Her chest tightened as she recalled the feeling of normality she’d revelled in, at becoming part of a couple. She’d come the nearest ever, with him, to emotionally letting go – or rather, letting him in. She’d risked getting close and had opened up her most vulnerable areas … shared some of her fears and dreams.
Mary had dared ask the question – could he be The One? Yet still she’d held back from telling him the things she’d never even told Jill. Just in case, like everyone else, he left – a defence mechanism she appreciated now. They’d had a terrible argument, in the end. He’d shouted that she suffered from attachment disorder – blamed her biological parents.
Mary squeezed her eyes tight. It had been hard to explain to him exactly why she couldn’t commit. But it was nothing to do with her birth mum and dad. She’d never met her father and up until the age of five, from what she could remember, had only felt love from her mum. Whereas her grandparents – that was a different matter. She recalled no hugs nor kind words, yet couldn’t blame them for giving her up. Time had given her perspective, as had getting to know Toby and Tilly next door. A small child was a lot of work for a couple who were heading towards their seventies – and who’d been estranged from their daughter.
‘Talk about an ice queen!’ Jake had shouted. ‘Didn’t the last twelve months mean anything?’
Maybe he should have worked it out – that, in fact, the last year had meant so, so much. That was why she felt hurt that he was effectively abandoning her, just like every person in her childhood. Oh, he’d asked her to go with him, but his plans – his future – were already in place. Cancelling or postponing Dubai, if she said no, never got a mention. Jake was leaving, regardless of her decision.
‘I’d be mad to turn down an opportunity like this,’ he’d said.
‘If anyone’s got attachment problems it’s you,’ a heartbroken Mary had muttered and she swore that her heart actually broke in two ragged halves that could never fit together again.
Jake was just like the social workers who passed her case on. Just like the foster parents who got pregnant or moved abroad. Mary never felt like she truly belonged. Social Services didn’t encourage the use of the words “Mum” and “Dad” and that was hard for a little girl. Plus, looking back, Mary could see that the front she’d put on had probably fooled foster parents. The stories she’d heard, of other foster children, made her realise she must have appeared to be quite solid. Unaffected. Strong.
‘You’re lucky,’ said one social worker. ‘My last client is four and has never seen a piece of fruit.’
‘What a relief to look after a child who’s so well behaved,’ said one foster parent. ‘In the past we’ve opened our wallets to children but still they’ve stolen from shops. You’re a good girl.’
And she was. Clean and tidy. She’d never committed a crime. Mary went to school. The records and diaries her carers had to keep were probably very short. And because of that, they’d never guessed that inside she was howling for attention.
Perhaps she expected too much of grown-up life – to be someone’s Number One. And she tried to remind herself that there were always others who were worse off.
Mary opened her eyes and sat up straighter in the aeroplane seat. She shook herself. Rome was about her future, not her past.
‘Get a grip and stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mary Smith,’ she murmured. She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. Sarah had given it to Jill who had passed it on, a couple of days ago. Apparently Alfonso had sent strict instructions for her to open it on the flight. Naturally, Mary had obeyed and waited until this moment. She slid her finger under the top flap, and pulled until it broke all the way along. She tugged out �
�� a photo. Without studying it closely, Mary turned it over.
We are all so excited to meet you, Maria! See you soon. Buon Viaggio!
‘Maria,’ she whispered and her face broke into a smile. Somehow her new life sounded better already. More exciting. Vibrant. She turned the photo back over and scrutinised every detail. A group of people stood in front of the ground floor of a building – the restaurant. A white canopy stretched forwards and underneath it stood eight tables, each covered with a pretty green gingham cover topped with a vase containing a rose. Clouds of cooling mist came out of jets, at the side of the restaurant. Above the canopy a scarlet sign read Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Dolce Vita. The good life? What was that exactly, Mary wondered?
Perhaps it simply meant happiness, as the customers certainly appeared cheerful. As for the group standing in front, the middle-aged man was Alfonso. Portly. Hairless – apart from an impressive moustache. And chunky fingers giving a wide-fingered wave. His whole face shouted Welcome! – although his expression triggered a sense of sadness and she wasn’t quite sure why. In the end she decided it was because the smile only came from his mouth, not his eyes.
She recognised him easily from her Skype interview. He wanted another English waitress, like Sarah. Apparently with her GCSE in Italian and experience in catering Mary had outshone the other candidates. He was effusive and friendly and immediately put her at ease.
Alfonso’s arm was draped around the shoulders of a woman in her early twenties – that was bubbly Natale, who’d joined him during the interview to say hello. What a beautiful floral dress and long brunette waves that could have starred in any shampoo advert. She looked like Catherine Zeta Jones out of Jill’s favourite old show, The Darling Buds of May.
Natale held hands with a little girl – no doubt the granddaughter, six-year-old Lucia, with her mop of black curls. A real Mediterranean Annie with a scampish grin, except she was no orphan; she was surrounded by family. Perhaps Mary should have felt a pang of envy, but she didn’t. Lucia looked around the age she was when Mary’s grandparents had handed her over to Social Services and she never saw her mum again.
To the left stood a slim man, perhaps in his early thirties, with a high hairline and Harry Potter glasses. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and black bow tie. In his hand was a pen. He looked like someone with little time to spare. That had to be Rocco, the head waiter the family employed. Sarah didn’t get on with him – said he’d always been standoffish. Her stomach squeezed. Was it just bad luck that the camera had caught him frowning?
Finally, her gaze settled upon …
A tide of heat spread up her neck. A sensation she hadn’t experienced for months. To the right, next to Natale, that had to be Dante. Broad. Bronzed. Thick, burnt-caramel hair. She couldn’t determine his height as he crouched, one hand casually in his pocket. The other wrapped gently around the most adorable-looking dog. That’s what pulled Mary in most. Such tenderness, as if the pet was his most precious possession ever. Dante wore a wide smile – or was he simply squinting, in the sunlight? Mary wished he wasn’t wearing those trendy aviator sunglasses, but they matched what looked like expensive designer jeans that perfectly showed off his strong thighs.
She’d wondered why he’d kept so quiet on Skype as Alfonso had encouraged Natale to ask questions and said it was a family interview. He’d simply sat in the background looking stern. Jill had mentioned something about a tragedy the whole family suffered a couple of years ago. Plus something about Dante facing his own problems. Looking for clues, she scrutinised his face. Did he have a drink problem? A physical illness? Depression? She looked at her watch. It wasn’t long before she’d find out.
Chapter Three
At least her heart was still working, thought Mary, as she immediately fell in love with Rome. Giovanni, a friend of Alfonso’s, had met her at the airport. The Rossi family were busy with the lunchtime restaurant rush. Taxi driver Giovanni spoke excellent English and proceeded to give her a historical rundown of the Italian capital.
‘Rome has two hundred and eighty fountains and more than nine hundred churches …’
So it was true – the Italian accent really was Viagra for the ears. It could make the most practical facts sound like the most wistful poetry. Her eyes widened as they passed the Coliseum and his deep, lilting tones explained how ancients used to fill it with water to stage mock sea battles. Majestic, with a kind of brutal beauty, it looked exactly like the images she’d seen in the movies. Same for the Vatican and the awe-inspiring domed outline of St Peter’s Basilica.
A cosy glow infused her whole body as Giovanni turned into a network of small avenues, bustling with everyday Italian life. The prettiest ornate balconies complemented cream and yellow apartments. Sun-tanned locals gesticulated with their hands. The ground floor of buildings offered flower sellers and glitzy designer clothes shops. Stray cats darted across streets, inciting a cacophony of car horns. Executives, sipping espressos, tapped on laptops outside red-canopied cafés. Lovers strolled, hand in hand, perusing menus.
Mary hugged her knees. It was as if architects had been asked to build the complete opposite to grey Hackney – as if she’d dined on nothing but the limpest white bread and suddenly been offered a plump focaccia, bursting with tomatoes, cheese, and olives.
‘Now we head to Piazza Navona, where Alfonso’s restaurant is. You like the city, no?’ Giovanni said, with a chuckle, and glanced in the rear-view mirror.
‘It’s stunning,’ mumbled Mary, transfixed by passing sights. For some reason she’d expected every Italian she met to sport tailored clothes and salon-glossy hair. But most just looked … normal. Short or tall. Untidy or groomed. It was kind of comforting. Having never left the British Isles before, Mary realised what preconceived ideas she’d harboured. Perhaps not all Frenchmen wore berets. Maybe some Spaniards hated paella. She wondered what foreigners expected of England. Scones with every cup of tea? Received pronunciation?
‘You like a little history of the piazza – the square – where you’re going to live?’
‘Per favore,’ she said, shyly trying out her Italian.
‘It is certainly romantic and was built about one hundred years before Christ. As a sports stadium. Picture animals fighting and gladiators …’
A vision of Ben-Hur popped into her mind with chariots racing around a track.
‘It boasts some of the best baroque architecture in the whole city, with the magnifico St Agnes church and Pamphili Palace. There are three splendid fountains and …’
The more Giovanni spoke, the more impatient Mary became and found herself leaning forward, to look out of the front windscreen. It sounded as if she’d be spending the next few months on a Hollywood film set. Finally the taxi pulled up outside a grocer’s and Giovanni pointed ahead.
‘Walk to the end of this avenue. You arrive at the piazza. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is the last building, down the end, on the left. I would drop you off, at the restaurant, but the traffic has been worse than I thought and my next fare awaits.’
‘No problem. Honestly. You have been so kind.’ Mary took out her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Giovanni turned around and fiercely flapped his hand. ‘No! Prego, signorina. Now, go. Hurry and you will catch a slice of lunchtime pizza.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘Grazie mille,’ she said and took a deep breath. Mary climbed onto the pavement and hauled out her bag. She slammed the door shut, watched Giovanni do a three-point turn, and then returned his wave as he drove off. Feeling like Paddington bear abandoned in London, Mary stood for a moment, wishing she had a nametag around her neck. But that sense of not belonging was nothing unusual and she brushed it away.
After Giovanni’s description, she was itching to see her new home. Apparently the buildings surrounding it used to seat thirty thousand people watching animals – and men – tear each other apart. Humming, she reached the end of the avenue, case jiggling up and down on the cobbled ground as she entered the piazza.
Mary had done it. Travelled to Italy. Reached Rome all on her own. She faced the middle Fountain of Four Rivers and her eyebrows knitted together as she recalled Giovanni’s words. The figures and animals at each corner of the huge rock represented the four continents that, at the time it was built, were under papal power. For a moment she simply stood, in awe of the sculpture, until the sound of trickling water accentuated her thirst.
She glanced around and in the distance, to the right, saw the northern end Fountain of Neptune. She turned left and proceeded to walk along, gazing up at ornate balconies, punctuated with bursts of green foliage and flowers.
‘Attento!’ called a young man as he skateboarded past.
Mary lowered her gaze and, with a grin, stepped out of the way. She passed a tap dancer and a man performing card tricks. The piazza reminded her of a jammy dodger biscuit – reliably pleasing on the outside, but vibrant and colourful in the centre. Small children ran around, undeterred by the heat. Wishing she’d brought a sunhat, Mary finally reached the pizza parlour. She took a deep breath.
‘Hello, Pizzeria Dolce Vita,’ she whispered. ‘Good to meet you.’
She stopped. Bit her lip, annoyed at an unexpected urge to flee. What if she didn’t fit in? Hated the job? What if this new venture turned out to be transitory?
Mary flexed her hands, grabbed her case, and headed over to the southern Moor Fountain Giovanni had mentioned, right opposite the restaurant. She breathed in and out, in and out, and admired the rose-coloured marble. The fountain featured a large basin with a figure of a man standing in a conch shell, wrestling a dolphin. Surrounding it were four Tritons – or gods. The sound of running water steadied her nerves.
One Summer in Rome Page 2
