Mary dug into her handbag and gave the yellow citrine crystal of new beginnings a determined stroke, before heading towards the white canopy shielding outdoor diners from the sun. She caught the eye of Rocco, dressed as he had been in the photo, with his white shirt and black bow tie. He finished taking an order and then came over.
‘You must be the new English waitress,’ he said, in an uninterested voice, yet peered hard over the top of his glasses.
No red-carpet welcome here, but then she was nothing special – just another helping hand, not an affluent customer nor food reviewer.
‘Rocco?’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Ignoring the gesture he nodded. ‘Come. Alfonso is inside, preparing coffees.’
Pulling her case, Mary followed him towards the door and navigated her way along the narrow gap alleyway between seated customers. She pulled it up a mahogany step and stood for a moment, taking in the view ahead of her. In front were tables, with green gingham cloths and a vase – just like those outside. Then stretching ahead, along the left, was a mahogany bar and stools, with mirrors along the wall behind upside-down liquor bottles. She squinted. At the far end of it was a silver coffee machine. Further on, a wider dining room and right at the back a staircase marked Privato.
Alfonso lifted the bar hatch and came out from behind the counter. Rocco hurried back outside whilst solid, warm arms wrapped themselves around Mary. Noisy kisses landed on each of her cheeks and she felt the bristle of an impressive moustache. She pinked up and stood back.
‘Buongiorno,’ Mary stuttered.
‘Maria! So glad you made it. Giovanni picked you up on time?’
‘Yes. He gave me a lovely tour,’ she said and smiled. With his crinkly eyes and wide upturned mouth, it felt impossible not to mirror Alfonso’s warmth. ‘The restaurant is lovely,’ she said. ‘Really homely.’
He bowed. ‘Grazie. We work hard to make customers feel welcome, so that is the perfect compliment.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Now, scusa, but I have coffees and desserts to serve. Natale can take you upstairs. The pizza rush is over, so Dante is up there, preparing for your arrival. You must be hungry.’ Chunky fingers squeezed her arm. ‘You and I can chat later.’
‘Maria!’ sang a cheerful, soprano voice. Natale came over, wearing a pastel cotton dress and carrying a tea towel. Another hug. A kiss on either cheek. Mary wasn’t used to such affection. Only from Jill – and … and Jake. She didn’t have any siblings to visit, nor uncles or aunts. Only one foster couple had got remotely close to her heart but they’d now moved to France.
‘Ah! The great English reserve,’ said Alfonso and grinned. ‘Maria, you must get used to us Italians being hands-on.’
Natale laughed and pulled a face. ‘Give her a chance, Papà! And it is not all Italians. You just brought us up to be molto friendly.’
‘Of course! Otherwise what is the point?’ He shrugged, wiped his brow again and hurried off.
Natale slipped her arm through Mary’s and they headed towards the private stairs at the far end of the restaurant. Molto meant very. Hopefully Mary’s knowledge of Italian would return speedily. She looked sideways at Natale. It felt … good, linking arms.
‘Don’t worry.’ Natale smiled. ‘You will get used to us.’ She took the case, and Mary followed her up the stairs. ‘There is an entrance you can access from the back of the building – a more private staircase. Dante will show you around properly,’ she said, over her shoulder.
‘You speak such good English, Natale. Why does Alfonso want a waitress from England?’
She turned around on the stairs and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Lots of reasons. Once we were asked if we cooked toad-in-the-hole. Chef was horrified.’
Mary wondered what he’d think of bubble and squeak.
‘And we get lots of tourists from Manchester, Newcastle, Scotland … the accent is not so easy to understand. Also, visitors seem to feel more comfortable with someone from their country of origin and ask all sorts of advice, like where the local doctor is, the best time of day to visit the Coliseum, if there is a cheap supermarket nearby … and this often means they become regular diners here, during their stay. We are so grateful Sarah was able to suggest a lovely replacement. The other people we interviewed were not nearly as suitable.’
Mary’s pulse quickened. ‘I won’t know anything to start with.’ It could take months. What if she didn’t get up to speed?
Natale’s face softened. ‘No worry. By the time our busiest season starts, at the end of July, you will know this area like the back of your arm.’
‘Hand,’ she corrected and they both grinned.
After one flight of stairs they arrived in an open-plan lounge and kitchen area. What a contrast to the bustling restaurant. It was airy and bright. The colour scheme was white with colourful accessories. Purple cushions. A lush green rug. Vibrant paintings in old frames. Every object looked worn as if it hadn’t spent its life simply being a soulless decoration. A scratched glass coffee table stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a long sofa and two armchairs. The pine and silver kitchen stood on the left, separated from the living area by a long breakfast bar and a row of backed stools, plus a dining table towards the rear of the room.
‘It’s lovely,’ Mary said and gazed at the wall ahead, covered in a mosaic of family photos. Alfonso, with his arms around a woman his age. Perhaps that was his late wife. There was a smaller one of Natale and her little girl. No husband though? And … Dante in a police uniform. She’d thought he simply made pizza. Balancing two jobs must be difficult. She studied the photo. The sharp clothes made him look hot – but that was simply an observation. Jake had shattered her trust. She was here to get strong again and that meant men were off the menu.
‘No doubt you are thirsty,’ said Natale. ‘Let me put the coffee on. Do you take milk?’
‘Yes please. One sugar.’
‘Just like me,’ said Natale and that rosebud mouth curved upwards.
She smiled and wished British politeness would allow her to ask for a long, cold drink instead. Whilst Natale busied herself with some sort of aluminium percolator, that she filled with water and eventually placed on top of the stove, Mary headed over to the right-hand side and a huge window facing the square. She looked down on tourists and artists and fought an urge to rub her eyes. Was her new home for real? Back in Hackney her view had been an abandoned warehouse. Whereas this was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of people and sounds coming and going.
‘Dante!’ sang out Natale. Seconds later heavy footsteps approached. Mary cleared her throat and turned around.
A plastic shopping bag in one hand, he stood with the adorable dog by his side, a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt showing off his bronzed skin and strong forearms. Those perfectly fitted jeans reminded Mary of that iconic Levi’s jeans ad where the man strips off in a launderette. She touched her mouth. Such thoughts felt so unfamiliar after months pining for Jake. For the first time since he’d left, her body ached with need and told Mary that Dante provided something it had missed. Yet her heart ached in a different way and the physical reaction soon passed.
‘Be friendly, dear brother,’ said Natale, before winking at Mary and disappearing back down the stairs. Dante still wore the trendy sunglasses and who could blame him. He’d clearly just got back from the shops and it was atomic bright outside. He ruffled the dog’s head. It gazed up at him. He was tall. And broad. Toned too. Perfect policeman material. She folded her arms, as if defending herself against any attraction.
‘Va bene – go and say hello, girl,’ he said to the dog, in a voice as creamy as hot chocolate. Dante looked up. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ said Mary and she knelt down as the dog padded over. ‘What’s she called?’
‘Oro.’ He walked around the breakfast bar, to the stove.
Mary chatted to Oro about her beautiful brown eyes and smart furry coat and laughed at the str
ong tail, wagging like a windscreen wiper. Then Mary got to her feet and Oro wandered back to the kitchen. Dante turned to face her, inhaled, and shook his head.
‘I don’t know what my sister is thinking, making coffee. Folle!’
‘I’m sure she meant well.’
‘Si. There is not a mean bone in my sister’s body. But today is so warm. I need a long limonata. How about you? But scusa, first I need to know – is it Mary or Maria?’ he asked and tilted his head as if concentrating hard.
‘Oh. Um. Yes, lemonade please. And, Maria, I suppose.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘It’s a little more exotic but I don’t really mind.’
‘You think?’ He ran a hand through that thick, burnt-caramel hair. ‘I like Mare-eee … un bel nome. Sounds beautiful. Like a gentle sea breeze.’
Her eyes widened at his poetic words. It had taken twenty-six years and an Italian policeman to entertain the idea that, perhaps, her name wasn’t so bad. She stared at him, wishing he’d take off those glasses. Perhaps his eyes would reveal a teasing nature, yet that hot-chocolate voice oozed sincerity. As if he’d read her mind, Dante took them off and rubbed a hand across his forehead. His hand eventually dropped, revealing a scar at the corner of one of his eyes.
‘Prego. Sit down on the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring over the drinks. Then I’ll show you around.’
Mary collapsed into one of the armchairs that looked more comfortable. Should she get out the Tupperware box of homemade shortbread she’d brought? It was a small gift to represent a big thank you: an iconic British sweet treat and one of Mary’s favourite recipes. However, overcome by shyness, she decided to just leave them out in the kitchen, later.
Shadowed by devoted Oro, Dante eventually headed over. He brushed his calves along the sofa’s edge. What was he doing, thought Mary? He frowned when he reached the end of the cushioned front, sat down, and placed the lemonades on the coffee table.
‘Mary?’ His face reddened. ‘Where are you?’
She stared for a moment and then her throat felt drier but not from thirst. Of course. How could she have been so stupid and not worked it out? Oro meant gold. A great name for a golden retriever. It hadn’t clicked why he’d chosen that breed. Nor why he’d been wearing dark glasses.
‘I’m here. In the armchair,’ she said and leant forward to touch his arm, heart squeezing as if someone had mistaken it for a lemon that had made the lemonade. Poor Dante. What could have happened? Why had no one said? ‘Um, let me pass you a drink.’
‘I’m blind, Mary. Not incapable,’ he said, in a tight voice, and pulled away. ‘Accept that and we’ll get along fine. Papà employed you as a waitress. Not a nursemaid.’
Chapter Four
Pastries. Lush Italian plum jam. Little Lucia, humming and kicking her legs against the dining table. Several days on and Mary reckoned she could get used to starting every day like this one.
‘More coffee?’ asked Natale, who sported a skirt and yellow and orange striped blouse – a vibrant contrast to Mary’s beige trousers and white T-shirt. Freckles scattered across her nose, like the musical score for her tinkling laugh.
‘No thanks. I’ll be saucer-eyed, otherwise. I’m used to drinking instant coffee, back in England.’
Natale pulled a face. ‘We tried that once, years ago on a family holiday to London. Papà said it was the liquid equivalent of baby food and that no self-respecting adult should drink it.’
Mary grinned. She studied the pretty bead bracelet around the Italian woman’s slim wrist.
‘That’s lovely,’ she said and pointed.
‘I make my own jewellery.’ Natale’s heart-shaped face blushed. ‘But it’s only a hobby.’
‘It looks very professional.’
Lucia studied them both and the necklace and then babbled for several moments to her mum in Italian, crumbs of pastry tumbling out of her mouth.
Natale shook her finger at the little girl and then looked at Mary sheepishly. ‘Sorry, but it would seem that Lucia accidentally ended up in your bedroom yesterday. She says something about a crystal collection that, she thinks, would be great for making necklaces and bracelets.’
Mary stared at her plate for a second. What should she say? Not everyone understood believing in something that hadn’t been proved.
‘It’s okay,’ said Natale, ‘no need to explain.’
Mary thought back to the warm glow she’d felt when Natale had linked arms with her – something she’d done several times, over the last few days. Perhaps she’d dare to open up. Just a little. She pulled out the yellow citrine crystal from her shorts’ back pocket. ‘This is especially supportive of taking a new direction in life. It helps you achieve goals.’ She handed it to Natale and held her breath. Only Jill knew about Mary’s collection and her view was if Mary thought they worked then that was all that mattered. She’d reluctantly discussed her crystals with John Jones on the plane, but it wasn’t usually something she talked about.
‘What gorgeous saffron shades. That would make a lovely pendant.’
‘I’ve looked online and found out about a crystal shop in Rome,’ said Mary shyly. ‘If it’s as good as my one at home, they sell all sizes and shapes of stone, some suitable for jewellery-making.’
Natale raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d love to come with you – unless …’
Mary beamed. ‘That would be great.’
Clearly bored with all the English talk, Lucia babbled to Natale again and the little girl’s head cocked to one side.
‘She wants to know if you have ever met the queen,’ said Natale and winked. ‘She’s hoping you’ve got a photo to show her friends. She’s seeing them at holiday club.’
Mary had understood a little and ruffled those black curls. She slipped the crystal back into her pocket. ‘No. The queen is a very busy woman, but …’ Mary got up and grabbed her handbag from the breakfast bar. She rummaged in her purse before sitting down again and passing Lucia a bright gold one-pound coin. She turned it over and pointed out the British monarch.
‘I don’t need my English money, any more …’ Nervously, she switched to Italian. ‘You take this to club, instead.’
The biggest smile crossed Lucia’s face before she gave Mary a tight hug. Without an ounce of resentment, Mary decided anyone would adopt this little girl, with her confident gaze and affectionate manner – whereas Mary had stood less chance with her quiet ways and lack of eye contact.
‘Grazie mille,’ said Natale, after her daughter had left to clean her teeth before heading off. ‘But watch out – I love my little treasure to bits, but with those wide innocent eyes, she has a way of getting what she wants. Like this holiday club! She’s begged to go because of all the craft and sports activities. So now school has finished, I said she could attend for three days each week. I can’t afford much more.’
‘If only handing out a gold coin would embellish the road to friendship with everyone,’ said Mary, thinking out loud. She bit into another pastry. Piquant plum flavours danced across her tongue, against the smooth backdrop of buttery pastry. What a change from her plain English cornflakes and milk.
‘You mean Dante?’ asked Natale, gently. ‘This road you talk of – trouble already?’
‘Sorry. Just ignore me.’ Inwardly Mary cringed at having been heard. ‘I’ve only been here a few days and expect too much.’
Natale raised an eyebrow. Mary had seen her do that to Lucia. It acted as an effective tactic to extract information.
‘I think I upset him, when I arrived on Sunday. I offered to pass him his drink and –’
‘Ah …’ Natale leant back in her chair. ‘I’m so sorry, mia cara, Maria, I should have warned you about his blindness. But Dante … he is so independent. And …’ She cleared her throat.
‘What?’
‘I feel you should know … Dante wasn’t that keen for you to be hired. He begrudgingly looked at all the applications we had but wasn’t happy when the rest of us chose yours.’
‘Oh.
Do you know why?’ What could have put him off?
‘I don’t think he feels we need an English waitress again. He was even more fervent after listening to the Skype interview.’
Mary blushed. ‘Was his dislike personal?’
‘Dante reckons that the current staff’s command of English is good enough and that it would be better to hire another waitress who had fluent Italian.’ She sighed. ‘Dante knows best. That used to one of his tongue-in-cheek phrases before he lost his sight.’
‘Monday, he wasn’t in, and I wondered if he was avoiding me. When he got back he went scowling to his room.’
‘No. Dante is not like that. You are here now. He will make the best of it. And if he ever does have a problem, he will say it to your face. He simply went to visit an up-and-coming pizzeria that people are raving about. Every summer, in the middle of August, so about six weeks from now, a well-respected food critic called Signor Lombardi – or Signora, we don’t know – lists his top ten pizzerias in Rome. It is an important accolade that brings in lots of business from tourists. For five years we have featured, but last time had dropped to number ten. Alfonso sees this new place as the strongest competitor that could knock us out and that would be disastrous for our income. So Dante, he went to …’
‘Spy?’
‘Your word, not mine,’ she said and they both grinned.
‘But why should just one new pizzeria make a difference – there must be hundreds of such restaurants in Rome?’
‘It’s really grown in popularity and has some quirky unique selling points, apparently. We’re on friendly terms with some of the other pizzerias featured on the winning list and they’ve told us how they feel this new place threatens their ranking as well.’
‘So, was his bad mood because they really did make great pizza?’
One Summer in Rome Page 3
