The Middle-Aged Virgin_A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel_Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles...

by Olivia Spring

  In short, after taking my mum’s comments on board, today I was a million miles away from my normal on duty, flawless just in case I bump into someone look, and I admit, I was so used to my routine that being practically bare-faced made me feel a bit exposed.

  I had contemplated using the half an hour before lunch to top up my make-up, give myself an emergency coat of quick-dry nail polish that I’d put in my bag at the last minute and attempt to smooth my hair down with my hairdryer. But then I thought, that would be so obvious. Everyone would realise straight away that I was trying to impress the hottest guy in Italy (not that I’d seen all of the guys in Italy, but this one must be on the podium and in the running to win gold, silver or bronze). Plus, I reminded myself that I needed to relax a bit more and start to feel as confident without make-up and all my beauty bells and whistles as I did with them.

  I surveyed the table. Oh dear. If my birthday dinner last night was food heaven, then this was surely close to food hell. There were two types of salami (I hate salami with a passion). Chicken liver pâté (I hate pâté and I really, really hate anything to do with liver) and all different types of cheese. Yep. Unless it’s melted mozzarella on a pizza, I hate cheese too.

  Not a problem. This was the new me. I’d drunk from a dirty glass and if I could do that, I could do anything. As much as I detested literally everything on the table, I was going to give it a try. After all, I’d watched enough episodes of Come Dine with Me to know how much fellow diners will take an instant dislike to people who whinge about not eating this or that without even having the courtesy to try the food first. So, with much trepidation, I loaded my plate with a bit of everything on the table and got stuck in.

  Mmm. I was pleasantly surprised. The salami was actually really nice. Nothing like what I’d tried in the UK. The cheese was lovely, and the pâté…well, I wasn’t in love with it, but at least I’d given it a go.

  I was proud of myself. And despite the nerves that came from sitting next to Lorenzo without my hair and make-up looking flawless, I didn’t drop any food on my clothes or dribble pathetically when he caught my eye. More progress.

  In around one hour’s time, we would be starting our first cookery lesson. Which would mean spending more time in close proximity to lush Lorenzo. How the hell was I going to keep my cool?

  Snooker, darts, golf. Snooker, darts, golf…

  Forget having a disco nap when I get to my room. Looks like I had sixty minutes to find a phrase to prevent me from fantasizing about him that will actually bloody work!

  Chapter Nine

  Well, this looks very official, doesn’t it? I stood at the doorway of the dining room, which had been transformed into a mini cookery school.

  Four individual cooking ‘stations’ had been created on the table. Each one had a large wooden chopping board, a red plastic chopping board and cream branded Taste Holidays apron on top, plus a big silver chopping knife to the right-hand side.

  Then, in the middle of the table, a selection of ingredients including eggs, sugar, chopped tomatoes, sponge fingers, flour and different vegetables had been neatly laid out. There were also silver mixing bowls, a whisk and various other cooking paraphernalia. I was excited to find out what we would be making.

  We all took our places, standing at individual stations. I opted for the bottom end of the table.

  Moments later, in walked Lorenzo, which surely must mean ‘god of chefs’ in Italian (completely shallow observation, considering I hadn’t actually tasted his cooking—the few slices of salami and cheese we’d had earlier hardly qualified). Either way, I’d decided his sexiness alone earned him godlike status.

  ‘So, this afternoon, we will be making classic tiramisu, and also we make de tagliatelle al ragu. Okay?’ he asked, looking at us one by one for confirmation. ‘Bene. We start with tiramisu. I need one of you to separate six eggs and put the yolks into the bowl.’

  ‘I’ll do it!’ Daniel volunteered excitedly.

  ‘Bene. After, you will add nine tablespoons of sugar,’ said the god of chefs in his sexy Italian accent as he passed the bag to Daniel.

  Lorenzo talked us through each of the steps, and we divvied up the tasks. I was responsible for soaking the sponge fingers into the coffee and marsala liqueur mixture that Francesca had created. I layered the soaked biscuits in the baking tray, then covered them with the mascarpone cheese and egg white mixture Grace and Daniel had whipped up.

  ‘No, not like that,’ said Lorenzo as he looked over at the tray, disappointment clear in his voice. ‘Too thick, too much.’

  Great. I never claimed to be Jamie Oliver, but I thought I would at least be capable of spreading cream over some biscuits. Evidently not.

  ‘Is that better?’ I said, seeking confirmation after scraping off a thin layer and transferring it back to the cream bowl.

  ‘Is a little better,’ he muttered, barely looking me in the eye. ‘Continue.’ I admit I was finding this a little difficult. I was used to leading my team and giving other people feedback about their work, not the other way around. And when I did receive comments from clients, they were almost always positive.

  Earlier he’d hailed Grace’s whipping as buonissimo, Francesca’s mixture was perfetto, and now my layering and spreading was basically shitto (I didn’t know the Italian for shit yet, but seeing as everything seemed to end in an ‘o’ over here, I figured it was bound to be something like that).

  I carried on with my biscuit-then-cream layers until they were all used up. I then smoothed the surface neatly and dusted the top with cocoa powder as instructed. I thought it looked pretty good, even if I did say so myself.

  Lorenzo looked at it and grunted.

  ‘So now, I will put this in the fridge for a few hours and we eat for dessert later.’ Well, I was guessing that’s the closest I was going to get to an approval from him, then, if he was taking it from the table to chill.

  ‘Next we make ribs with olives, and then tagliatelle al ragu,’ he said as he took the tiramisu dish into the kitchen.

  I’d always wanted to know how to make my own pasta, so moody Italian chef or not, I was determined to enjoy learning this.

  Once we’d prepared the ribs, which involved veg and herb chopping ready for Erica to brown, then add to the meat with the wine, tomatoes and olives, we got cracking with the ragu. This called for yet more chopping. Each of us opted for different vegetables. I went for carrots.

  ‘Finer, finer,’ instructed Lorenzo.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. First I couldn’t spread cream, now I couldn’t chop. Christ.

  When he was satisfied that everything was diced finely enough, it went into a saucepan with cold olive oil. The meat, he told us, would be added later once the veg had been fried slowly, and then we’d add red wine, tomatoes and salt and pepper. So whilst that was doing its thing, it was on to make the pasta.

  We tossed the flour from the bag out on the wooden board, made a well and carefully added the eggs into the middle.

  He then told us to gently mix them together to form a dough, but according to Lorenzo, mine wasn’t smooth enough. He took my dough and worked on it himself.

  ‘Here,’ he said, patting the dough he’d perfected. ‘This is better.’

  Well, clearly! You’ve done this a billion times, whereas I am a home-made pasta virgin.

  He was beginning to irritate me. Was mine really that different to everyone else’s?

  Next we had to roll it out with the rolling pin. This was hard work, but like with everything I do, I gave it my best shot.

  ‘Bene, Grace,’ he said, flashing her a giant smile.

  Oh, here we go. He’s making the rounds. Once again, he had nothing but praise for the others. As he arrived at the foot of the table to view my efforts, I braced myself for more criticism.

  ‘Thinner, thinner. Keep rolling. Dough must be thin so you can see through it.’

  Grrrrr. Am I that crap?

  Okay, chill, Soph. Stop taking it personally. He’s t
rying to help you. Just try a bit harder.

  I carried on whilst the others progressed to the next stage of rolling the dough, then cutting it into tagliatelle strips.

  Eventually I caught up, but again it seemed like my strips were a little too wide or too thick. What was wrong with me today? I just couldn’t seem to do anything right.

  We put all of our tagliatelle efforts into one large bowl, and off it went with Lorenzo to the kitchen next door. The old me would have worried about the fact that so many people had been handling the pasta and wondered how well everyone had washed their hands. But I was determined to be strong and continue to try and shake off my uptightness and cleanliness OCD.

  I glanced at my watch. Wow—it was nearly 8 p.m. We’d been cooking for at least three hours.

  ‘That was fun!’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yeah, it was, but easy for you to say, Daniel. You took to it like a duck to water,’ I said, still feeling disappointed that I hadn’t performed better.

  ‘Well, I do all the cooking at home, so I get a lot of practice. Oh, and call me Dan. We’re all mates here!’

  ‘So, apparently dinner will be ready around eight forty-five,’ said Grace. ‘Dan, I know you need to call your wife, so would you ladies like to go for a little walk around the grounds whilst it’s still light?’

  ‘Love to!’ replied Francesca.

  ‘Count me in too,’ I added. ‘Let me just run upstairs and grab a shawl.’

  The grounds were even more beautiful than they’d appeared from the window. I couldn’t resist snapping another dozen photos on my phone. As we disappeared into the walkways, which were alongside the rows upon rows of olive trees, the air felt deliciously fresh. I took a deep breath and I swear I could feel my lungs expanding. This was a million miles away from the smog-and-pollution-filled surroundings I encountered in London every day.

  We all took it in turns to talk about how we had come to find ourselves here.

  Sadly, Grace had been recently widowed. She had been married for forty-five years to Robert, who sounded like he was the most adorable husband and father a woman could have asked for. For the past four months, she had been visiting her daughter in Cambridge and helping her look after her three grandchildren whilst her son-in-law was working overseas. Her daughter had suggested this as a well-deserved getaway to give Grace a break from the cooking, cleaning and babysitting she’d been doing for them.

  Fran, as she told us she’d preferred to be called, was a relative newlywed who had married the love of her life, Andy, just nineteen months ago. Having spent twenty-three years being a doting wife to her first husband, Nigel, once her kids had gone to uni, she realised she no longer had anything in common with him and that she’d lost her identity. So Fran had got a job and saved up for a few years. By the time she was forty-four, she had enough to be independent and left her husband to start her new chapter. Five years on from taking the leap, she couldn’t be happier.

  I told them all about my break-up with Rich, and they both nodded sympathetically.

  ‘So now, like it was for me, it’s your time to discover the new you, then,’ said Fran.

  ‘Yeah. I’m not expecting it to be easy, but now that I’ve got my head around becoming single again, I’m up for the challenge,’ I replied.

  ‘Good for you, girl! That’s the spirit,’ said Grace.

  ‘Have you thought about what you want now?’ Fran asked. ‘Another relationship? Kids?’

  ‘Well, I’m ready to meet someone. But nothing too serious to begin with. I feel like after coming out of such a long relationship, I need to have a bit more time to rediscover myself,’ I said, reflecting. ‘I want to start by having some fun. I’d love to have kids, although I’m not even sure if doing that naturally is still an option, with my age and everything,’ I added, doubt evident in my voice.

  ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ said Fran bluntly. Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but as she was a nurse, perhaps she might know more about whether these things were possible.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, now feeling even more certain of what I wanted. ‘I’d like to start dating. Or maybe not even date as such. I haven’t been intimate with anyone for a while, so perhaps a passionate snog or even more would be nice for starters, and then I’ll just see how it goes. My friends keep lecturing me about how I need to get out there, flirt, practise and all that stuff. They keep trying to get me on those dating sites too,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t envy you youngsters with all that Tittering you all have to do these days,’ said Grace, grimacing.

  Fran and I let out a little chuckle. We weren’t sure whether she was referring to Tinder or Twitter. Either way it was funny.

  ‘This walk has been wonderful,’ said Fran enthusiastically. ‘Such breathtaking views and wonderful company. I’m relieved everyone here is so lovely! I was terrified about it, and my daughter and husband have been messaging me constantly all afternoon, dying to know what each of you are like. We’ll have to take some pictures at dinner to send to them.’

  ‘I thought I was the only one who was a little nervous,’ I said. ‘I was convinced everyone would be boring and we’d need to force the conversation, but I feel so relaxed. It’s as if we’ve known each other for years.’

  ‘Exactly!’ added Grace. ‘When I got to the airport, I was thinking, holy far out! What if they all think I’m too ancient and don’t want to speak to some strange old lady from Oz? But you’ve all been so welcoming,’ she said, resting a hand on each of our shoulders.

  I chuckled again. ‘Holy far out?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t heard that before! I’m guessing that means something like wow? Sorry, my Aussie vocab is limited to what I picked up from watching Neighbours and Home & Away years ago.’

  ‘That’d be right. Stick with me, Stella,’ she said, throwing her head backwards as she laughed. ‘I’ll teach you all the lingo!’

  I didn’t worry about reminding her my name was Sophia. She’d already started calling Lorenzo ‘Luciano’ and Dan ‘Nathan’, so I figured she just had a thing for renaming everyone.

  We headed back to the villa famished and ready to devour the dinner we’d spent ages slaving over. For the first time since we’d arrived, I was starting to dread seeing Lorenzo. What criticism was in store for me this evening? Would he say I wasn’t winding the tagliatelle around the fork properly? Or maybe not putting the correct ratio of ragu sauce on the spoon? Either way, I was sure to do something wrong.

  What had I done to make him dislike me so much? And more to the point, should I graciously accept it (you can’t please all of the people, all of the time) or make an effort to change his mind?

  Chapter Ten

  As my alarm sounded, I stretched my arms up towards the ceiling and exhaled. I’d slept like a baby. No doubt helped by our intense first cooking lesson, not to mention the copious amounts of prosecco we’d enjoyed at dinner.

  The tagliatelle and ragu sauce was divine. We were all proud to be eating something that we’d created. Home-made pasta was one thing I’d always wanted to learn, and now I could do it. So far, this trip was proving to be much more fulfilling than my normal hotel breaks.

  Things were no better on the Lorenzo front. He hadn’t sat next to me last night, choosing to be between Erica and Fran instead. I don’t think he uttered a single word to me. I got the hint. I wasn’t going to beg for his approval. I’m sure he was used to women falling at his feet, but that just wasn’t me.

  After a simple breakfast of fruit, yoghurt, bread and a selection of jams, it was time for our next lesson. Today, Lorenzo explained, we’d be making ravioli, a fish dish and something that sounded like it was going to a type of biscotti.

  We started with the biscotti, again taking it in turns to do the different steps. Then we moved on to the cod with chopped leeks, and finally, the ravioli. And of course I needed extra assistance after being told that everything I did wasn’t quite good enough.

  After three hours of cooking, I was loo
king forward to going for another walk like last night. But surprisingly, lunch was pretty much ready straight away. The biscotti thing had been cooked in the oven ages ago, the cod apparently only needed fifteen minutes on the stove, and the ravioli took no time once it was put in boiling water, so Erica had called us to the table much faster than I’d thought. It was worth the effort. I’d definitely be cooking those dishes again. Well, perhaps everything but the ravioli, unless I felt motivated to dedicate an entire Saturday morning in the kitchen.

  Later that afternoon we visited a vineyard nearby for some biodynamic wine-tasting and a tour. As we strolled around the grounds, it was interesting listening to Erica. Fran, ever the conversationalist and expert prober, asked her questions about Lorenzo: Was he single? What was his story? Etc. Once again, all the things I really wanted to know.

  ‘Ah, Lorenzo, what can I say?’ Erica said reluctantly. You could tell she wanted to spill but was trying to remain professional. ‘Lovely guy, but he has, how you say? Issues…with women. His life, is very complicated right now…’ Erica paused as if realising she’d already said too much, then left it at that.

  Fran looked at me slyly. She was like a dog with a bone, I could tell. She would let it go now, but I got the impression that this was a conversation she fully intended to continue at some point in the very near future.

  The alcohol combined with our marathon cookery lesson made me feel a little bit tired, so I was quite relieved that we wouldn’t have to make dinner this evening and we could just relax instead.

  By the time we returned to the villa I was famished.

  No way…?

  I’m in over my head

  I’m out of my depth

  I’m head over

  I’m head over