by Jo Thomas
‘Like I say, it’s time you learnt a good olive oil from—’
‘Merda!’ I say, and we both laugh, the awkwardness gone.
‘You must train your palette,’ he says, and I can tell he feels on safe ground talking about oil, keeping away from the past and his feelings. He starts to pour some oil into the tiny tulip glasses.
‘I brought these from my laboratory at the college. Here.’ He hands me one. ‘First you must warm it. Cup it in your hands. In the labs in the college we use baby-bottle warmers to bring it to twenty-eight degrees. Optimum temperature.’ He swills the oil in the glass in his hands and I copy. ‘Now then, first the nose.’ He raises a finger, and I can’t help but smile as he slips into teacher mode. He lifts the glass to his nose and sniffs. ‘What can you smell?’
I sniff again.
‘Well . . . it smells like oil, fruity oil,’ I say hopefully.
‘Good, now sip it and let it sit on your tongue,’ he instructs. He’s standing next to me, close, and I can feel butterflies in the pit of my stomach. The drumming of my heart, playing out in my ears, has been turned up a notch too.
‘How does it feel?’ he asks.
It’s not easy to answer with a mouthful of oil sitting on your tongue. I want to say ‘oily’, but I don’t think that’ll get me any Brownie points.
‘Syrupy,’ I try and say, but the oil slides down my throat, coating it as it goes.
‘Try again, and this time you must do this.’ He smiles and takes a big slug of oil, then pulls back his lips and makes a loud hissing noise at the back of his mouth, like a horse with chewing gum stuck in its teeth. I burst out laughing and step back.
‘You must,’ he says sternly, as my giggles take hold and multiply. ‘You must move it to all areas of the mouth. Now try again.’
The sucking thing is hard to do. I look like a complete amateur next to him, which of course I am.
‘Again,’ he instructs, and I try really hard but the giggles get the better of me. He doesn’t berate me as I’m expecting, but to my relief laughs too. His face is soft and smiling and very beautiful. He looks at me as I try to compose myself, but the wings of the butterflies flapping in my stomach are making it very hard to concentrate.
‘Try this one,’ he says, and I warm it in my hands, sip it and try and do the sucking thing through my teeth, but the giggles stop me again. Or maybe it’s the fact – and I can’t believe this is happening – that this man seems to render me helpless just by being so close to me. My heart ups its techno beat and bangs loudly in my ears as every nerve in my body stands to attention. A fire is beginning to burn down below.
‘Let the oil sit on your tongue and you will find the flavours work like a balloon, first at the tip of your tongue and then expanding to touch the sides,’ he explains. I watch his mouth, his lips and his white teeth and his pink tongue, as he speaks, and I feel a tingle that starts in my toes and travels like electricity all the way up to the tops of my ears, lighting up every nerve ending on its way. ‘Then it tapers away before sliding down your throat.’ He holds up his hands and creates the shape in front of his lips, and I am captivated, under his spell, gone, hook, line and sinker. If he’d told me to stand on my head and juggle the bottles with my feet, I’d’ve probably tried that too.
Frankly, right now, the taste of the oil is the last thing on my mind, but I don’t want it to stop. I want to carry on doing this for ever. But all of a sudden, I get a real hit from the flavour.
‘Oh wow! Peppery!’ I say, holding my fingers to my lips and looking at the glass.
‘This is a blend I’ve been working on.’
‘Where? Here?’
‘At work, in the labs. It is a good everyday oil. You should get the taste of tomatoes, apple and then pepper.’
‘It’s delicious!’ I look from the glass to him. His lips are glistening with oil and more than anything I want to kiss them, and I feel a pulse start thrumming between my legs where the fire was burning. A feeling I haven’t felt in . . . I’m not sure how long.
‘The Tuscan oils, they’re verdant, peppery, slightly bitter. In Umbria they are often fruitier and softer. Then you have Sicilian oil, a fruity oil, leafy. The flavour varies from east to west, just like wines.’
The sun is setting and he lights the lanterns hanging from the tree, little jars with tea lights in them. I’m loving how alive he is talking about the oils.
‘Are you cold? I can light a fire,’ he says, and points to the forno.
I nod, and he lights it. I watch the little flames and just for a moment remember the awful day I nearly set fire to the whole grove, the day when I felt something reignite inside me. I’ve come a long way since then, I think.
‘Drink some water to clear your palate. In the lab,’ he carries on, ‘we use green apples, Granny Smiths, I think, to cleanse the palate.’
I shiver.
‘You’re still cold. Here.’ He puts his jumper around my shoulders and I can smell the lemony scent of his aftershave. The butterflies take off in my stomach, swooping and beating to match my heart.
‘Now,’ he says, as I’m sipping away at the water and he’s pouring another oil. ‘Try this one.’ He holds it up to the lamplight like he’s raising the Olympic flame. It’s deep green and thick and looks like molten glass.
I take the glass he’s offering me and he picks one up for himself. We swirl the oil, and the murmuration in my stomach follows, dipping and rising again like waves. Then he puts his glass to his glistening lips and I follow, our eyes locked on to each other’s now. We tip them back in unison.
The thick oil touches the tip of my tongue. I curl it back and then draw back my lips and take in some long sucks of air. The oil fills out in my mouth just as Marco explained, and it’s like a taste explosion.
‘Oh wow!’ I say as it tapers away and down my throat. ‘It tastes of freshly cut grass and green tomatoes. It’s so fruity.’ It’s strong, powerful and pungent. There’s a sweetness to it. It tastes of woody herbs, and an aftertaste like walnuts and a sort of bitterness. His eyes are dancing as I nearly explode with excitement at this new-found flavour.
‘And that,’ he says, his smile widening, his lips glistening, ‘is Bellanuovo oil.’
‘It’s . . . perfect,’ I manage to say, my eyes darting between his soft mouth and his excited blue eyes. My face is moving closer to his and there doesn’t seem to be anything to stop the draw between us.
The glasses clatter on to the table as his lips touch mine, oily but delicious, gently, so gentle and soft, but then his tongue finds its way into my mouth, like the balloon, on the tip of my tongue first and then deeper as our bodies move closer and the rhythmic motion of our mouths dips and rises and the butterflies spin in circles in my stomach and set off explosions in my groin as I melt into his kiss.
Suddenly there’s a loud bang. What the hell? Shit! I fall away from him, trying to catch my breath and get a hold on my disorientated senses and my racing heart.
Marco catches my arm and laughs.
‘It’s the festa, in town.’ He points. ‘Fireworks. It used to be a celebration to mark the start of the olive harvest. Now,’ he shrugs, ‘it’s a just a festa. Would you like to go?’
My heart starts to slow down to a gentle canter.
I smile and nod, feeling ridiculous and too light-headed from the kiss to speak. And then I stop myself.
‘Rosa!’ I say out loud, and suddenly feel like a bucket of cold water has been poured over my dancing butterflies.
‘Rosa? What about Rosa?’ Marco frowns.
‘You should be with her.’ I step back into the table, making the glasses rattle. He smiles and catches my elbow.
‘Rosa is a good friend.’
‘Yes, a good friend you’re going to marry. Your mother told me.’ He laughs. ‘I really sho
uld get an early night,’ I say, flustered. ‘It’s a big day tomorrow.’
‘As much as my mamma would like it, I’m not going to marry Rosa.’ Marco still has hold of me, and in a way I’m thankful, because my knees haven’t fully recovered from that kiss.
‘You’re not going to marry her?’ I don’t know whether to be pleased or cross.
‘My mamma would like me to be with her so that the Bellanuovos can be part of a big olive estate again. But Rosa no more has eyes for me than I do for her. We are just friends. She is a fine businesswoman and is about to take over the press from her father. But she doesn’t need me there to do that. Like someone else I know, she is more than capable of managing on her own.’ He raises an eyebrow and I really want to believe him, despite his mother’s words banging in my head. I want to believe he’s free. So for now, that’s what I’ll do.
‘So? The festa?’ he asks again.
And I smile and nod.
We make our way through the narrow cobbled streets, past the school, where my painting is under wraps until tomorrow. I look at the sheets covering it and shiver with nerves. Marco pulls me closer to him. There are wooden stands bedecked with fairy lights where the market usually is. We walk up towards the old town. The side streets are lit up, with lanterns strung from one side of the street to the other. They show off the whitewashed walls, the steps and the low doorways. The pizzeria is in full swing, and everywhere we go Marco is stopped and spoken to by neighbours. He introduces me as his neighbour from Masseria Bellanuovo. When he slides his arm around my waist, the butterflies go into overdrive with their swooping and zooming. We stop when we meet Rocco the electrician and his wife and daughter, and Luigi with his granddaughter on his shoulders. Both his sons are with him, the elder, who I’ve never met before, with his wife and daughter. Young Luigi looks shy and awkward as usual.
We see Lou with her husband and son. Giac waves and calls my name. They seem to have put their worries aside for the night too. I spot one of Marco’s cousins, who must be here for Nonna’s birthday, but he and Marco pretend not to see each other. I wish Marco would talk about it. The shops are all lit up, brilliant white lights showing off the wares in their windows against the dark autumn night, and it feels like Christmas in Oxford Street but far nicer. Everyone is dressed up smartly and they stop to talk to the neighbours they pass on their passeggiata through town.
‘Hey!’ I hear a shout and turn to see Ryan jogging through the crowds towards me. My heart dips a little and I suddenly feel awkward, even though nothing ever really happened between us.
He’s smiling broadly and kisses me on each cheek. I feel self-conscious and step away from Marco, whose hand is now only loosely on my shoulder, but if Ryan has noticed, he doesn’t show it.
‘You saved me a journey. I was coming to see you,’ he says, and I cringe, hoping he doesn’t want another date. I’m about to say something but he continues: ‘Your olives. Thought we’d get them booked in now. Get them done soon,’ he says firmly, nodding for me to agree.
‘Oh, I . . .’ I look at Marco, who drops his arm and steps back, as if letting me know I’m on my own here.
‘You do want me to do them still?’ Ryan frowns at me.
‘Yes, yes,’ I say. ‘But, erm . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Not yet.’ I don’t look at Marco. This is my decision. ‘I’ll ring you when I’m ready.’
‘I have other customers, Ruthie. I’ve already started on the other Bellanuovo land,’ Ryan insists.
Marco says nothing.
‘I don’t want you to leave it too late and not get a slot at the press.’
I take another moment to think. He’s right, of course. What if I miss it? But a voice inside me is telling me loud and clear what I should do, and I think I need to listen.
‘Soon, I promise. But I want to wait just a little longer. Please.’ I can hear my voice but I don’t recognise it. Me, impulsive, rush-at-things Collins. ‘I want them to be the best they can be. These things take time. We must wait.’
‘Well, okay . . .’ Ryan sucks air through his teeth and then looks at Marco, who is still standing a little way away from me, head down. ‘Don’t leave it until it’s too late, though. It’ll be your loss.’ This time he’s frowning, distant. The cheekiness is gone and in its place is something far edgier.
‘I’ll ring you as soon as I’m ready,’ I say.
With a dark look, he turns and disappears into the crowd, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m guessing we don’t need to have the conversation about a second date. For a moment I wonder if I’ve done the right thing telling him to wait on the olives. He’s already doing the other Bellanuovo oil. What if I’ve got it wrong? I look up at Marco.
‘You have to trust your own instincts to be a good olive oil producer,’ he says, with no trace of humour. ‘Do you believe your olives need more time?’
I think, and then I nod.
‘As long as I can leave it.’
‘Then you’ve done the right thing.’ He smiles gently and we carry on walking, jostling through the slow-moving crowds up to the big square by the church. Something about that encounter has unnerved me, though. Ryan’s dark face when I told him I wanted to wait. Marco does his best to cheer me up as we move through the crowds.
As we reach the top of the hill and arrive at the church, the crowd comes to a standstill. I look up at the church steps, the same steps where I saw Marco and his family the day after I arrived. The faces that have come back to haunt me as I painted at the school.
Suddenly there is a flash and a bang as more fireworks fill the night sky, bigger and brighter than the ones before. Big wooden stands have been erected looking out over the valley below. People cheer and clap at the colourful crackles and bangs lighting up their excited faces. The air is filled with their infectious happiness. As I smile and look around, I catch sight of a single pair of eyes not smiling; staring, glaring eyes boring into mine. It’s Anna-Maria, Marco’s mamma, and she doesn’t look happy at all.
When the fireworks are over, I look round for Anna-Maria but she’s nowhere to be seen. Marco and I walk back through the town, moving with the crowds, but I’m looking out for his mother all the way.
‘Get an early night,’ Marco says, seeing me to my door. ‘You have a big day tomorrow.’ And suddenly I’m terrified. I have lived and breathed this painting for the last few weeks, and now that it’s finished, I’m torn between being thrilled with it and convinced I’ve made an awful mistake. At first, as I plotted it, I followed the picture I’d sketched out, but it soon began to take on a life of its own, filling in faces and spaces as if it was a story demanding to be told. Some nights Lou would bring me food and drink when all the children had left. Other nights, as it got dark, she had to tell me to go home and start again in the morning. When I finished, I actually cried. I’d done it. I’d painted the picture that was in my heart. I’d painted their faces and their lives as I saw them. Now all I have to do is live with the consequences.
‘I’ll pick you up and drive you to town in the morning. I’ll bring the painting you did for Nonna and give it to her at the unveiling. It will be fine, you’ll see,’ Marco says, sensing my nerves. But I know I won’t get a wink of sleep. I have a feeling that none of it will be fine. He leans in and kisses me gently, brushing my lips, then leaves me at the door and disappears over the wall to his own little trullo. I watch him go. I touch my lips. It may be the last time he ever kisses me. After tomorrow, I doubt he will ever want to see me again.
I squint into the dark, watching him disappear into the shadows. It’s then that I realise Phil and Kirsty’s pen is open and both the hens are missing. My heart squeezes and I look around in despair. None of this is going to be fine at all.
The next morning I go straight downstairs and outside to find Daphne in the barn. Hiding behind her are Kirsty and Phil.
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��Oh thank God!’ I say as I chuck down handfuls of grain for them. I give Daphne an extra scoop of feed for looking after them so well.
I could have sworn I shut the henhouse last night. Or did I? I was all over the place when we left to go into town for the festa. I remember going to get a jumper from upstairs and turning off the light. Then I checked on Daphne. If I did shut them in, would someone really open up the henhouse? Am I being ridiculous, paranoid? Or did someone do it deliberately?
My mind flits back to today. The big day. The unveiling of the mural. I feel sick with nerves. To be honest, I didn’t realise it was going to be like this. A big event. I thought it was just something I was going to do for the school kids, but Lou and the headmistress want to make an occasion of it, and I can’t say no. Lou has been so good to me.
Luigi walks past and waves and wishes me luck. I thank him and tell him I hope to see him there.
‘Of course!’ he replies in English.
I’m stunned.
‘Luigi, you speak English?’
‘Of course,’ he replies and carries on his way, smiling and waving.
Marco arrives, his hair slightly damp. He smells wonderful, with a hint of the lemony aftershave he wears.
‘Good morning.’ He kisses both my cheeks and I want to tell him to forget the unveiling and take me upstairs. But of course I don’t.
‘Parking is going to be a nightmare in town. Just after church is always busy,’ he says.
‘What about Anna-Maria and Nonna?’ I’m suddenly nervous all over again.
‘Filippo is taking them to Mass and then on to the unveiling. Nonna is wearing a brand-new dress for her birthday treat.’
‘Oh lovely, something colourful?’ I feel pleased for her.
