by Adele Parks
Roberto re-orders my tomatoes and tells the waiter that the mistake is entirely ours so we'll pay for both dishes. The waiter eventually returns with my food but the others have finished their meals by this time, so I eat in a hurried and uncomfortable silence.
Raffaella orders dessert and coffee, then a second bottle of wine and liqueurs. When the bill comes she makes an enormous fuss over Roberto's generosity.
'No, no, Mamma. It is Elizabeth you should thank. It was her idea and it is her treat.'
Raffaella looks my way and smiles. I notice the smile doesn't manage to climb to her eyes.
'You must have big money in bank in London. Big job in London,' she says.
'No big job. Two jobs. I was a barmaid and a waitress,' I reply in what is undoubtedly poor Italian.
Raffaella laughs and says something else in the fast Italian that I can't catch. Roberto shakes his head but he doesn't look cross, more indulgent. I translate that he's saying Raffaella must not tease so much.
'What?' I ask.
Still smiling, he says, 'Mamma could not believe you had experience as a barmaid.'
In London I was considered a good barmaid, popular and efficient, and my waitressing work was second to none. I never used notebooks to list specials or to take orders. I prided myself on remembering who ordered what, and even with large parties that changed seats I rarely laid the food in front of the wrong person. Here, I'm embarrassed to admit I behave like an imbecile. I'm unfamiliar with the beer brands and the liqueurs. I barely understand the language and even with a crash course, 100 per cent immersion, I can't understand what clients want to order, let alone chatter or banter with them. The day that I will be able to do so seems a long, long way off. Raffaella has no doubt noticed every mistake I've made. I blush furiously but pretend not to understand her meaning; instead I try to bring the conversation back to money. I've been intending to ask what I'll get paid here; now is as good a time as any. I'm not expecting to be paid for clearing and cleaning but I think the bar work does demand a fair wage.
'Well, I'm happy to treat you all to a meal because I'll be getting my first wage pack soon. I've been working behind the bar for over a week now. Do you pay weekly or monthly?'
Roberto starts to play with the spoon on his coffee saucer. 'Ah, yes, Mamma and I were talking about your wage and in fact we thought it was an insult to give you one.'
'What? I don't understand.'
'Well, Mamma pointed out that it is a family business and we are all working for a greater good. If we pay you, you are just like the other staff and you are not that.' Roberto meets my eye and I know that he's a little uncomfortable with this decision, but then why is he backing it? Is the bar so profitless?
'But you get paid,' I point out.
'Exactly,' Roberto smiles, but I wasn't trying to prove his argument. 'And we have food and a home. What do you need money for?'
'Stuff,' I splutter.
'What stuff?'
'Clothes, make-up, music, books.'
'But you have lots of clothes.'
I hope to God it was my imagination but it seemed as though when he said this there was a slight sneer around his mouth, a diluted form of the look I have seen Raffaella wear. Surely not.
We haven't got wardrobe space for a quarter of the clothes you've brought with you, despite your charity shop dump,' he adds.
True, nearly everything I own is still in my suitcases, which lie on the floor swallowing up Paolina's bedroom. That's why it's important that Raffaella takes her ancient clothes out of the wardrobes and makes some room. Even Bruno's clothes are still hanging there.
'You can use our savings account from England if you see anything you want that is special. That is fair, because I'm also to use that for the bar refurbishment.'
'What happens when the account dries up? Our savings aren't vast.'
'I'll give you an allowance from my earnings.'
I realize that while Roberto's tone has remained perfectly calm and civilized, we are having a row. I mostly realize this because Raffaella looks delighted; her eyes bounce from one to the other of us, as though she is watching a Wimbledon final. I'm so shocked that my. mother-in-law is happy enough for me to roll up my sleeves and join the staff but she has no intention of paying me for my trouble that I find I'm struggling to articulate why I feel her, their., decision is wrong. Roberto's argument sounds reasonable but somehow it doesn't feel it.
'I don't want to row about this with you,' I say.
'Well, don't then,' replies Roberto, and he leans in to kiss me square on the lips, silencing me.
16
30 January
Alison has called me every two or three days since I arrived and I've done the strangest thing: when the phone rings I invariably let it go through to voice-mail. I then listen to her messages and send her a text in reply. Yup, I'm guilty of screening my best friend's calls. Why? Because a devastating awkwardness has developed between us – for the first time since we met I think it's going to be difficult to be totally honest with her. I mean, how am I going to explain that the romantic, profit-making vineyard of my dreams is in fact a scruffy, ready-to-go-bust bar? I have to confront this dilemma, yet again, when my phone shudders in my pocket and I see her name on the screen. I briefly consider a lifetime of avoiding Alison's calls but the thought is unbearable. Two weeks has been long enough. I pick up.
'Hi,' says Alison. She sounds relieved to have caught me, but hearing her voice makes me feel guilty, shy and nervous all at once. 'Finally! Oh my God, I get to speak to you! So, what's it like? Are you working hard? A vineyard. I just can't imagine it.' Which makes two of us. 'Start from the very beginning, tell me every detail of your working day,' she insists.
Alison is normally calm and considered. The fact that her excitement is verging on hysteria in this particular case disconcerts me horribly. For a moment I seriously wonder whether there is the slightest possibility that I don't have to confess to my mistake but I know I'll be discovered sooner or later – besides the fact I can't furnish her with details of my working day in a vineyard (even I haven't got that much imagination), at some point she'll come and visit me and then I'll be stuffed.
'The family business isn't a vineyard. When Roberto said they were in the wine trade it turns out that he meant his family own a small bar.' I utter my confession in a hurry but it's no less painful.
'what?'
'It's an easy mistake to make,' I insist.
'No, it isn't. Why didn't you know that?' she asks with astonishment. 'How could you have got that so wrong? My God, you are a bloody idiot at times.'
Alison follows up her insult with a spurt of laughter. She cannot hide her amusement. She doesn't much try. I know for a fact that she is going to exercise her prerogative, as best friend, to take the mick out of me mercilessly and forever.
I keep a stony, dignified silence; whatever I say will only make her tease me more. She'll lose interest sooner rather than later – maybe when I'm sixty or something.
Once she realizes I'm unprepared to comment further she says, 'Err, right, well, how's everything else going? How are you finding Italy? You are in Italy, aren't you? You haven't muddled it up and discovered that Roberto is Albanian after all?'
'Ha ha, very funny. Italy is wonderful, thank you.'
'Lives up to your expectations, does it?' she asks.
'It's much colder than I imagined but yes, pretty much.'
'Marvellous! A miracle actually, as your expectations were very high.'
I start to wax lyrical about the aspects of Italy that have delighted me. 'The food is delicious and the people are wonderfully sociable. I love the way Italians enjoy time. When they order a drink they don't guzzle it with one eye on the clock, mindful of happy hour limits. Instead they take time to chat to their server, choose a table, and maybe have a nibble with their drink. They seem to have a deeper understanding of civilization and civility.'
'So what's this bar like then?' Alison cuts in.<
br />
'Pretty grubby at the moment but Roberto and I have great plans for it.'
'Rustic charm?'
'No, I'm thinking uber-chic.'
'How's business?'
'We've some challenges. There is a market. There are six bars in Veganze, four in the square and two just a stone's throw away, including ours; so I can't see any of us ever becoming millionaires, but the other bars always seem pretty busy, even though Veganze only has a population of eight thousand people. I can't work that out. Over half the population must be minors or very elderly and Italians are not heavy drinkers, yet there's always someone to serve. We just need to attract a more constant flow of customers.'
'Are you listening to that CD I bought you?' she asks.
'Yes.'
In fact, no. 'Learn conversational Italian in three weeks; one hour's work a day' has not been out of its box yet. I never seem to have one hour to devote to learning the language.I suppose I could have listened when I was cleaning and sorting but I prefer being inside my own head and thinking about plump-thighed bambini with thick, dark, curly hair – that's such a pleasant way to pass time.
'How are you getting along with your mother-in-law?'
I sigh and wonder how much I ought to confess. I've replayed the events of our dinner out over and over again in my head. Did I imagine the extent of Raffaella's awkwardness? Roberto came home from the meal and waxed lyrical about how wonderful it had been to be out with his wife and his family, and how marvellously everyone had got on, and how sensational the food was. I'll give him that – the food was good. It was almost as though he'd attended a separate dinner from the one I was at. I'm really confused.
'We're not what you'd describe as bosom buddies yet,' I admit. 'But as you said, I had high expectations. It will take a bit of time for us to get to the place I want us to be. Since we've arrived most of her attention has been focused on Roberto, but that's to be expected.'
'Did she like the presents you brought?' Alison asks.
Alison had been with me for most of my expeditions into the shops of west and central London. I can't bring myself to tell her that the pretty packages remain unopened. They are casually discarded on the large dark wood dresser in the living room. Every time I spot them I feel sorry for the painstakingly selected toiletries, the silk scarf, the scented candles and the fancy chocolates that expected, not unreasonably, to be loved. At night I imagine them languishing and feeling useless, a little like my ovaries must feel.
'Mmm,' I mumble, not committing. I need to change the subject. 'So, tell me about the big date, wasn't that this week?'
'Last night, actually.'
Before Christmas Alison had met a girl at book group, and after swapping views on Ivo Andric and other fiercely intellectual authors they finally admitted to having the hots for each other. This date with Fiona had been set up weeks ago because, like Alison, Fiona has an amazing career and fabulous social life and it's taken a while for them to find a mutually convenient date. Alison has been quietly excited about this date, as she rarely meets anyone who catches her imagination.
She talks me through the evening, blow by blow; it clearly went really well. In summary, they went to the theatre and then on for a curry afterwards; there was no tongue action but she is meeting Fiona again, tonight.
'Tonight? Wow. You're breaking your own rule. Seeing her the very next night.'
'Well, I haven't got you to waste my time with,' she says affectionately. 'I guess I couldn't think of anything better to do.' I have a feeling she's trying to play down her excitement.
'Listen, Alison, I don't want to seem rude but I was right in the middle of painting a wall when you rang and I need to get it finished within the hour as I'm working a shift tonight.' Actually, the truth is that when Alison mentioned wasting time I made a quick calculation and realized what the date is. I need to find Roberto at once. 'Have fun tonight,' I garble.
'I will. I promise,' she giggles.
17
I consider whether it's worth taking the time to change into something more alluring than my paint-splattered gear before I seduce Roberto but I can't summon the energy. Paint-splashed dungarees and no make-up is a different look, but they say a change is as good as a rest. He's sitting at the bar poring over the bar's accounts again. Before I interrupt him I take the time to make him a strong espresso – his favourite.
I gently place a coffee down in front of him and wrap my arms around him, smudging my breasts into his back.
'You really are doing a sensational job,' I whisper into his ear. 'This place is looking better already and I'm not the only one who says so, I've heard customers make the same comments. And I'm quite the scrubber, even if I say so myself,' I joke.
Roberto either doesn't get or doesn't hear the joke. I guess he has so much on his mind he hasn't got time to think about my double entendre.
'I have a vision to restore Bruno's to the thriving hub that it was in my father's heyday,' says Roberto.
I smile to myself at his verbose declaration. I suppose he's becoming a little more flamboyant and sentimental because he's back in his Italian family home. Going home always does strange things to people. Whenever I go home I find myself drinking Bailey's and pretending to like watching repeats of Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em on Sky. His statement sounds like something a movie hero following a script might say. Occasionally, since we've arrived in Italy, I get this strange feeling that I'm somehow disconnected from reality; I think it's something to do with not having a deep understanding of the language. I often feel like I'm in a movie or something. I'm not exactly the leading lady (although I am married to the leading man), I'm more of an extra.
'You mean we really have no choice but to shape this place up if we are hoping to eat?' I say with a smile.
'More than the money, it is about pride too. My vision will require lots of commitment and hard work,' adds Roberto. I resist looking around for his autocue and smile indulgently. 'Are you with me?' he demands, rather surprisingly.
I like seeing him this fired up. I admit the advertising agency hadn't pushed his buttons for quite some time. I'm keen for a family business too, but mostly I'm keen for a family, so everyone needs to take a break now and again – a break that coincides with the green light marked on my fertility calendar. I kiss him. I lean closer in to him and then, in a not too cleverly thought-out move, I sort of hoist myself up on to the bar stool next to him and push my body up against his. I feel my nipples hardening, I hope he can.
'I know you are busy, my darling, and I support you wholeheartedly. We can come back later if you like, together. But I really think we should go home now. The siesta is a tradition in Italy, isn't it? I know you love a tradition.'
'Is it a good time?'
Roberto sounds a little tired but I try to ignore that. He pulls away from me and checks the date on his watch. He sighs ever so quietly as I nod. I feel a bit guilty as I realize that we rarely spontaneously make love any more. Or even have sex. We try for a baby. Maybe I should have let him take me in the attic the other day.
Roberto obligingly puts down his pen and the accounts book. 'I need Paolina to look at these numbers again anyway. I can't make much sense of them. Come on, my darling.' We walk back to Raffaella's hand-in-hand but in silence.
The baby-trying takes an efficient ten minutes. There's no point in prolonging it, as I know Roberto is bushed. I've long since stopped thinking that my orgasm is an essential part of our sex act; that would be rather indulgent. When it's over I lie on my back with my head at the toe end of the bed and my legs in the air, resting against the headboard.
'What are you doing?' asks Roberto curiously. You look as though you are practising yoga.'
I beam at him, as I'm appreciative that he's made the effort this afternoon. 'I'm just giving the sperm its best chance. I've just read about this.'
For a moment Roberto is silent. I see irritation flash across his face. I should have known he'd take it the wrong way and been a little
more careful. I think I'm sometimes rather less sensitive than I should be, but maybe he's rather more sensitive than he should be. 'You think I produce inadequate sperm?' he asks sorrowfully.
'No,' I reply calmly.
'Good. Because I don't make inadequate sperm. We had the test. We know my sperm is fine.' Now his tone is defiant.
'As are my eggs,' I add. I don't want to be arsy but I know I am being a little bit so. I suppose I'm tired as well. Too much scrubbing.
'In fact,' says Roberto crossly.
He snaps back the sheets and bounces out of bed. He stands with his back to me and stares at the ceiling. I can almost touch the steaming fury that he's emitting. Oh bugger, where did this row come from? I'd been really happy that he'd agreed to leave his work and do the deed; I hadn't intended for us to row. I try to comfort him.
'Look, you have great sperm. I have great eggs. They just don't like each other. It's no one's fault, it's just the way it is. So please don't go all Italian stallion on me.'
'Don't accuse me of being mistakenly macho,' he barks.
I had done just that but I hadn't meant to; besides, who would have thought he'd notice? Often the language barriers protect us from registering the unnecessary but irresistible digs that pass between married couples from time to time. We both fall silent for a moment. I want to put my arms around him and cheer him up but I have to keep my legs in the air for at least a quarter of an hour. Roberto gets dressed and leaves the room. I wait the allotted fifteen minutes before I follow him. I find him in the bar with Raffaella. They are serving and the moment to explain myself has passed. Damn. I feel such a horror. I roll up my sleeves and resign myself to a long night.
