Page 36 of Never Too Late
To her amazement, all too soon there came a time when she started having trouble reading the music, and it was only when he reached the end of the piece they were playing that she realised the sun had almost set and shadows were invading the room. He also saw that it was time to stop.
‘Wonderful, thanks. You can’t imagine how helpful that’s been. Sorry to have taken so much of your time; it just flew by. Feel like some dinner?’
Steph glanced at her watch and saw that they had been playing nonstop for well over two hours. She stood up and stretched. ‘Sounds good to me.’
Rob led her into the living room where the dog was stretched out on the terracotta tiles sleeping soundly, and pointed across to the fridge. ‘Help yourself to a cold drink. There’s beer, wine, whatever you want in there. I’m just popping upstairs to put on a fresh shirt. I don’t know about you, but I’m sweating buckets.’
Steph waved him away and went over to the fridge. As she did so, she immediately found she had a black shadow at her side, suddenly wide awake and quite clearly hungry. She wasn’t sweating but she helped herself to a glass of cold mineral water and sipped it while trying to explain to the dog that she didn’t know where his food was or she would have given him something. Rob’s voice from the door interrupted her conversation with Waldorf.
‘That’s a thought. I’ll feed him before we go out. That way he can come with us and sleep under the table without pestering us.’
He had changed into a fresh blue polo shirt. The colour suited him, and he looked as appealing as ever. She took the final gulp of water as the thought registered with her that this was the moment their date started – if that was what it was.
The Labrador vacuumed up his food in seconds and after a brief walk in the garden, marking his territory, he was bundled into the car and they set off. Steph settled back in the passenger seat as they bumped along the track towards the coast road and then turned left towards Lerici.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Not that she minded in the slightest where they went. A Michelin-starred restaurant or a McDonalds would be fine with her, or anywhere as long as it wasn’t a flashy place where they might be spotted and photographed together.
‘Uphill.’ He went on to explain. ‘The plan is to head inland, and around here that means uphill into the Apuan Alps. Don’t worry, it’s not too far. About half an hour max.’
He wasn’t joking about the hills. From the moment they passed under the main north–south autostrada and got onto a minor road, they started to climb and didn’t stop climbing for almost a quarter of an hour. As the road snaked ever higher via a series of hairpin bends, the sun disappeared beneath the horizon behind them, but not before she had had time to look back down at the spectacular view of the gulf below as they drove through a succession of olive groves. When they neared their destination Rob told her about the restaurant.
‘It’s a tiny little place Cesare and Donatella told me about years ago. It’s owned by a guy called Beppe and his wife, Ines. They have a little smallholding, make sensational olive oil and, if you ask very nicely, they’re sometimes prepared to cook dinner. I phoned him earlier and fixed it up. I hope you like it.’
The restaurant itself was unlike any Steph had ever been to before. To get to it, Rob turned off the road and bumped along an even more potholed track than the one leading to his house until they reached what looked like little more than a wooden hut amid the olive trees. As they drew up, a scruffy terrier came scurrying out of the shed, barking ferociously. Steph glanced apprehensively at Waldorf who was on his feet behind her in the car, staring out, but saw that his tail was wagging. Presumably these two knew each other. In fact, when Rob let him out, the two dogs had a wonderful time chasing each other about while the elderly proprietor emerged and shook hands warmly with Rob and then Steph, before showing them to their table underneath a vine-covered lean-to. There were only two other tables and both were empty. They had the place to themselves.
From here in daytime they would have had a clear view all the way down the hillside to the coast. Now that it was dark, all they could see were lights of a handful of villas and farms dotting the hillside and the brighter lights of the towns at sea level. Around them were only olive trees and, apart from the sound of the dogs as they charged about, all was silent. It was a delightful spot.
‘What do you think?’ Rob’s voice returned her attention to him, and she gave him a broad smile.
‘It’s amazing. What a place.’
‘Wait till you try the food. We’re not talking fancy food with all sorts of bells and whistles. It’s good solid country fare: no frills, but it’s all genuine. You know the Italians love to describe their food asgenuino, and that’s what this place is: authentic and natural. The food we’re going to get should be fresh, local and prepared in the traditional way.’
‘I can’t wait.’ After her salad lunch, a busy day, and the stress of two hours of accompanying him on the piano, she was hungry.
As it turned out, that was just as well. Within two minutes of their sitting down Beppe returned with a huge plate of hand-carved ham and salami. Along with it were slices of melon, fresh black figs and a pot of soft goat’s cheese. Seconds later he came back again with an unmarked bottle of red wine, a bottle of water, a basket of focaccia bread and a candle stuck in an old Chianti flask that he positioned on the table between them. He mumbled a quietbuon appetitoand withdrew.
Steph asked Rob about the upcoming concerts and was disappointed to hear that he would in fact be leaving in just two days’ time. This was to be for a little tour of the Ligurian coast, starting in Sanremo and followed by other performances including Genoa and Savona the following week, which meant he would be away for a total of six days, not coming back until next Thursday.
‘This time of year’s quite a busy time for me with outdoor concerts all over Europe and then later on there’s a big Vivaldi festival in Venice, Puccini in Rome, Wagner in Berlin, and so it goes on.’
It hadn’t escaped Steph’s mind that by the time he came back the following week she would probably only have a matter of days before her flight back to the UK. ‘What about Britain? Any performances planned?’
‘November, I’m in London for a few nights.’ He looked up from his melon. ‘If you give me your address, I’ll send you tickets if you’re interested.’
Steph nodded mutely. Kind as the offer of tickets was, this hardly qualified as any indication that he might want to see her again once she left. Reminding herself that this was probably for the best didn’t help. She took a sip of wine and tried to swallow her disappointment along with it.
The antipasti were followed bypappardelle ai carciofi. The wide strips of pasta arrived covered in a creamy sauce made with fresh artichokes from Beppe’s garden and it was delicious. By the time she had finished the generous portion Beppe served her, Steph was beginning to feel full, and she enquired cautiously if there was going to be anything else to eat. In response, Beppe’s wife, Ines, put in her first appearance of the night as she brought them a local speciality:baccalàalla pisana. This was a succulent mix of salt cod – for centuries the staple of mariners around here – cooked with potatoes, tomato, onions, olives and capers and, despite feeling full, Steph had to have some and was pleased she did. It was exquisite.
She just couldn’t find space even for a small serving ofcastagnaccioas dessert, much as she liked this chestnut-based creamy sweet, and asked for an espresso instead. When Beppe brought them their coffees he also brought an anonymous bottle of clear spirit with the explanation that this was his own homemade grappa. She and Rob just took tiny taster sips of this firewater and had to admit that it was excellent, but definitely not the sort of thing to be drunk before setting off down a road full of hairpin bends.
Throughout the meal she and Rob chatted, and he told her about the tragic death by drowning of the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley somewhere just off the coast from his house. Apparently the poet and a friend had gone sailing in an unseaworthy boat in bad weather and the result had been his death at the age of only twenty-nine, coincidentally the same age as she and Rob were now. It was a sobering thought. Paganini, on the other hand, had survived until the age of forty-seven but spookily at the age of twenty-nine had contracted syphilis. Steph hoped this wasn’t a bad omen and did her best not to let her mind dwell on her biopsy and the possible ramifications of a bad result.
Maybe realising that the conversation was becoming a bit morbid, Rob changed it to the more immediate matter of her future.
‘What will you do if Dad and the others decide to go off on a world tour and they want you to go along in Vince’s place? That would mean a big upheaval for you, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m trying not to even think about it. The idea of me appearing on stage with a world-famous band like Royalty is too crazy for words. Can you imagine little old me up there alongside them? That sort of thing doesn’t happen to ordinary people like me.’
