Page 15 of A Place in the Sun
Suddenly, I have memories of the lasagnes we’d make for birthdays and on Sundays before we had the restaurant. The early days when Marco was a chef ontour with different bands, not just in this country but abroad, catering for the musicians, world-class acts, and crew. I was working in the city, a professional headhunter … We met one night after he’d done a gig at the O2 in south-east London and I was having a late drink with friends after work. We clicked straight away, and after we’d messaged for a while I broke off my engagement. We met up as often as his work allowed it. It was the most impetuous thing I had ever done and I felt awful about hurting my lovely fiancé. Otherwise everything about it felt right. When Marco came up with the idea of us putting down roots and opening a restaurant of our own, I jumped at it, first because I wanted to be with him and, second, it sounded like a wonderful adventure. I loved hosting events, which was part of my job. We headed west, to my home town of Cardiff, where things were cheaper than they were in London, and found a restaurant to call our own. Marco knew I could make our customers feel looked after and also manage the staff. He wanted to be liked, not to be the boss, and always referred the staff to me for anything official.
‘See my wife! She’s the boss!’ he would tell them, knowing we were equal partners. We were happy with the way we’d fallen into our roles in the business. He was creative, friendly and encouraging to the staff. I generated the warm, welcoming atmosphere in the restaurant and kept a firm hand on the books. But thebusiness wasn’t a business without the two of us. The harder it became to make ends meet, the harder it was to keep up the appearance of a smooth-running ship.
‘Mum?’ Luca says, interrupting my thoughts of the past. ‘What did Giovanni mean, “the first of many”?’
‘I’m not sure, Luca.’
Something tells me, though, that all is not as it seems in the sleepy little village.
5
That night, after making up the beds in the two other rooms upstairs, next to the small, basic bathroom, we sit outside at the table under the big fig tree. I’ve found a candle, pushed it into a dusty old wine bottle from under the sink and light it to try to keep the mosquitoes away as we eat the delicious lasagne. Layers of pasta and béchamel sauce, with a rich, tomatoeyragù. But there’s far too much for the three of us.
‘Any more?’ I ask the children.
Luca accepts a second helping, but Aimee is full.
‘We have plenty left,’ I say.
‘We could eat it for breakfast,’ giggles Aimee, and makes Mr Fluffy’s head bounce up and down as if he’s agreeing.
‘Or save it for tomorrow evening,’ Luca says sensibly.
We put the remainder into a dish from the dresserand into the noisy fridge, which sounds like a small aircraft revving up to take off. I wash the dish it came in and wonder what to do with it.
‘We’ll dry up!’ says Aimee, making me smile. ‘We all have to help because Papa isn’t here. Mr Fluffy says so.’
I look at where I can imagine Marco, smiling at the children from a chair he’s pulled up to the table, sipping a glass of red wine.
Maybe being here for the summer wouldn’t be so bad after all. Marco’s here with me, or so it feels, and that’s all I need.
I head back into the garden where our friendly neighbour cat is lounging in the cooler evening air. I sit at the table in the overgrown garden with the view over the fields and hedges below.
‘Mum?’ Luca comes into the garden.
‘Yes, lovely?’
He’s carrying something. Something that looks a lot like a dish with a tea-towel over it. I frown in the dusky light. ‘What’s that?’
‘A woman just came to the door. I answered. She asked if Papa was here and gave me this.’
I peer at the dish he’s holding, then stand up and join him. ‘Who was it?’
‘Said her name was Lucia. She asked to speak to Papa.’
‘What did you say?’
He swallows. ‘That he wasn’t here.’ He lowers hishead. ‘I thanked her for the dish, in Italian. Dad would have liked that.’
‘He would,’ I say softly. I take the dish from him and carry it inside to the kitchen table where I pull back the tea-towel to reveal golden-brown pasta with béchamel sauce. ‘It’s another,’ I say to the children, whose eyes widen. ‘Another lasagne!’
‘We can’t eat all this!’ squeaks Aimee.
‘We could try,’ says Luca, eyeing the lasagne warily.
‘Mr Fluffy has a full tummy too, but he’ll try.’
‘Let’s have a bit, just to be polite. The fridge is already fairly full and I don’t want them seeing it in our bin and thinking we’re ungrateful.’
