Page 23 of A Place in the Sun
‘Thank you.’ I get up to leave.
‘I will bring you dessert. My tiramisu.’
She tops up my wine glass from the little terracotta jug into which she has poured the wine. I try to refuse, to no avail: ‘Oh, no …’
There’s no stopping her. She’s like a juggernaut gathering pace. I’m here for the meal, to the end.
‘Justpiccolo,’ I say. ‘A little bit.’ I hear her laugh under her breath. She turns from the kitchen and places a glass dish in front of me.
I’m very full, but it would be rude not to eat some.
I lift my spoon. Her eyes are on me, watching intently. I put it into my mouth … and it is just heaven. Gorgeous. Just like I remember when we sat down after service in the restaurant, with a cold thirst-quenching beer on a hot summer’s evening after a busy service, the waiters happy with their tips, and customers’ promises of reviews on Tripadvisor. Or a coffee, with some brandy and a bowl of tiramisu from the fridge. A quiet time in the restaurant kitchen, like backstage in the theatre, enjoying the buzz of an appreciative audience.
‘This is wonderful,’ I say, after a second mouthful.
‘Buono.’ She beams. ‘Now, tell me about you. What are you doing here?’
I scoop more tiramisu onto my spoon, trying to work out how much I’m prepared to say. I mustn’t feel bullied. I take another mouthful of the delicious pudding. To leave any would feel like a crime, especially with Teresa watching me like a hawk.
‘Well …’ I start, taking little spoonfuls quickly, buying myself time to decide what to say ‘… I’m doing up Casa Luna.’ I’d like to leave it there, but she’s waiting silently, watching me. ‘And I’m here with my children for the summer.’ That should be enough. I puta big spoonful of cream and sponge into my mouth so I can’t say any more.
‘Ah, yes, Casa Luna.’ She shakes her head. ‘So sad she had no one to pass the house on to. All that time alone after her husband died.’
I choke a little on my big mouthful, not wanting to talk about dead husbands. I swallow quickly and drink some wine, which clears my mouth, throat and mind all in one go.
‘Oh, of course,’ I say, ‘I brought back your dish.Grazie millefor the lasagne.’ I lift the basket onto the table. ‘But I’m not sure which is yours.’ I pull out the three.
She stares at them, then up at me. Her face tightens and she purses her lips. ‘I see you had some other visitors.’
Her mood has changed from friendly to frosty.
‘Erm, yes, all very lovely,’ I say. ‘And very welcome.’
She sniffs. ‘But they were all very different?’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly.
‘Did you have a favourite?’
Suddenly I’m answering the million-pound question onWho Wants to Be a Millionaire?, and I’m hot, sweaty and terrified of getting it wrong. I feel the colour drain from my face. ‘Er, which dish is yours?’ I ask, my throat tight.
She smiles, and I think we’re back on friendly terms. And then she says, ‘It was the best one, of course!My lasagne recipe has always been the best in the village. It helped me win my husband’s heart. It was his mother’s recipe. When he discovered I could make lasagne like her, he decided I was the woman for him.’
I stare at the dishes. Now what? ‘Tell me more about your husband. Is he here?’ I’m playing for time.
‘He died. I am a widow.’
Gah! Back to widowhood.
I know it’s not the blue dish. That was the last one and I actually took it from the woman who brought it. It’s the orange one or the white one with flowers.
‘And you?’
‘We’re doing up the house. I hope to finish by the end of the summer. My husband bought it, but we didn’t have time to get out here and renovate it. Now it has to be done by the end of August. Or I’ll have to pay lots more money,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t said that.
‘Ah, yes, the housing scheme. A bargain for some who want to come and live in Italy. Maybe not so when they realize how remote this village is and how it is dying on its feet. Like its men.’
‘So,’ I try to move the subject along, ‘I’m here and we’re doing it up.’
