Page 6 of A Place in the Sun
‘She’s hot,’ I say. ‘And tired. It’s been a long few days.’
He pours the water and hands it to Aimee first. She drinks it, and he passes one to Luca, then finally to me.
‘Grazie.Thank you,’ I say.
He pulls over an umbrella and adjusts it to make sure we’re all in shade.
‘Grazie,’ I say again. He gives me a warm, attractive smile. I’m not usually halted by someone’s looks, but he’s handsome, with that dark hair and those shoulders. Marco was my type. Well, I didn’t realize he was until I met him. Before him I was seeing someone quite the opposite. But once I met Marco, I realized I had a type and he was it. Just like this man is. I shake my head. I have no idea why I’m thinking about my type, and how good-looking this waiter is. I put it down to the heat, and the relief of being here. He’s very like Marco, I muse, as he stands with the three of us. Perhaps he’s waiting to start a conversation. But I don’t want to explain who we are and what we’re doing here right now.
‘Menus?’ I remind him gently.
He has his hands on his hips. ‘I can do you some pasta,’ he tells me. ‘Cacio e pepe?’
I stare at him in amazement. I know it’s late in the afternoon, but surely there must be something else on the menu, other than plain pasta with Parmesan and pepper. I know how hungry and tired the children are, though, so I say, ‘That’ll be great. Yes, please,’ too tired and hot to suggest looking for somewhere else where we might be offered a choice. ‘Don’t worry, Aimee. Food is on its way. Pasta, like we had at home.’
She holds her rabbit to her nose. ‘Mr Fluffy wants to go home,’ she says into his worn, tear-stained head.
‘You’ll feel better after something to eat. Papa always said so, didn’t he?’
Luca gazes up at the man. ‘And could my mum have a large glass of wine, please?’ he says, sounding so grown-up that he makes me smile … but I want to cry too.
The man smiles. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he says, and goes back inside.
Maybe he’s just being jokey with the customers. When we had the restaurant I bent over backwards to get customers what they wanted. But that didn’t help me hang on to the place. Maybe I should have been a bit morelaissez-faire. My mind flits back to the CCTV, the straw that finally broke the restaurant’s and my back. The family of seven who came in andordered royally from the menu, making me think I could just about pay the staff that weekend … that I could hang on to the place for another month and everything would be fine. Their bill was huge and I thought I’d be able to make ends meet that week, until their card didn’t work. They went to get another from the car, leaving their son in the restaurant. He took his cue to scarper when they were outside with the engine running. It was evidently a practised routine. I should have realized I was being mugged when the card was declined. They had eaten and drunk my most expensive food and wine, then left without paying. All I could do was to let other restaurateurs in the area know about them. My takings were down, my kitchen stock cleared out and my credit at full capacity. I had to close. With my years of experience I should have seen the red flags that were flying in my face when they came in, drinking champagne and ordering the most expensive dishes. One of the party was so drunk she threw up all over the cloakroom floor and left it for my young waitress to clear up.
But I’m not here as a restaurateur. I don’t need to contemplate what you could do with this place to make it a really good business. I’m just here to eat. I’m never going back to the world of hospitality. My eyes sting with exhaustion and, to honest, I’m with Mr Fluffy: I want to go home. But there’s no home to go back to. The restaurant has gone, the house too. Iremortgaged it to help the restaurant and in the end I lost the lot. All I have left in the world is the house in this village, which I’ve never been to before, in a country I hardly know.
We’re grateful for the shade over the table and chairs. Aimee gets up to greet another cat, lounging in the heat, and introduces him or her to Mr Fluffy.
Finally the door opens and the waiter comes out, this time with a small, white dog at his feet. Not sure what breed it is. A mix, I expect. Like a small, white retriever, with dark eyes and nose. ‘Gently, gently, Bello,’ he tells the dog as it joyously bounds up to Luca, and then lies on its back waiting for its stomach to be stroked. I’m not sure it’s great restaurant etiquette. Right now, though, anything goes. I’m just keen to get us all fed, then find out about an electrician.
The man is carrying the pasta and three plates. He puts the steaming bowl down, and serves it, piling long strands onto the plates, then handing them to the children and me. I have to say it smells fantastic. Buttery, cheesy and peppery. The children dive in, twisting the spaghetti with their forks and eating enthusiastically, reminding me again of Marco and his insistence that the children should learn to eat pasta correctly. He’d also said never, ever to put pineapple on pizza. One of our many differences of opinion, I think, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. Since we arrived here I’ve thought of Marco. Every day since he died I’vethought of him, but being here, in the village, in the house, his dream for us, he hasn’t left my thoughts.
The man goes back inside and returns with an opened bottle of wine, the cork halfway into the neck, and a glass, then puts them on the table. ‘Help yourself,’ he says.
‘Oh, just a glass would be fine,’ I say.
He picks up the bottle, pulls the cork and pours the dark red wine for me. Then he puts the bottle back on the table.
‘Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like. I’ll just be inside.’
We eat hungrily, mopping up the buttery sauce with bread from a basket. It’s probably one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten and I feel guilty, thinking of Marco and the passion he poured into his dishes. But we were so hungry today and it hit the spot. The children have cleared their plates, the colour returning to their cheeks.
‘How was the food?’ says the man, reappearing through the big door, his dog at his heels.
‘Buono!’ says Luca, and kisses the tips of his fingers, like Marco used to, making us all laugh.
‘I’m afraid I have onlygelatofor dessert,’ he says, putting down three bowls of thick, creamy pistachio ice cream. The children fall on it with enthusiasm, as do I.
He pours me another glass of wine. ‘Take your time,’ he tells me. Then, to my surprise, he pulls up a chair,putting two cups of coffee on the table. ‘So, how do you come to be in our village? Are you on holiday?’ He stirs a sugar cube from his saucer into his coffee and leans back in the chair.
‘Erm …’ I’m alarmed by him sitting at our table and my guard comes up. I try to stop the children telling our story to a complete stranger. Too late …
‘We’re here on a long holiday,’ says Luca. ‘We’re putting the house into its Sunday best so someone can love it, like my papa did.’
‘Actually,’ I cut in, ‘I’m wondering if you know of an electrician? I have a problem with the electrics.’
He frowns. ‘Where are you staying exactly?’
