Page 37 of Replay
He’s wearing a pair of grey trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms. There’s a white apron tied around his waist, just like the woman currently glowering at me. When he casually glances over to see who’s standing in the doorway, his face is the picture of shocked.
“Tilly?” his lips say, but I can hardly hear him over the loud music pumping through the sound system.
The woman beside me begins shouting over the music to Santino, but I can’t understand her because she’s speaking Italian. Santino yells back in the same language and grabs a towel off the counter to wipe off his hands before he turns down the music. As he strides over, he and the woman speak quickly to each other for what feels like ages as I stand there like a fool holding a couple of non-alcoholic drinks in hand while trying not to drool over the fact that Santino speaks Italian.
What the hell else is he hiding?
Finally, she waves him off, pointing aggressively towards the stove as she heads back towards the kitchen. Santino steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“God, I’m so sorry. This was a horrible idea.” I turn to leave, but he grabs me by the waist, spinning me around to look at him.
“Sorry, that came out wrong.” His hands squeeze my hips for a moment before releasing me. “I mean…how are you here? How did you know where my flat was?”
“You pointed it out the other night, and the call button said you were the penthouse, so I…um…went up the stairs? Some woman with a pram needed help outside, so the door was open, and then I just let myself in. I should have buzzed, though. I didn’t know you’d have company over.”
I lift my hands to cover my face, which is highly awkward because I’m holding two bottles of orange fizzy drinks. Santino grabs my wrists to gently lower them. “It’s fine, Tilly.”
“Nope, it’s not.” I laugh nervously. “Whoever that woman was is clearly not happy to see a stranger at the door.”
Santino’s lips turn down as he fights back a smile. “Nonna doesn’t smile at anyone. She says smiling causes wrinkles.”
Suddenly, the door opens and a much younger woman with short, dark hair stands before us with her hands on her hips. “Who do we have here?” she asks in a very faint Italian accent.
Santino replies a bit begrudgingly, “Mamma, this is Tilly.”
“Tilly?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and eyeing me up and down. “È la tua ragazza?”
Santino clears his throat loudly and pins his mother with a look of silent warning. “No, Mamma. È un’amica.”
Her brows drop as she inspects my face with rapt fascination. “Sei bella.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, not understanding a word of what the two of them are saying.
Santino spins his focus back to me with an uncomfortable look on his face. “My mother says you’re beautiful.” He closes his eyes like he’s mortified. “Listen, now might not be the best time.”
I nod in agreement and make a move to leave, but Santino’s mother grips my arm and pulls me toward the doorway. “Now is a great time. We are making salsa di Pomodoro, and it’s busywork. Come, you can help.”
“Okay…” I shoot an apologetic look over my shoulder to a dejected Santino as his mother drags me into his flat.
My eyes instantly widen when I take in his place. We walk into his large eat-in kitchen that features glossy-white cabinets and black marble countertops. The appliances are all stainless steel, and the giant hood over the stove hosting two large pots indicates this is a chef’s kitchen, which is not a feature I would have expected for Santino’s place. But I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that he managed to bring the modern luxurious side of London to the Eastend. His flat matches his style—posh, expensive, and just a hint of arrogance.
Past the kitchen is a sunken living room with wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows that step out onto a balcony. Everything is bathed in natural light, and I can’t help but be green with envy.
Santino’s mother pulls me through the kitchen. “I’m Carlotta, and that is mia mamma at the stove. You can call her Nonna, everyone does. And this is Nonno.” Nonno is a tall man with inky dark hair like Santino. He grunts his hello from his position at the high glass-top dining table where he’s lining up several Mason jars. “Over there is my stepdaughter, Angela.” Carlotta points towards the living room where a blonde who looks to be in her mid-twenties is sacked out on the white sectional sofa with her face buried in her mobile. She offers a less than enthusiastic wave as a man appears beside us. “And this is my husband, Bart.”
Bart grins with a huge crust of bread in his mouth. He finishes his bite and replies around a full mouth, “Hiya. Nice to meet you. What was your name?”
“Tilly.” I take his offered hand, noting his British accent. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Hope you’re ready to work.” He winks and stuffs more bread into his mouth. “The perk to this type of business is that you get to eat loads as well.”
Suddenly, Nonna grabs my hand and pulls me over to the stove. “You tall…this good job for you,” she states, her Italian accent much heavier than her daughter’s. She pushes the step stool away from the stove and grabs the thick wooden stick inside one of the giant pots of tomatoes. “You stir. You no need step. You big.” She holds her hand up above her head, indicating tall, so I nod in agreement. “You stir, and little by little, tomatoes break, and then you add more tomatoes.” She points at the tomatoes in the strainer on the counter. “These clean. Santino cut them, and they are ready. You wait until this boil before you add. Keep stirring. Stirring makes good.”
“Angela, go out and pick some basil,” Carlotta calls out to the living room. Angela sighs heavily before heaving herself off the sofa and walking out to the balcony where apparently Santino has plants? I feel like I’m in the middle of some elaborate prank, and any minute now, they’re going to all start laughing at me.
Nonna points at the pantry cupboard. “When these jars all full of sauce, it looks nice in there. Full. That makes me happy,” she says without cracking a smile. “You learn quick with me. I’m a good teacher.” She grabs my hand and stirs more aggressively. “You must stir a lot or it sticks on bottom. Gira, gira, gira.”
She leaves me to a job that I do not feel at all qualified for. What happens if the tomatoes stick to the bottom? Will it ruin the whole batch? When do I need to add more tomatoes? Do I have to do anything with that basil?
