“Mum, I’m going to finish packing. I don’t want you to worry. I’m nervous but excited to finish this cookbook off, and Leo seems really nice.”
Okay, that last part isn’t true, but I have enough complicated emotions without worrying about how my mum is feeling.
“Well, great,” she says. “Wear sunblock. And don’t go hiking in the middle of the day; there’s another heat wave due next week. And have you done your international driver’s license? Make sure you always have coins on you in case you need the bathroom. Especially in the train stations, okay?” She covers the phone, listening to George. “Olive, George says to remember to switch your phone off roaming or you’ll come back to a disastrous bill.”
“I’m not going to Peru,” I say, laughing.
After I hang up, I zip the suitcase, triple-check my passport and cards are all neatly packed, and then head into the kitchen.
I pull out what’s left of my lemon and ricotta cake from the fridge and dig in without bothering to cut a slice. I sit, wondering if I could have added more lemon rind, or perhaps a pinch of salt to draw out the taste of the ricotta more, and then with each mouthful, I slowly and gently allow myself to feel the excitement.
Because, the truth is, while Nicky’s might have had a dark cloud over it, the recollections of my family holidays in Italy do not. They are sepia, sun-drenched snapshots of a perfect, privileged childhood that I have reveled in my whole life.
My phone buzzes and it’s Leo. Appearing as if summoned like a demon to dispel my happy family memories once again.
LEO:I guess I’ll see you there then?
It’s nearly five. I’m going to go get that haircut.
4Catania
MIA SUITCASE,” Iwhimper to the man collecting trolleys in the baggage reclaim area.
He shrugs and points wearily to a queue by the lost-baggage counter. An hour later, no suitcase in hand, I finally exit the airport with the crushing news that my bag is likely en route back to London.
But I’m unable to dwell on this for long, the heat hitting me like a blow dryer to the face, allowing me only one thought.I’m here. I can hardly believe it.
I stretch my sore neck and heave my tote with the urn onto my shoulder and slowly breathe out.
Sicily. I feel a little tingle in my toes, and a wistfulness that makes me smile.
As a taxi takes me toward the city center, we pass the white weeping trunks of eucalypts and tall, breezy palm trees lining the busy road. The blue sky stretches for miles out ahead of us toward the sloping sides of Mount Etna. There she is, towering in the distance, a little puff of cloud hovering above her mouth.
“There’s a coast road, right? La strada... erm... al mare,” I call out in my best Italian.
“Sì,” the driver replies. “It’s longer.”
“That’s okay. Va bene,” I reply.
We turn right and, after a back-road detour, hit a long, straight avenue, the city to our left, and between the beach houses, restaurants, and shops on our right I catch glimpses of a broad sandy shore, and beyond that the Strait of Messina, the long blue stretch of the Mediterranean Sea that separates the mainland of Italy from Sicily. Glorious.
After we hit the main port, we turn left and into the city center, navigating a string of narrow one-way streets, until finally he’s driven as far as he can go. He points down an alley filled with restaurants.
“Ecco il suo hotel,” he says.
Torrisi Boutique Hotel. I feel an intense wave of déjà vu as I haul myself out of the taxi. I remember it. I remember arriving just like this, at the end of this little street, hauling ourselves out of the taxi, Dad beaming, Mum fanning herself with a magazine, me a spoiled teenager wishing that for one summer we went to Ibiza instead.
But we never did. Our holidays began here in Catania, this loud, bustling city pulsing with memories. I know these scenes, like a movie once adored and now almost forgotten. I know the large square lava-stone pavers that line the footpaths. I can smell salty, fishy air coming from the fish market I think is just down the far end of the square. I remember this intense heat, the sea breeze flowing like water between the buildings, down the alleyways, never quite cooling enough.
Inside, the hotel owner, Antonia, with her fiercely pulled black bun and smoky eyes, moves quickly from behind the reception desk to welcome me.Clip-clop, her sky-high heels echo as they hit the tiled floor of the reception. The lines of her face pull upward with her delight at seeing me, before sagging into sorrow as she gets closer.
“Mia bella,” she says, pulling me in tight. “Your father. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh. We’re hugging?” I mutter, as I reluctantly lean into her embrace, all deep floral perfume and hairspray. I hear her sniff slightly and I stiffen in embarrassment. It ain’t deep floral perfume I smell of; it’s travel funk, and I need a shower and a change of clothes.
Ergh. I don’thavea change of clothes. Damn bags.
“Olive, it has been too long since we’ve seen you here,” she says, her hand flat across her heart. “Welcome back. Come.”
