I know he’s talking about the pending heat wave, but his comment hangs in the air, making it sound a little foreboding. I glance at our reflection in the bar mirror and wonder for a moment what Leo is thinking. How much resentment does he feel?
Eyes on the prize. Focus on the book.
“Right. Well. Talk of the weather complete. Shall we devise our plan, then?” I say, rubbing the stem of my wineglass between my thumb and forefinger.
“Yes,” he says, a look of relief on his face. He puts his hand on top of his notebook. “I have a ton of ideas.”
“Okay,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Fire away.”
Leo says nothing and then narrows his eyes. “You first,” he says.
“First?”
“Yes.Youmust have thoughts on execution. Ingredients you’ve short-listed. Places you want to visit?” he says, his tone a little challenging.
“Oh. Okay...,” I stammer, taking a breadstick and munching on it to buy myself time as I feel the heat creeping up my neck to my cheeks. I don’t know where to start. My copy of the book is currently somewhere over continental Europe, and I have not read a single page. I am not at all clear on what we’re supposed to do.
Damn it. This isnotwho I am.
I glance at Leo, who is waiting patiently for my reply. I really, really want to lie. Can I lie?
“No.You’re the chef. You go first. Why don’t you pretend I’m just now coming to it as a reader,” I say, clearing my throat. “Give me the elevator pitch.”
Leo looks down at his drink and then shrugs.
“Fine. It’s calledNicky Stone’s Journey through Regional Italian Cooking,” he begins, his voice catching slightly so that he has to clear his throat again. The title hits me hard, hearing Leo say it aloud. A wave of sadness washes over me like a mist, and I pick up my drink, focusing hard on holding back tears and hoping like hell Leo doesn’t notice.
“Go on,” I say, as evenly as I can.
“It’s twenty chapters about the twenty regions. And we need to finish the last three: Sicily, Tuscany, and Liguria,” Leo continues as I nod along. I do know this much.
“So. There’s a key ingredient for each region, like, say, Calabria is pork. And then there are three recipes from that region. Each region has a short introduction, usually your dad telling some crazy story about the first time he tried ravioli or when he went out looking for truffles and lost the prize pig.”
“Oh my god, that story!” I say delightedly.I know that story!
“A great story,” he says, and smiles into his drink. The first time I’ve seen him smile properly; it transforms his face into something beautiful.“He lost the pig and then was served it for dinner a few days later at a knockdown trattoria. The prize fucking truffle pig.”
“Twenty grand worth of hog, stewed in a fairly average ragù,” I say, biting my lip. Leo also tries but fails not to laugh, until we finally come together in mutual horrified laughter.
The laughter relaxes me, and I finish my wine in one large sip, nodding to the bartender for another. My third. It must be my last. I am starting to feel it.
“So,” says Leo as the laughter subsides, “that region was—”
“Umbria,” I interject, nodding, finding myself smiling at Leo for the first time. We hold each other’s eyes for a moment as the volume of the music suddenly rises, and the overhead lights dim so that now it’s just strung fairy lights around us. The scene becomes annoyingly intimate.
Leo pulls his eyes away first and picks up his drink, a little smile on his face again. He’s made for this place, I think. This bar. The Italian jazz, the murmur of guests, and the gentle clink of glasses creating an atmosphere that feels as entrancing as he looks.
“Yes. Beautiful Umbria,” he says.
“Truffle country,” I say, nodding. “The only landlocked region on the Apennine Peninsula. I could honestly write about Umbria without even going there.”
Leo laughs again. “Not really,” he counters. “Not for this book at least.”
“Icould,” I say, my tone sharpening.
“The way your dad writes in the book is different to what you write.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know what I write?” I say, brows raised in challenge.
