“Yep. Hard to settle on one. I’ve thought about almonds, red prawns, pistachios, sardines, blood oranges, sea urchins. I do have my front-runner,” Leo says, tipping his glass at me.
I grin at him. “So do I.”
The waiter returns with a notepad and pen, smiling at us both.
Leo flicks his menu closed. “May I?”
“Go ahead. But don’t forget the caponata. And the grilled aubergine,” I say.
Leo turns to the waiter with a dazzling smile, orders a bunch of starters and sides, and then a couple of glasses of rosé from a local vineyard. Then he lifts his glass of bubbles in my direction.
“To finishing this,” he says, his eyes round and hopeful.
I lift my glass and we let the edges touch gently, tentatively.
“And... I’m sorry about last night,” he says. “I was... well. A bit out of line.”
“Let’s forget it,” I say, shaking my head. “I wasn’t at my best either.”
“As long as we both want to do a good job of it.”
“We do,” I say firmly.
And for the next forty-five minutes, it feels like we both might just be able to. The caponata arrives, a delicious aubergine, pine nut, and raisin dish, slow-cooked and served with crusty semolina bread. I feel transported back to summers long gone. My dad used to make this.
“So good,” I say, moaning into my fork. “Could tone down the vinegar, though. A few too many raisins probably.”
Leo laughs into his mouthful of aubergine. “Ever the critic,” he says.
“If we’re not here to critique, I don’t know what we’re here to do,” I say, glancing around, making sure the waiter is out of earshot.
“True,” he replies.
We eat mussels stuffed with breadcrumbs and swordfish carpaccio with lemon and orange zest. When my alla Norma arrives, I plunge my fork into a slice of meltingly soft aubergine smothered in grated hard ricotta, and then I smile confidently at Leo. “You want to know my front-runner?”
“I’m on tenterhooks, Olive,” he says, grinning. A very nice grin. Boyish, with one side of his mouth slightly higher than the other.
“I’m thinking aubergine,” I say, pointing to the alla Norma, the grilled aubergine, and what’s left of the caponata.
“Aubergine?” he says, putting down his fork and sitting back again in his chair, his arms folding.
“Yes,” I reply, nodding. “This pasta is a classic for a reason. And the caponata? I mean, it’s just classic Sicily. And the history is fascinating. Brought here in the ninth century during the Arabic rule of the island. I can see a story where we...”
Leo holds both his hands up for me to stop, and I stare at him, picking up my drink. “Just to be clear, you want to doaubergineas the key ingredient?” Leo says, folding his arms again in a way that makes me feel a little unsettled.
“Yes. Aubergine. Melanzani. Eggplant. What do you think?”
“What do Ithink?” he asks. “I think you need to read your dad’s manuscript.”
My heart sinks.
“Shit,” I say, rubbing my forehead with my hand and glancing at Leo through my fingers.Aubergine is taken. And I’d have known that if I’d read the book. I’m such an idiot.
“It’s the key ingredient for Puglia,” he goes on, his voice frustrated. “You haven’t even read it, have you?” he says slowly, examining me.
“It was in my baggage. Thelostbaggage,” I confess.
“Right.”
