“My dad was in the middle of writing a cookbook, and he wanted me to finish it.”
“Ohhhhh,” Kate says thoughtfully. “I think that’s sweet.”
“I didn’t know he was writing one,” I say, and then stare across at the Nicky’s sign again. “He always wanted to, you know. More than TV, he wanted to make a cookbook that sat on everyone’s shelf betweenThe Joy of CookingandMastering the Art of French Cooking.”
“Aw, that’s really sad he never got to finish it,” says Ginny. “No matter how you felt about him, Olive, youhaveto do it.”
“I know. He was due to go to Italy for a few weeks next month to do the final push. So, the accommodation is booked and paid for and I’d just need to get the flight.”
“Well, this is like the perfect way to say good-bye to him,” says Ginny; then she leans in, nudging me. “Perhaps you can put some of those regrets to rest?”
I nod. So many regrets. I regret missing those last seven phone calls, for one.
“Where in Italy?”
“Back to Sicily for the first time in more than fifteen years, then somewhere in Tuscany, and finally Liguria,” I say.
“Oh Jesus. Can I come with?” Ginny says, clasping her hands together.
I spin the whiskey glass on the table as I analyze my feelings for the hundredth time. There are so many conflicting emotions I can’t yet communicate to my friends. But the one I feel overwhelmingly right now is that I do not deserve this huge gift from my father. I feel shame at his generosity. I hardly saw him in the last ten years, tucking myself away on the other side of the river, blaming him and resenting this restaurant for the end of my parents’ marriage.
I look up from my drink and across to Leo.
I should be where Leo is right now. I should have gone to culinary school just as we’d planned. Then I would have trained under my dad, preparing to eventually take over Nicky’s when he was too old to descend the wine cellar stairs or too forgetful to take an order. A quiet part of me thought I’d eventually come back. The child in me also thought my dad would live forever. But he didn’t.
When I walked away, Leo Ricci stepped into my place. Dad poured all that love and attention into him. They even went on holiday together, I’d learned. Leo worked beside him for nearly fifteen years, and now I’m supposed to swoop in and take the spoils? Be Leo’s boss?
Does Leo even know?
I grimace into my empty glass. Ihaveto sell it, and sell quickly.
“Duck!” Ginny shouts as she spots Temp’s owner arriving in his three-piece suit with bright-white trainers and a trilby.
We sink our heads in unison; Ginny arranges the wine list (which is irritatingly sorted by fucking temperature) to hide our faces.
“Well. A lot to process, Olive. But I think a few weeks in Italy doing this for your father will really be a good thing for you,” Kate whispers from behind the menu, in her practical way.
“Sun. Sex. Sangria,” Ginny begins.
“Sangria is Spain,” Kate interjects.
“I’m sure you can get sangria in Italy,” whispers Ginny stubbornly.
“We have to get out of here,” says Kate, craning her neck. “Let’s go sit in the Book Bar instead.”
“Yes, let’s go,” I say, throwing a twenty-pound note on the table just as the owner spots me. “Quick.”
As we spill out onto the street, I pull them down the road and between two parked vans, out of the glaring view of the owner, who is waving a fist and yelling down the street. “You suck, Olive fucking Stone!”
“Oh mygod,” I say, cringing.
I glance at Leo, who is on the phone now but looks up to see what the commotion is about. Ginny starts to laugh, but my heart beats hard in my chest, and I hold a finger up to my mouth to shush her.
“Tech bro is gone,” whispers Kate as she peers around the van.
“Damn,” I reply, panting. “I’m a serious liability.”
“You’re a very rich liability,” Ginny reminds me, pointing back at Nicky’s.
