“Let’s get this book done,” I say, and Leo nods once, in absolute agreement.
“Anything to do other than pack before we head to Portofino?”
“I can think of a few things,” he says, eyes glinting mischievously.
26Liguria
IJUST THINK IT’Sobviousthe next key ingredient should be basil,” I say to Leo as our taxi pulls into a car park at a basil farm just outside Genoa.
He doesn’t want to be here. Not one bit.
I’ve insisted we stop at an obscure biodynamic basil farm on the way to our hotel in Genoa, since I doubt either of us will want to visit a farm once we’re based in Portofino, exploring the stunning coastline of the Italian Riviera. We are leaving the classical rural beauty of Tuscany for the old Italian glamour of that coast. No more tractors; now it’s strictly boat shoes, parading on promenades, window-shopping for Gucci, Formula One driver spotting, and diving off rocks into azure waters after half a bottle of fizz.
But we’re not feeling fancy right now. We got ninety percent of the way here by bus. A beast of a thing with a broken air-conditioning unit. The trip was five long hours inland from Florence, through Pisa for a quick stop, and then onto the motorway that follows the curve of the coast north. When we get to Genoa, we’ll have a night, just the two of us, in a hotel, and then we’re being picked up by Roger’s boat.
I felt sad to say good-bye to Chiara, who begged me to come back again someday,with Leo. I took two bottles of her homemade passata, a small bag of mixed tomato seeds, and a handwritten recipe for her tomato and bread soup, which we are going to have photographed for our section on Tuscany. She wrote it down in 1973 and it’s as gloriously oil-stained and brown as you would hope. I did promise to return. And I meant it.
“AllI’msaying is that I wouldn’t call basil akeyingredient,” says Leo, shutting the door to the taxi before bobbing down to apologize to the driver. “Scusi, un momento.”
“He doesn’t know when he’s wrong,” I tell the driver.
“Who’s paying?” the driver asks, emphasizing his frustration with pinched fingers.
“She is!” “He is!” Leo and I say in unison, pointing at each other.
“So, I get paid twice? Bene, bene. My lucky day,” the driver says.
“No,” we both say.
“Then just forty-seven euros,” he says.
“Just,” mutters Leo, fishing around in his wallet.
“There was no other way to get here,” I say, glaring at Leo.
The driver takes off down the road, stuffing his million euros in his front pocket, leaving us in a cloud of dust outside what I think might be a closed basil farm with our luggage and no way to get to Genoa. It will be fine, and I definitely cannot give Leo the luxury of hearing me admit I may have made alittlemistake here.
“Liguria is pesto, potatoes, purple asparagus, beans and legumes, and, I don’t know, basil was the most appealing.”
“You, Olive, have clearly never had a good bean,” says Leo, wandering up to the entrance to the farm shop and peering in the window.
“Basil is not an ingredient,” I mutter, mimicking Leo’s deep voice, checking my phone for coverage, and finding one single bar. I quietly google the farm, but it takes ages to load, costing a fucking fortune too, probably. “How can you say it’s not an ingredient? You’re basically saying all herbs are not ingredients.”
“I’m sayingkeyingredient,” he says, tossing his arms in the air in frustration. “If we’re going to hook the entire Ligurian chapter on a key ingredient—which is what we’re supposed to do—why in god’s name would you choose basil whenbeansare right there?”
“Oh, Leo,” I say. “Are you even Italian?”
I narrow my eyes at him, and then finally the basil farm opening hours load, and I grimace. Closed on Mondays. Fucking closed. “How can a farm close? Like, don’t you need to water things and whatnot?”
Leo sighs. “Olive, let’s just go to the coast. Check into our hotel. Sit in the balcony spa pool and fuck.”
“I can’t understand how you’d rather do that than visit a basil farm,” I say cheekily.
Leo laughs at me, picking up his roller suitcase and standing, waiting for me to do something. “All right. I’m letting you lead.”
“Success!” I say, stopping him in his tracks. “I’ve found a basil farm two kilometers from here, which is both open and also has a café.”
Leo grimaces, then chuckles, grabbing my hand and pulling me in for a kiss. “Are we walking?”
