Tilly’s fingertips are covered in flour, her bare shoulders warm from the late morning sun that slants in through the open-air kitchen attached to the crumbling Tuscan farmhouse at the top of the hill. The air is sweet with the smell of apricots, figs and peaches growing in the orchard. A view of golden yellow stretches ahead of her, the fields of sunflowers that entirely surround the villa in stark contrast to the piercing blue sky.
When Harper called to say that she had a free ticket to attend a pasta-making course in Tuscany, it hadn’t taken long for Tilly to agree to go with her.
‘When I heard “pasta” I thought of you,’ Harper said on the phone. ‘The place looks incredible. It’s a villa in the middle of nowhere. Wouldn’t it be fun to go away together again? It will mean being away over Joe’s anniversary, though. But I thought we could mark it in some way while we’re there? And I’ll be there with you to support you.’
Ever since turning down the invitation to join Joe’s family Tilly has been uncertain about how to mark the day. She knows her parents would offer to come and visit, or invite her to Hay for the weekend, but she isn’t sure she can face their worry and their well-meaning but sometimes smothering care. She was leaning towards spending the day alone, but as soon as Harper suggested the trip she realized that, of all the people in her life, it is her sister she wants there with her on what Tilly knows will be a painful day.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to bring Raj with you?’ she asked.
‘There’s no one I’d rather have with me,’ Harper assured her.
So here they are, learning how to make pasta in an outdoor kitchen with views across the Tuscan countryside. Tilly pauses what she is doing, rubbing her hands on her apron and taking a photo of the view to send to the Paris Grief Gang WhatsApp group.
Cécile:
Incroyable!
Fairooz:
That looks so beautiful. I think you made the right choice about going.
Pierre:
Absolutely. If you’re going to be sad, you might as well be sad in the sunshine with pasta and wine.
John:
Quite right. Tuscany is one of my favourite places.Buon appetito!
Lola:
Have a great trip, Tilly. We’ll all be thinking of you on Joe’s anniversary xx
The others send heart emojis in reply and Tilly smiles to herself, slipping her phone back in her apron pocket.
‘Next, we crack an egg into the flour,’ comes the heavily accented voice of their instructor, Constanza, a grey-haired woman who makes up for what she lacks in height by sheer physical presence. Tilly is a little terrified of her.
Harper passes her an egg and Tilly does what she is told,watching as a yolk so bright orange it is almost red pools into the flour.
‘Now gently bring the flour and the egg together with your fingertips.’
Everyone diligently sets to work.
They are a small group: there is a honeymooning American couple called Tiff and Tim (Harper giggled when they introduced themselves, before realizing they weren’t joking, and hastily disguising the laugh as a cough), an English woman in her fifties called Deborah (who announced on their first encounter that she is here as a treat after a messy divorce) and a German mother and daughter duo, Ingrid and Emma.
Constanza walks around, a tea towel slung over her shoulder and a navy apron wrapped tightly around her waist, inspecting their work with the attitude of an army general checking on her troops.
‘More flour!Abbastanza!That’s enough! When the flour and egg have come together, you must gently knead it, like this.’ She demonstrates, her movements fluid.
As Tilly sets to work on her own dough she marvels at how the mess of flour and egg has quickly become something smooth and enticing. The colour is unlike any pasta she has ever eaten before – a rich gold not dissimilar to the colour of the sunflowers in the fields surrounding the villa.
‘Delicatamente!’ Constanza snaps at Tim, who has hands the size of melons and has been thumping his dough vigorously. A blush creeps across his face.
‘Now the pasta must rest,’ Constanza says once everyone has a neat ball of dough on their work surface. She puts them in the fridge.
A fresh jug of lemonade comes out and is poured around the group. It is blazingly hot outside, the grass crisp and theterracotta tiles of the villa practically steaming. But thanks to their position at the top of the valley there is also a light breeze that blows in and out through the open kitchen, the slanted awning above protecting them from the sun.
Once everyone has finished their drinks Constanza claps her hands together.
