She hesitates as another murmur of conversation drifts through the wall connecting her to Harper’s room. She knows her sister well enough to be able to picture the deep frown on her face. She types another message to Rachel.
Tilly:
Although, something weird seems to be going on with Harper. I can hear her on the phone with her boyfriend right now and it sounds like they’re arguing. I hope everything’s OK … x
Rachel:
Oh no, that sucks. Do you think they’re breaking up? Maybe that’s why Harper invited you on this trip? Maybe she needed this too … xx
Tilly stares at the phone screen, her thoughts rearranging themselves. She thinks back to their trip to Bali when Harper spent the evenings eyeing up men, seemingly for Tilly, but what if …?
There’s a knock at the door.
Tilly:
I hadn’t thought of that, but maybe you have a point. I’ve got to go. Chat again soon xx
Harper stands outside Tilly’s door, red-eyed but smiling.
‘Ready for more pasta making?’ Her voice is as cheerful as ever, but Tilly can hear the strain behind the bravado.
She is reminded of the time Harper fell out of a tree. Harper refused to shed a tear because she didn’t want their parents to know she’d climbed higher than she was allowed. It was only the day after the fall, when she passed out during their school PE lesson, that an X-ray revealed Harper’s arm was broken. For weeks afterwards Tilly felt guilty, because she had been inside reading at the time, their parents entrusting her with looking after Harper while they were out for a couple of hours.
She wasn’t watching her sister closely enough then, and perhaps she hasn’t been watching closely enough now.
30
It turns out that Constanza is right; the pesto they make together that afternoon is unlike any pesto Tilly has ever tasted. Her mouth waters as they chop basil and mix in grated Parmesan and a hearty glug of extra virgin olive oil, made from the olive trees that surround the farmhouse.
‘Now, we add a pinch of salt,’ says Constanza. ‘Show me your “pinch”.’
Tilly helps herself to a few grains from the painted ceramic bowl in the centre. Harper takes a slightly bigger pinch. Constanza looks around the group, shaking her head. ‘No, no. This is a pinch!’ And she scoops a large mound of salt using all her fingers.
Tilly meets Harper’s eye and they both smile. Tilly scans her sister’s face like she has been doing regularly throughout the afternoon but Harper looks away, turning her attention back to her pestle and mortar.
‘I could eat this with a spoon,’ says Deborah, who is stood the other side of Tilly. ‘Who even needs the pasta?’
‘Ah, but you haven’t tasted your pasta yet,’ says Constanza.
The pasta dough comes out of the fridge and Constanza hands out rolling pins. It’s hard work rolling the dough, but there’s something satisfying about seeing it stretch into a thin sheet. Beside her Tilly can hear the occasional pound as Harper hits her rolling pin against the dough with more vigour than is probably necessary.
Constanza shows them how to cut the pasta into long strips. ‘Today we make tagliatelle. Tomorrow is ravioli and spaghetti.’
Constanza gets everyone to carry over their piles of flour-dusted pasta as she heats up an enormous vat of water, reaching for a box of table salt and pouring for a long time. ‘You need to taste the Mediterranean Sea in your pasta water.’
Once the pasta is ready, they all help lay a long table under the olive trees, a white tablecloth fluttering in the breeze, weighted down by jugs of sunflowers. Bottles of Chianti Classico are placed in the middle and Tilly pours for everyone, with an especially generous serving for Harper.
As Tilly sets down a bowl of salad, she sneaks a glimpse of Harper’s phone over her sister’s shoulder. Harper is scrolling rapidly, faces flashing by on the screen. Tilly instantly recognizes the dating app from when Rachel asked Tilly to write her profile. Tilly teased her about the fact that a ghostwriter was asking someone to ghostwrite her dating page.
Before Tilly can get a proper look, Harper slips her phone back into her pocket and spins around with a smile. ‘What else can I help with?’
Tilly knows that she should give Harper space, that her sister will talk when she is ready. But she can’t help wondering whether the reason Harper is putting on this faux happy front is because of Tilly. Because Harper doesn’t want to burden her.
‘Dinner is ready!’ says Constanza, waving a tea towel with a flourish.
Plates are passed along the table, filled with huge piles of fresh pasta smothered in vivid green pesto and showerings of Parmesan. The air smells of basil, wine and hot earth.
‘Buon appetito,’ declares Constanza, and they all dig in.
