She smiles at my startled glance. ‘You can’t breathe around here with everyone knowing, so we all knew your family had bought Clare’s old house. Then we saw the moving vans yesterday. Who is this little angel? Are you going for cakes? They have lovely ones.’
Teddy gazes up at the woman thoughtfully.
‘I like chocolate buns,’ she confides, bustling past us both.
And then we are in, dog too, which is ano-no in the catering world, into a lovely, trulyItalian-style café where both the scent of the coffee and the pastries make me swoon.
‘I’m Miss Primrose,’ says the elderly lady, ‘and this,’ she looks behind her to where her dog should be waiting diligently at the door, ‘is Whisper.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Miss Primrose,’ I say and look around for Teddy, who has pulled Whisper with her into the café.
‘This is Teddy,’ I say, and realise my daughter has clambered up and inserted her top half into the only bit of the pastry cabinet accessible from the customer side. Her new partner in crime is watching expectantly.
‘Teddy, get down and bring the doggy back,’ I mutter, waiting for an owner to emerge and have a spasm at this canine intrusion.
Teddy does, but only when she has a pastry in her hand. I whisk a plate out of a stack and hiss: ‘put it on the plate.’
Teddy ignores me.
A tall, tanned man smiles at us all over the steam. He must be unable to see Whisper, I think.
‘Giorgio,’ says Miss Primrose, doing introductions. ‘This is Freya and Teddy.’
‘Buongiorno,’ he says.
‘Oh, you’re Italian,’ I say, delightedly. The Italian people are such wonderful cooks. Love children, evenpastry-stealing ones. Possibly used to small dogs in cafés; but probably teacup varieties ensconsed in expensive handbags ...
Giorgio eyes me for a moment, working out who I am and the smile falters.
He hates my show, I think instantly. Took umbrage at my Irish version of ragu? Thinks women who weren’t born in Napoli should stay away from fiddling with pizza in cooking shows? Mildred leaps into action and hits me with one of my biggest fears:You’re a fraud, Freya. No more cooking shows for you.
And then Giorgio smiles shyly.
‘George, really,’ he whispers, in a voice so low it could be whispering the Official Secrets Act at me.
Miss Primrose beams.
‘He only tells people he really likes,’ she confides. ‘George has a sixth sense about people.’
I could tell her that people tell me all sorts of mad things because I have that sort of face, but I don’t.
George slips out of his Italian accent: ‘I was born in Coolock but Italian coffee shops have the edge, don’t you think? Giorgio and Patrick’s sounds better than George and Patrick’s.’
I pat George’s tanned hand and his giant, rose gold watch jingles. ‘You look Italian and you talk Italian, Giorgio,’ I say. ‘That’s good enough for me. I thought you were going to tell me I was a useless chef ...’
‘We adore you!’ he breathes. ‘I made your stuffed loin of pork for our third date. Patrick loves it.’
‘You’d never believe how many people tell me I’m useless when they meet me,’ I confess.
‘Patrick does martial arts,’ says Giorgio, angry on my behalf. ‘We’ll have them all given a karate punch or whatever you call it for the sheer rudeness.’
‘I only did four karate classes and it clashed with body pump night,’ interrupts a beautifully groomed man with hair so black he already has a five o’clock shadow. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m an expert.’
Giorgio, Miss Primrose and I laugh and after that, we are bosom friends.
All except Teddy, who has been surreptitiously feeding the pastry filled with crème anglaise to Miss Primrose’s small dog, who will probably be sick later, and now wants more pastry just for herself.
‘Chocolate?’ she says sweetly, as if nobody has noticed the creaminess/crumbs on her rosebud mouth and all down her top.
