It bit at him, but he reminded himself that, at the end of the day, it shouldn’t matter what Billie’s PA thought of him, so long as he made the best impression possible on Billie herself, and that seemed to have got off to a promising start.
When the first few guests made their way into the teaching kitchen, Tad’s nerves began to settle. There was some gentle chit-chat about the custom-printed oat white cotton Casa del Cibo aprons as people took their places on the high stools and began rifling through the ingredients in front of them. Everyone was there. Everyone, that was, except Billie Forsythe-Rogers. There was no sign of her, or her entourage, the teaching units front and centre of the room obvious in their emptiness.
After ten minutes of further polite chatter, punctuated with the occasional pointed look at a watch or comment about getting started, Tad was running out of ways to stall.
‘Any idea where they are?’ Tad asked Matteo, who replied with a shrug and a shake of his head.
Readjusting his smile and making a joke about Italian timekeeping, Tad excused himself and shot out into the reception area, finding Gianna tidying tourist leaflets.
‘Did the party of two women and a man leave the hotel? Did you see them go anywhere?’ he asked.
‘No signore. Not seen them since breakfast.Scuse.’
About to give up on Billie, and not sure how to swallow the lump of disappointment forming in the back of his throat, Tad turned to head back into the teaching kitchen. He should concentrate on the students ready and waiting, get them started on theirpasta verdedough.
Amy clattered into the building from the direction of Casa del Cibo’s garden. Dressed in the same jeans as the previous day, but with a skinny pale blue T-shirt skimming her curves this morning, Tad did his best to ignore how the colour of the T-shirt brought out the blue of her eyes, not to mention the way wisps of golden hair loosed from her soft French plait were wafting around the gentle line of her chin as she looked around. He wondered what she’d make of full-on grumpy chef – because that was how he was feeling. Would it further reinforce her image of people from Scotland and give her something else to label him with?
‘Are you ready for the lesson yet?’ he said, his words brusque. It was literally Amy’s job to ensure Billie was at the right place at the right time, wasn’t it?
Tad could feel the heat rising beneath the collar of his jacket. He was about to say something else equally pointed, but as Amy headed for him her expression caught him up short, made him reassess what he’d been about to say.
‘Is she with you?’ Amy said. ‘She said she would be in her room, getting ready for the class, but now I can’t find her.’
‘No, she’s not in the teaching kitchen…’
‘Malcolm’s out looking for her too. She’s not answering her phone.’ Amy dragged a hand across her eyebrows, her action loaded with stress. ‘God, this is all we need.’
Tad forgot his annoyance, his irritation overtaken by Amy’s level of concern.
‘What can I do?’ he asked.
Amy shook her head, leading him to the doorway into the teaching kitchen and peering in at the assembled group. ‘You go and do what you need to do. The lesson’s already behind schedule and there’s no point dragging everybody into this. She probably went for a walk and lost track of the time.’ The smile accompanying her sentence was thin and unconvincing. ‘I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know.’
As the main doors slammed behind Amy’s retreating figure, Tad took his place at the front of the teaching kitchen and did his best to focus on teaching the rest of his rapt audience all about making pasta.
* * *
Hugh Bradbury’s hearing might be fading alongside everything else, but he prided himself on retaining as much vigour as could be expected in someone who had recently gained octogenarian status.
And he wasn’t so deaf that he couldn’t hear the exchange in the doorway from his second-row workstation. Perched on his stool and nearest to the open doorway it wasn’t difficult to hear the irritation in Tad’s voice, or the tight notes of worry in the words of the young woman.
Hugh had perfected the art of the milky-eyed old person, could appear to be paying no attention at all while taking everything on board. His favourite portrayal of Miss Marple was by far and away the one perfected by the legendary Joan Hickson – nowthatwas an actress… And in his own way, latterly Hugh had modelled himself on that version of Christie’s most-loved character. Bumbling, innocent, ageing. Often assumed to be deaf, or to have poor eyesight, and to require help climbing stairs or navigating a carriage door on a train. To be fair, stairs were far more of a challenge than they’d been even a few years previously, but in other ways – like Hickson’s Marple – Hugh was purposefully wearing the mask of someone very firmly on God’s to-do list.
Since Brian had died it had been easier that way. Not that he wanted people’s sympathy, or those grinding do-good smiles old people got from those offering them help. Brian had been ill for such a long time, all the way through the lockdowns and afterwards, when everyone else’s lives broadened and regained some sense of normal. But for Hugh and Brian, their lives continued to narrow until there was nothing except that room in the hospice, and the bleeps from the machines and the smell of disinfectant doing battle with the inescapable whiff of death.
Emerging from that time remained a work in progress for Hugh. He’d been hiding away from the world for so long, that to continue to do so had seemed easier, somehow.
Returning to Casa del Cibo had been a massive turning point. He’d been back here every few months since Brian had passed, and each time became slightly easier, although Hugh continued to hide inside the fragile elderly man image he’d cultivated so carefully.
Hugh could understand Tad’s frustration. Casa del Cibo’s head chef was a man with a real future, in Hugh’s opinion. He knew Tad was someone who hadn’t had a straight path at anything, but regardless of his past he was here for the present, while keeping an eye firmly on the future. And Hugh didn’t begrudge him that, even if he did feel a definite twinge of jealousy – he reckoned he was allowed that emotion, now his own future had been whittled down to precious little in terms of remaining years.
Hugh sighed as he pinched the stalks from his pile of spinach leaves. Pasta verde – step one was to boil spinach until soft. Sometimes the Italians used Swiss chard or nettles to get the colour. He’d been coming to Casa del Cibo on and off for long enough to know the ropes. This was not his first rodeo in terms of making pasta. Hugh chuckled to himself as he dropped the spinach leaves into simmering water. A rodeo. Now thatwouldfinish him off.
He glanced at Tad, busy helping one of the middle-aged ladies decide how much spinach she should use. Their chef still had one eye on the open doorway. Was he hoping Billie Forsythe-Rogers would make an unfashionably late and no doubt dramatic entry? Or was Tad waiting for the attractive young blonde to come back?
Hugh’s love life hadn’t been all roses and chocolates – was it for anyone? But he’d noticed how Tad had gone out of his way to ignore the young woman during breakfast service. Back in the day a sure-fire sign of liking someone. And perhaps Hugh was out of touch with how modern romance took flight, perhaps there wasn’t any courtship left, perhaps it really was all about getting drunk and shagging in club toilets.
But there was also enough of an old romantic left in Hugh to find himself hoping there might still be more, for those lucky enough to find it. And on a selfish note – because at his age he reckoned he was allowed to be selfish, too – he hoped that this week might bring something more into play than the mundane.
