Amy cut across Billie’s unfinished sentence, glancing at her and frowning as she hurriedly asked if they were going to use Marsala wine.
Tad nodded. ‘Often that’s the wine used – it’s the one most people associate with zabaglione, but today I’ve chosen a local Moscato. Basically, any dessert wine will do, and with so much wonderful local produce in this area of Italy, it would be crazy not to use it.’
‘When I had my latest book launch, I took the wife for a slap-up dinner in Padstow,’ Ron the writer chipped in. ‘Not in Stein’s place, I’m not made of money – but I insisted we had a glass of dessert wine with our puddings. Bloody lovely it was.’
Tad waited for ‘the wife’, Laura, to be given a chance to offer her thoughts on the book launch dessert wine, but instead Ron headed off into what promised to be a lengthy monologue about his latest book, featuring the murder of a wine merchant and the wine-based series of clues held within the plot.
‘Ron, darling, could we talk about your tales of murderous goings-on later? I think we’ve all held Tad up quite enough already this morning, haven’t we? And I don’t know about you, but all this talk about foamy desserts is giving me a real appetite.’ Billie bestowed a dazzling smile on Ron and then arched an eyebrow as she glanced conspiratorially at Tad.
He had to smile as he explained they would start by making savoiardi biscuits to accompany the dessert. Billie was proving difficult to pigeonhole. He wanted to be annoyed by her late arrival this morning, but there was no disputing she lit up a room the moment she entered it. And he wanted to cultivate good relations with her – this week needed to be a success.
Apart from interruptions from the photographer, who seemed adept at getting in everyone else’s way as he took copious photos of Billie, the remainder of the lesson passed without incident and as he joined the group for lunch he was beginning to relax.
The final task he’d set the group had been to have a go at making the radish roses, which Matteo had used to garnish the antipasti. The enormous antique oak dining table, reminiscent of a royal banqueting table once it was fully laid out with its silver candelabras, condiment sets and cutlery for lunch or dinner, its matching high-backed dining chairs standing to attention around its impressive length, was already laden with platters of meats and cheeses. Tad slid into a spare seat beside Kathleen, travelling solo and well into her seventies, hailing from a small mining town in the dusty outback of Australia. She was viewing her European adventure as a bucket-list trip, although as far as Tad could tell there was plenty of life left in the fit and wiry antipodean.
‘I’m Kathleen from Kalgoorlie.’ Her introduction had been accompanied by a well-worn laugh, as though the joke was old enough to have become mandatory, even if it was no longer amusing.
‘I’m Tad from Torryburn, if that’s any help,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Kathleen’s expression had taken on a more enthusiastic edge.
‘Aye. It’s in Fife. I moved away to Edinburgh when I was seventeen to take up an apprenticeship in a restaurant, but I grew up in Torryburn.’
They shared a grin and Kathleen eyed the platters. ‘Do I have to take my own radish rose? Or can I steal one of the ones that actually looks like a flower?’
‘Which one is yours?’ Tad asked.
Kathleen pointed, pulling a face as she identified a pile of radish bits.
‘Oh. I think I need to check the knives are sharp enough,’ he said.
Kathleen laughed. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the equipment, Tad. It’s the wallaby operating it that’s the problem, at least it is in my case.’
‘Och, no. Surely not?’
The radish rose was disastrous – there was no getting away from facts – but Kathleen’s expression was animated as she spooned the radish onto her plate. ‘Can I be honest with you?’ she said.
‘Please,’ Tad said.
‘I’m not here because I want to become the next Australian MasterChef, I love cooking but there’s no pressure on you to transform me into a cooking goddess. I’m already sure I’m going to break teeth when I try to eat my savoiardi biscuits. What Idowant, though, is to get the very best from being here. It took me a decade to save for a trip like this and I doubt I’ll be coming again, so I want to make this visit really zing. Do you know Lake Garda well?’
Yet to have had time to see much of the lake, Tad felt disingenuous as he nodded. Kathleen’s expression was so genuine, he didn’t want to disappoint her. And he could always ask Matteo and Gianna for insider info.
‘Excellent. I need your top five picks for tourist visits designed to suit the older lady, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Challenge accepted.’
As Kathleen chatted on and helped herself to some slices of bresaola beef and artichoke leaves, Tad’s gaze wandered across the table, to where Billie and her team had taken their seats.
Ron, the writer, had hustled into the seat beside Billie and, true to her word, Billie was asking him about his books. She managed to maintain an expression of animation as Ron launched into a well-rehearsed monologue. Hats off to Billie – in all honesty, he’d expected her to blow the bloke off; to pull the celebrity card and demand he should leave her alone.
Tad found his attention held as Billie forked cured meats onto Ron’s plate, nodding and grinning along with whatever he was saying. It was a convincing performance.
As Kathleen regained his attention, offering him a breadstick from a tall glass, Tad’s focus grazed over Amy, seated to the right of the photographer. They caught one another’s eye, and as Tad looked at her, the inscrutable expression on her face altered, her hand running the length of her golden French plait as she frowned, then looked away.
* * *
Kathleen’s Savoiardi (ladyfinger) Biscuits
