‘Fifth Avenue?’ Malcolm queried.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t Fifth – I’m not sure that’s an essential part of the story, Malc,’ Billie said. ‘There were far more blatant inconsistencies to the tale than where it happened.’
Amy stopped listening. She didn’t consider they’d found themselves on anything resembling a back alley – rather the opposite. The cobbled street couldn’t have been more idyllic if it tried, lined with pots gushing forth flowering plants and with silvery leaves of ornamental olive trees glinting in the bright sunshine. The cookery school was surrounded by other brightly painted buildings while it dominated attention with its sheer size and beautiful, huge sash windows framed by those stunning shutters. Amy wondered if they were of practical use or were purely for aesthetics.
She hadn’t considered Billie would be bothered by the lack of a lake view, not once she’d seen in person the classy, ageless building Amy had studied repeatedly via the cookery school’s website. Instead, she’d thought that being set back from the hustle and bustle of a lake-fronted property was to its advantage.
‘Well, this place looks OK to me. Let’s get checked in, shall we?’ Malcolm said, turning his wheelie case and dragging it towards the double-door entrance to Casa del Cibo.
Billie glanced at her large suitcase, then at Amy, following Malcolm through the door empty handed except for a pair of Gucci sunglasses. With a sigh, Amy extended the handle of Billie’s case and trailed along behind them into reception.
* * *
Tad could have sent out for fresh lemons – it wasn’t as though there was a problem sourcing them in this part of the world, or at this time of the year. With Limone sul Garda a few kilometres around the lake, their lemon houses clambering up the side of the valley like well-disciplined spider webs, there was never likely to be a lemon shortage.
Even though there were plenty of lemons in the vicinity, the fact remained there were none left in the kitchens of Casa del Cibo. Not even in the cold room. Tad could almost see the local lemon growers throwing up their hands in horror at the idea of their voluptuous, intense-fleshed, sun-kissed fruit ending up somewhere as sterile as cold storage, but practicalities dictated it was prudent to have some stored in that way. Although prudence seemed to have fallen flat on its face today. How he’d managed to run out was a bit of a mystery – especially as lemon tart had been specifically requested by the new, and very VIP, guest. On the plus side, though, it did give him the opportunity to take a stroll to the market and pick up some more.
It was probably no bad thing to have one of the area’s stand-out culinary ingredients as freshly sourced as possible – short of going to the terraced greenhouses and cutting them himself – for the arrival of Billie Forsythe-Rogers, no less. Food critic and writer extraordinaire.
A pulse of adrenalin followed by a dose of old-fashioned nerves fluttered their way through Tad’s stomach at the thought of rubbing shoulders with someone of such high standing in the world of food, not to mention such a media darling. If he played his cards right, he might end up persuading her to do some kind of TV series based in Riva, with himself as resident chef. He could end up being the next Rick Stein. Maybe even have his own Michelin star restaurant. As dreams went, it was a bit outlandish, but that was the whole point of dreams, wasn’t it?
Tad was still daydreaming as he crossed through the pedestrianised area, glad of his trainers as he negotiated the uneven cobbles and threaded his way back past the gelato sellers and open-fronted pizza restaurants. He took a deep breath – even though he’d been at Casa del Cibo for a few months now, the smell of a proper Italian pizza, freshly cooked to order in one of the many Riva pizza places and devoured within minutes of its creation, remained one of his top-ten pleasures. Somehow, smelling them was almost better than eating one, and his favourite was probably one of the simplest. Mozzarella and torn basil, finished with a drizzle of olive oil and a handful of rocket leaves. Sweet dough, creamy cheese, a subtle kick from the leaves balanced by the oil. Perfection.
Maybe he should include pizza making on the itinerary for Billie Forsythe-Rogers. Was that likely to impress her so much it would make for an episode on his imaginary cookery series? Probably not.
Tad sighed, dragging his thoughts back to the here and now. Making pizza – or anything, for that matter – on TV might be another fly-by-night dream, but as he glanced around the street, he had to admit to a sense of contentment with his current situation.
Heading up the impressive Casa del Cibo Cookery School had been an opportunity he hadn’t wanted to turn down. After more time than he cared to think about spent chasing ghosts from one job to the next, moving from his Scottish home after the loss of his long-term girlfriend, and running from one seasonal job to the next, determined not to feel anything about anywhere – or anybody – this was the first time he’d felt a sense of calm in an environment. Timelessness. Chasing down the end of his twenties, he was beginning to enjoy the sensation that however long he stayed in this place, he would only ever be passing through.
In a strange way it was comforting, and somehow took away the need to run, because these buildings – this place – would be here for millennia after he’d gone, regardless of whether he moved on after a few more months or stayed here until the end of his days. The perspective of time had shifted in a subtle, but intriguing, way for the man who hadn’t stayed anywhere more than six months since Honor had been taken away, far too soon.
He smiled at her memory – another recent development, the ability to think of Honor without something ripping open inside – and pulling a lemon from the string bag, he pressed it up to his nose as he turned into the narrower street, winding its way up the hill to Casa del Cibo. The scent alone from the fruit was sensational.
Tad planned to teach Billie Forsythe-Rogers how to make a spectacular lemon tart with these fruits this very evening. A buttery, almond pastry would add another dimension to the pudding, alongside a clear glaze to seal in the lemony filling. Maybe with some tuile biscuits on the side, or perhaps they should go for extra richness with some tempered dark chocolate decoration.
As Tad passed the line of shops on his right, the doors to the boutique stood wide. Inside the proprietress held items of ladies’ underwear up for a customer to see. A young woman was perusing the options, a tourist by the looks of her long blonde hair and pale skin – and with a smile brilliant enough to stop traffic. Tad stilled and swallowed. He hadn’t had such a strong reaction to a woman for longer than he could remember. Her brilliant blue eyes glittered as the smile took hold. All thoughts of puddings fled from his mind as he paused, transfixed as he watched her trying to convey something to the shop assistant. She appeared to be unfamiliar with the Italian language, her combo of a word or two and windmilling arms making him grin. The elegance of her delicate fingers as she reached for one of the pieces of lingerie and felt the fabric did something unexpected to the base of Tad’s stomach.
His attention moved to the underwear – well, he was a heterosexual male… The woman had taken hold of a primrose-yellow set, with what looked from a distance like embroidered flowers running along the waistline of the knickers and nestling between the fabric cups of the bra.
The assistant also had a bold black set on a hanger, more lace than fabric. The woman pointed at the black set and the assistant handed it over.
Tad found himself intrigued as to what she would go for.
He only realised he’d stopped in the middle of the road when he heard someone say, ‘Mi scusi,’ from behind, and he swung around, moving to allow the old man to pass with his bike, an embarrassed grin crossing his face as the old man raised his eyebrows, but said nothing further.
Staring at a beautiful woman as she chose underwear was hardly a great look, made even dodgier because it was a woman he didn’t even know. The fact that she would probably look sensational whichever set she ended up choosing was another stray, and completely inappropriate, thought. So, Tad shoved the lemon still held between his fingers back into the string bag and made for the cookery school.
2
Amy probably shouldn’t have taken Billie up on her offer of using her credit card to pop out to buy some essential bits and bobs, clothing-wise, but that was the thing with Billie Forsythe-Rogers. When Billie was being generous, you rolled with it for fear of causing offence.
She had learnt to go with the tide where Billie was concerned. Everything financial would be made right at the end of the month, or the trip, or the event. It was simply how Billie did things. Although Billie’s pockets were so deep that it never entered her head that others might not have endless resources, she made sure she never left her employees out of pocket.
‘Until your case turns up you can borrow that black dress I brought for dinner – it’s my least favourite of the ones I packed, and some of my shoes will probably fit you, too, won’t they? But go, buy yourself some knickers and deodorant, Amelia,’ Billie said, holding out her Coutts Silk card. ‘I won’t be able to concentrate on my ravioli making if I know you’re wearing the same grubby set of undies day after day, will I?’
And this offer of the use of her credit card had come with a cheerful, if off-hand, wave, so Amy had run with it. All the way to a lovely little boutique not more than a couple of streets away from Casa del Cibo. Amy knew these items of clothing might end up being a gift from Billie, and even though Amy hadn’t lost her wallet along with the rest of her luggage, and could have made the purchase herself, her personal finances were a fraction of Billie’s – and she could do without having to fork out for an unexpected wardrobe.
So, although it was wise to make the most of ‘sunny’ Billie, while she lasted, and the offer of one of Billie’s designer frocks for the evening was welcome, Amy wasn’t about to take the mickey out of her. She planned to buy plenty of underwear, just in case, and some T-shirts for the next couple of days. She could always pop out and get anything else she needed another day. Amy was holding out for the return of her luggage, determined not to give up hope – especially where her grandmother’s book was concerned.
