She’d found the lingerie store on the corner of a couple of narrow, cobbled streets. Amy did her best with the language barrier, trying to match the assistant’s enthusiasm for the lacy black set of lingerie when all she needed was something far more practical. It wasn’t as though anyone was going to see any of it, and even though the pale-yellow offering was pretty, she wasn’t even sure she needed anything with that level of embellishment, or that kind of a price tag. Where was Primark when you needed it?
In the end, she took the pale-yellow set – the assistant was right, the self-coloured embroidered roses were lovely. Also available in cream, which Amy said she’d have, too. Never having been a massive fan of lacy underwear, she drew the line and refused the black set, and after she’d selected some more knickers, she watched as the assistant meticulously wrapped the items in tissue paper as if they were a new-born baby, before sliding the whole lot into a bag for her.
Wandering further along the maze of narrow streets, Amy found a place to buy T-shirts, and a pharmacy for some washbag essentials before heading back to the hotel.
Approaching the building on foot, Amy could fully appreciate its setting. It mightn’t be lakeside, but these streets were so beautiful it didn’t matter. Pots overflowing with bougainvillea aflame with flowers, and miniature olive trees with their silvery leaves gave the inclining street the feeling it was more garden than road. This was not the place for stress, or hurrying. Even in the shade afforded by the jostling buildings the air was warm and fragrant. Here and there doors to private homes stood wide in a declaration of confidence about the kind of human to be found in Riva. Malcolm would be able to take some amazing photographs – everywhere she looked was a PR opportunity. And knowing Billie, she’d squeeze every ounce of usefulness from this trip.
Billie had made her name as a food critic. Having been born into a family who regularly lunched at The Ivy, Billie had probably eaten more delicacies by the time she was fifteen than most people ever got to sample. She’d made a name for herself by being an utter vixen when it came to giving her opinion. If Billie Forsythe-Rogers gave a restaurant the thumbs down, heads rolled, but a positive write-up had pulses racing, and chefs passing out in relief. It had made her the darling of the media, who – rather like sharks – tended to be attracted to the scene of a good kill.
Billie began making appearances on breakfast TV, then food segments on weekend programmes. Always caustic, and highly watchable – Billie also branched out into coffee table foodie travel books. It was genius. There was a worldwide set of books to collect, and coupled with Malcolm’s talented photography, the books had become Christmas gift staples. And the titles always raised a smile.
Billie Does Texashad been the first one. Lots of cowboys, horned cattle and barbecues, and Billie had leant hard into the unspoken innuendo held within the title. It had been Malcolm’s idea. He’d suggested that apart from being an easy branding tool, the titles would strike a chord with a certain demographic – those who remembered those dodgy, top-shelf video titles, and now had enough disposable income and interest in food to be drawn to the idea. And he’d been right.
So far, they’d covered part of every continent – Amy’s favourite had been their trip to Japan. However, the wave – and the sales figures – were beginning to flatten.
Lake Garda signalled a change of direction for Billie. She’d been commissioned for a broadsheet’s weekend magazine article, this time from the standpoint of a food critic doing the cooking.
Amy supposed it might lead to more cookery school visits, Italian cooking the first of many. Or Billie might head in a different direction.
Right now, though, Amy wondered if the cookery school’s chef realised what he was in for with Billie at Casa del Cibo. She checked her watch. It was time to find out.
* * *
Tad was arranging the fresh lemons in a huge bowl. The swirls of deep blue glaze on the ceramic set off the lemons perfectly. Not that Tad was particularly artistic in any other way than through the medium of food – but spending years shunting himself from one cooking job to another had exposed him to demands from a hugely varied clientele. He knew how to wow with the frills and tricks of presentation, and could give the inside track on producing top-notch food – all part of why most people chose to come to Casa del Cibo.
The guests were here for excellence in their cooking. Going the extra mile to make everything taste awesome – every mouthful needed to pop with flavour. And more than that, they were at Casa for a fantastic holiday. And although Tad hadn’t been in post long enough to have explored much of his surrounding environment, he intended to do so. He’d already heard about plenty of places he’d love to visit, courtesy of the guests as they chatted while they perfected their pasta dough or filo pastry.
Talking of which, he should get the butter portioned ready for the almond pastry. As he was about to leave the mountain of lemons and head through to the cold room, the rapping of knuckles on the kitchen doorframe had him pausing.
‘Hi – anyone home?’
‘Hello, yes—’ Tad paused as the voice was trailed into the room by the woman he’d seen in the lingerie boutique, not thirty minutes previously. She still had the boutique’s branded bag swinging from her hand. Somehow, knowledge of what was held within did something weird to his solar plexus. He did his best to drag his gaze back to her face. A warm, friendly, open expression, her gorgeous long blonde hair hooked behind an ear, sparkling blue eyes trained on him as she wandered closer.
‘I’m Amy. Billie Forsythe-Rogers’ PA? I wanted to check on arrangements for our first lesson. You got the email about the photographer, did you?’
Tad frowned. There had been plenty of emails about Billie’s impending arrival – all from someone called Amy – who now stood in front of him. Enough emails for him to lose track of the individual requests. ‘Photographer?’
Amy looked around. ‘Yes. This is the cookery school teaching room, isn’t it? It looks like the one pictured on the website. I was a bit worried about the lighting, that’s all.’
‘Lighting?’
‘Although, she wants to go for more of a homely feel with these photos. She’s trying to get away from the siren vibe, so I suppose Malcolm will be able to make it work.’
‘Malcolm?’ Aware he was sounding like a parrot – not ideal in front of a seriously attractive woman, Tad recalibrated. ‘I’m Tad, by the way. If I can do anything extra to help make your stay here run smoothly, please let me know. Not sure we can rustle up a lighting rig in time for pastry making this afternoon, though.’
‘No. With those huge windows, hopefully we’ll be all right. I think we’ll wing it today, see how the pastry flakes, and go from there.’ Her eyebrows arched; the merest hint of a smile edged onto her lips, making her eyes sparkle even more fiercely. ‘Oh – that’s a thing, isn’t it? It’s like saying “how the cookie crumbles”…’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that before.’
‘What? How the cookie crumbles?’ She appeared surprised, then wrinkled her nose as she glanced away. ‘You’re taking the mickey. I suppose you hear all sorts of foodie jokes all the time. Apologies.’
‘No, I meant it. I’ve never heard that before. How the pastry flakes. I like it.’
‘Genuinely?’
‘Genuinely,’ he said. ‘How the ball bounces, I’ve heard that one. But a culinary alternative to how the cookie crumbles? That’s a new one on me.’
Her expression perked. ‘Finally, I’m a trailblazer. It’s only taken me twenty-six years to manage it.’
