His face fell. Her tone was cold and he understood. He swallowed, his mouth dry and when he spoke, his voice had an unfamiliar falter to it.
‘Cleo has become a mother for the first time. She’s done a marvellous job, and it was a long time coming. She is a warrior, tired, victorious, elated, and all she wants to eat is some of your Fettuccini Alfredo.’ He smiled now. ‘I thought you’d take it as a compliment. Her husband has offered her the best steak, sushi, sweet desserts, anything she wants! Turns out the only thing she wants is a bowl of your Fettuccini Alfredo.’
Gianna hesitated, as if weighing up whether to agree to his request, before nodding and opening the door wide to allow him entry.
‘I can make a batch and put it in a plastic box for her.’
‘Thank you! Thank you!’ He raised his hands in praise, his tone dripping with gratitude.
‘You’ll take it straight to the hospital?’ She walked towards the kitchen.
‘No need. She’s coming home already.’ He spoke softly. ‘I wouldn’t have asked, only—’
‘Don’t explain.’
Darting around to face him, she briefly held his gaze and the way her eyes searched his face made him look away. He swallowed the hard ball of guilt that sat at the base of his throat. Following her into the kitchen with a growing feeling of unease in his gut, he stood by the wall, marvelling at her artistry as she pulled one of the heavy blackened frying pans from the shelf above the stove and set it down on top of the flame.
‘I am making this for your daughter because she has become a mother and that’s an incredible thing. I also know how hard she fought to become a mother and to that I can relate, and I respect her for it.’
Her words made him rethink the assumption that she was not maternal.
‘Gia ...’ He stepped forward and raised his hand.
‘Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare!’
To see her recoil was like a punch to his throat.
‘I mean it, Bernie, do not touch me. Not here in Carlo’s restaurant, not ever again. You understand?’ Her stance was steady; her voice, however, wobbled.
‘I understand you’re upset—’ he began.
‘Upset?’ She spun around and he now noticed the tremble of her hand. ‘I am not upset! I am furious! I am fuming from the depths of my shoes to the tips of my hair! I am so angry!’ She clenched her fist.
Bernie had known the speech he made to his wife would impact his lover; he wished he’d drunk a little less as that might mean he was able to remember exactly what he had said. It was as if she read his thoughts.
‘The things you said, Bernie!’ Just the memory of these words was seemingly enough to distress her. He hated to see the slip of tears over her cheeks, which left her eyes raw.
‘Gia ... Gia ... what was I supposed to do?’ He tried to remember the words he had rehearsed in the car, the ones that might pour calming oil on to the troubled waters. ‘The kids wanted me to give a speech, they insisted on it. I had to say something! I had no choice; I was backed into a corner. I even suggested you both leave, gave you an opportunity to make a hasty retreat, but your husband was having none of it!’
‘First you let your wife bookmyrestaurant when there are a hundred other places you could have gone to celebrate your perfect marriage.’
‘She loves it here, we all do – that’s how you and I met, don’t forget.’
‘I never forget!’ she yelled, and he looked towards the back door, as if her volume might have invited unwanted attention. ‘I never forget! It’s not me with the memory loss! It’s you! All the promises you have made me, all the things you have told me about your nagging wife, your demanding wife ... My God! To hear you last night you’d think you were on a first date – so much love! So much passion!’
He felt his pulse race; he didn’t want to fight with her. Didn’t want to fight with anyone – confrontation had never been hisstrong suit. This one trait, he was convinced, was the reason for his long and ‘perfect’ marriage. He had figured early on it was easier to go with the flow, agree with whatever suggestion, and do exactly as he pleased rather than try to stand his ground with a woman like Winnifred Wallace. It was easy. Keep her happy with shiny baubles, home improvements, extravagant bouquets, and a week or two in the sun, and the rest of his time was his own.
‘I didn’t want to rock the boat by asking her to cancel and find somewhere else. What would I have said? How could I have justified that? And by the time I found out she’d booked it, she’d invited all the family and they’d made plans ...’ It was almost the truth. That and a small part of him liked the idea of having the two women in his life in such proximity. Mischief at its most thrilling. And at his age, such thrills were sadly few and far between.
Gianna shook her head as she threw heavy cream, butter and cornflour into the pan, no measuring needed. She cooked by eye and by instinct and he found it most alluring, always had. There was something about a woman like Gianna who was the embodiment of generosity, not only physically, but in her very nature. The way she revelled in the experience of food, wanting to create the rich, tasty, satisfying, flavoursome dishes to show love, and this she achieved with every mouthful. It was no surprise to him that Cleo, with her energy and reserves depleted but filled to the brim with the emotion of new motherhood, wanted only to taste Gianna’s food.
It had been a favoured thing for them, after sex, to lie on the makeshift bed in the storeroom at the back and talk about food: the source of food, the harvesting of food, the preparation, her likes, dislikes, and always with a bowl of fat olives to hand, some thrice-cooked chips with a strong dipping aioli or one of her rich baked cheesecakes and a glass or two of red ... He was in awe of how, after so many years of cooking, she still loved what she did, loved the sounds, sights and smells of the kitchen and still felt thethrill of produce being delivered early in the morning. He was as attracted to her passion as he was her nature and her body.
He recalled one conversation in particular, in the early days of their affair. ‘Seriously, Bernie.’ She had sat up, unabashed by her nakedness in a way that was intoxicating and in stark contrast to Winnie, who was always willing to indulge but favoured the drape of a robe or the corner of a sheet to preserve her modesty. Not that he compared the two, never that. But how he loved when Gianna would lean forward, eyes wide, hands expressive and her tone enthused. ‘There is still something so awe-inspiring about running my hand over the silvery skin of a fat salmon, inhaling the scent of the sea on a sprawling glossy octopus or cutting a fresh lemon and breathing in the smell of summer. It shouldn’t bring me so much joy, but it does, Bernie! To handle wide artichokes, gaze at that particular hue of a ripe blackberry, set dough to rest, peel weighty onions, bite salty olives, taste the sweet, earthy notes of a ripe, young tomato, or inhale the peppery scent of a fine olive oil – it takes me to my happy place!’
‘I can see that.’ He’d laughed. ‘Look at your face!’ He had never seen such contentment.
‘You can laugh, but it’s true! No matter the weather outside, even on the greyest of days in the suburbs, the produce takes me back to my nonna’s garden, where the heat of the Tuscan sun warmed every stone of her Montepulciano home. God, I love that place! My childhood was the stuff of fairy tales.’
