quarantuno
Wednesday night, three days after Francesca’s win, they were still enjoying the hum of her success. But around midnight, after Francesca’s third consecutive yawn as she lay wrapped in Alessio’s arms on the lounger on the terrazzo, not even the dreamy prospect of sleeping under the stars could coax her to stay.
‘I’ll go get some blankets,’ he suggested, getting to his feet.
But she sat upright and pressed a hand to his chest. ‘No.’ Another yawn. ‘Sono distrutta. It’s time for bed.’
Alessio signalled her to stop, trying to hold his nerves in check. ‘Just wait. Please. I just need a sec.’
She scrutinised him with tired eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just what needs to be done.’ He darted to the kitchen workbench and collected a small white envelope that he had hidden behind a chopping board. ‘Here,’ he said, passing it to her.
‘What is it?’
He pressed it more firmly into her hands. ‘Open it.’
Francesca swallowed and gave him a wry smile before her fingers dipped behind the paper flap, peeling it open. She withdrew the printed page and Alessio watched as her eyes scanned the text. ‘Ale . . .’ Her fingers began to tremble. ‘It’s impossible . . .’
‘No. I don’t want to hear that word come out of your mouth. You’ve already proven to everyone in this damn town that YOU ARE possible.’
She turned the page around. ‘But . . . a plane ticket to London?’
‘Yes, you’re going to finish your course. It’s all sorted. I’ve arranged it all with Giostro’s school.’ Alessio knew she would try to retreat, so he reached for her wrists before she had the chance to pull away.
‘Alessio, this is madness!’
‘The only madness I see in this scenario is watching you walk away from finishing something that I know you hold so dear to your heart. Like your father. Like your nonna. Like the pasta, and the boards, and that crazy pasta cup. Like all those notebooks you have stashed in your cupboards, and the annotated cookbooks and journals. And your lacy apron. And this restaurant. And Sophia. And this town. And yes, your mother. Please, just listen to me.’ He took a deep breath in and out to calm himself. ‘Don’t fight me on this, Francesca. I’m on your team. I always have been. I . . . I . . .’ He faltered, watching as her eyes softened behind building tears. ‘I always will be.’
As the first tear trickled delicately down her cheek, she returned her attention to the ticket and studied the information. ‘For this Friday. Just three days aw—’
‘Shh! I don’t want to hear it. You have just over a week there. All booked for you. I would have told you sooner, but I was waiting on confirmation of this. And it only came through today . . .’ Alessio reached into his back pocket and withdrew another sheet of paper. He unfolded it and pressed it into her hand. ‘A studio apartment with full kitchen right by London Bridge tube station. A five-minute walk to Giostro’s school near the Borough Market. Paid for in your name.’
Now she pushed it all back into his chest, shaking her head firmly. ‘No, I can’t do it. È troppo, Alessio. Troppo!’
He let the papers fall to their feet and caught her as she flopped against him, the tears falling freely now. Alessio pulled her tighter, closer. ‘You owe this to your father, Francesca. He helped you get to London in the first place. Now, you need to go back and finish what he set up for you. But you know, most of all, you owe this to yourself.’
It took a few moments of stillness, of quiet, before Alessio could sense Francesca concede. Her shoulders loosened against his chest and her arms finally came to wrap around his torso, returning his embrace. ‘But you’re leaving on Friday,’ she said.
‘We both have morning flights out of Bari. I booked yours so I can take you to the airport. Mine to Rome is an hour later.’
She sniffed and nodded, holding him closer. ‘But how will we—?’
‘I’ve booked the treno regionale from Foggia to Bari airport. Carlo will drive us to the station. Everything has been taken care of.’
Francesca pulled back a little and they locked eyes. ‘Grazie,’ she whispered.
Alessio moved a few damp curls away from her face and caressed the underside of her chin. ‘So, you’ll go? You’ll finish the course?’
She nodded into his palm. ‘For Papà. And for you. I’ll do it. There’s just one thing . . .’
Noting how she tensed, he said, ‘Your mamma?’
‘Because she was so happy the last time I told her the truth about London. Cazzo . . .’
He saw her cheeks flush pink. ‘Would you like me to be with you when you tell her?’
‘Sì.’
