Along the wall to the right were saloon-style wooden swing doors leading into the kitchen and a serving window with a counter.
‘Wait here a moment, I want you to meet someone,’ Francesca said, coming to a halt outside the swing doors. ‘One of our chefs. She’s a force in the kitchen.’
Alessio’s mouth went dry and he felt his protective barriers rising inside.
Unaware of his unease, Francesca pushed her way through the saloon doors and Alessio could hear her speaking in dialect with a woman, whose raspy voice was dry and crackling in comparison to Francesca’s sweet, lyrical British English. There was a nasal pitch to it, and it exuded a certain authority.
Suddenly a crash sounded from inside the kitchen, followed by the thud of heavy wood meeting the inside of a metallic trough. Alessio winced at Francesca’s gasps.
Then, just as Alessio darted to the serving window to inspect the source of the commotion, the other woman’s face appeared over the ledge.
Well, only just.
‘Buongiorno.’ The plaited bun of grey hair visible from over the top of the ledge bobbed in time with the greeting.
Alessio perched his intricately inked forearms on the counter and leaned over until the woman’s face came into view. She was eighty if she was a day, and beaming. He couldn’t help but mirror her joyous smile while Francesca was trying her best to wrangle a large wooden pasta board from a wash trough. ‘Buongiorno,’ he said.
Having righted the board, Francesca turned her attention back to Alessio. She wiped her hands on her apron and said, ‘This is my Nonna Maria.’
‘Erm. I don’t speak much . . . Non parlo . . . Could you translate?’
Francesca smiled and relayed the message in Italian, and Maria’s deep brown eyes twinkled at Alessio in return.
‘Nonna is eighty-nine years old, but acts like a teenager most of the time.’
That mischievous pucker to Maria’s lips hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Alessio grinned. ‘Piacere, Maria,’ he managed, offering his hand in greeting.
But Maria’s grey-speckled brows joined forces to form one discontented line of disapproval. ‘No.’ She threw a passionate pointed finger down by her side, and Alessio had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing. ‘Vieni qua!’ Maria ordered him to her side.
Francesca nodded that it was ok for him to join them in the kitchen, so he pushed his way through the saloon doors. Politely, he offered Maria an outstretched hand, but it was promptly slapped away and she threw her arms around his middle, drawing him in for a full-bodied embrace, the force of which almost winded the unsuspecting Alessio.
He locked eyes with Francesca, who was now giggling into her steepled fingers. Alessio noticed that her short nails were painted red. ‘You just earned yourself another nonna,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t aware they were on offer.’ Alessio lowered his arms, which he had been holding mid-air, awkwardly outstretched, to rest gently against Maria’s back, returning her cuddle.
‘Secco,’ Maria said, giving him a final squeeze. ‘Secco. Deve mangiare qualcosa.’
‘Secco?’ he asked Francesca.
Through an embarrassed grimace, she said, ‘Nonna thinks you’re too skinny and she wants you to eat something.’
Alessio erupted with laughter. ‘Maria, I go to the gym to look exactly like this.’ He gestured to the space she had been grabbing. ‘I work very hard to stay trim.’ He mimed a double set of bicep curls, which drew a playful shake of the head from Francesca.
‘Mah!’ Maria retorted and trotted her round frame with a generous bust to the bench behind her. She fetched a handful of biscuits from a ceramic jar, wrapped them in a paper napkin and delivered the parcel into Alessio’s grip. ‘Mangia, figlio!’ Then she descended into some scowling regional Italian, losing Alessio immediately.
‘She wants you to ea—’
‘Yeah, I got that part.’ Under his breath he said, ‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’
‘Here, it’s eat or be eaten.’
Alessio dropped his head in defeat and smiled back at Maria. ‘Ok, Maria. Grazie.’
Maria’s right index finger shot skywards. ‘Nonna Maria . . .’ She stressed her preferred title, head cocked slightly to the side.
Alessio leaned down to better level their mismatched heights. He whispered, ‘Nonna Maria.’
‘Perfetto!’ Maria cooed, just before the interruption of a ringing mobile phone. ‘Mio!’ she said, reaching into the right-side pocket of her lace-fringed apron and withdrawing a phone. But it wasn’t ringing. The ringtone chirped again, and this time she fished through the apron’s left-side pocket. She withdrew a second phone. ‘Ah!’ she assessed, clearly pleased by the name on her screen. With a wrinkled finger she swiped and answered the call, stepping away from their conversation.
