He nodded, but seeing as they were alone he felt it important to add, ‘What you did wasn’t right, Francesca. You shouldn’t have enrolled me in this without my permission.’
‘I know.’
‘I would never have done this if you hadn’t forced my hand.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve put me in a difficult position with your mum and nonna. And look at that scene that jus—’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She looked forlorn.
‘I won’t cook in your kitchen. For the restaurant, I mean. I just can’t. That’s not why I’m here, Francesca.’
She nodded. ‘I . . . I understand.’ But there was a hesitation that broke the conversation’s flow. ‘The rules state that the competitor must be the male head chef of the fam—’
‘And I’ll play whatever games you need to keep up appearances. I’ll be your second cousin. Whatever you’ve told them. But please don’t ask me to cook for the restaurant.’
‘Alright.’
‘Whatever you need to teach me about pasta, we do after hours. Closed dining room. Empty kitchen.’
Her eyes widened. ‘And, in secret! It’s between us. Just you, me, Mamma and Nonna. And the pasta. Nobody in town can know!’ She threw her hands to the sky. ‘If anyone should find out what we’re doing . . . the lying . . .’ She swallowed hard. ‘It would ruin what’s left of my family and our business.’
‘I get it. The frozen fish drama . . .’ He noted her reddened eyes. ‘You don’t think people would understand?’
Her smile seemed forced, as it failed to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I hope they would. But memories are long in Impastino. And grudges run deep.’
Alessio smiled kindly. ‘Ok. I’ll do my best. And, you know, this might just be the circuit breaker I need to . . . well . . .’
He felt her warm hand reach over and search for his, giving it a thankful squeeze. ‘Grazie.’ She held his gaze a second longer than felt necessary, and that extra beat felt loaded – with fear, hope and something else.
‘Can we begin soon?’ she asked.
‘Erm.’ He wasn’t ready for this. ‘Can you give me a few days to find my feet in town? Just to settle in?’
‘Of course. How about Saturday night?’
‘Sure.’ He pushed a breath between his teeth. ‘But I can’t really say no, right?’ He meant it as a joke but somehow the humour was lost between her fumbling hands and those hollow, pleading eyes. ‘“The Secret Life of Pasta” it is, then. Starting Saturday night.’
He hadn’t even unpacked his suitcase yet.
dodici
On Thursday morning Alessio awoke with his first dose of sunburn, across the crest of his shoulders and the tip of his nose. Feeling its tightness, he grimaced, but it didn’t have the red-hot touch of a Melbourne summer burn. The Italian sun felt different. It was a low hum, an internal warming. Tingles. It was worth it, though.
He looked at his phone and calculated the time difference.
Seven am. So, three pm for Mum and Dad.
Now would be the perfect time to get hold of his parents. If they picked up. They were notoriously difficult to catch on the phone, their hands and minds usually busy at the café. Nevertheless, he dialled his father on WhatsApp, knowing he could use the missed calls for leverage against the ‘You never called us after you arrived!’ argument.
He cleared his throat and sat up in bed, running his fingers through his hair to settle it back in place. The call rang and rang, then eventually rang out. So, he tried his mother, also to no avail.
That’s two entries into the guilt-free bank of ‘I tried to call!’
Then he dialled James, his best friend, first cousin and until recently, work colleague. James was the kind of guy who practically sat on his phone, operating much of his importing business from the software he’d installed on it. If you needed James, you would always get him. Day, night and anything in between.
Alessio dialled and within seconds, James’s delighted face filled the screen.
