He caught himself. What was he thinking? The last few months had seen him close doors and end so many ties. A relationship? Sex? He’d made a mess of everything. But now, feeling lonely and detached from daily company, from closeness, from conversation and connections, he suddenly felt it all.
Instinctively his fingers wrapped around the key, squeezing it a little tighter.
Francesca motioned to the door. ‘Welcome home.’
‘Grazie.’ He leaned forward and unlocked it.
Francesca stepped aside to allow him to enter first, pulling his suitcase behind.
The apartment was exactly as the photos and description had depicted; quaint, tidy, ideal for one. Immediately to the left was a line of built-in robes before a small kitchenette, the ensuite to the right, and beyond that an open-plan studio apartment. The wall which extended from the kitchenette along the entire length of the apartment was lined with bookcases, each segment full to the brim with coloured spines and folders. A double bed sat nestled against the right-hand wall, a small dining table for two at its foot, a couch and coffee table at the very end by the large window overlooking the piazza.
‘There’s no balcone, as there’s the terrazzo above,’ she said, walking through the space. ‘The washing machine is in the bathroom. The linen is all in the wardrobe. Towels. Spare sheets. But if you need more, just ask. And I’ve tidied away most of my personal belongings. Please just ignore anything else you find.’ She motioned to the kitchen. ‘Small but mighty. Plates and cups are up here,’ she opened the high cupboard, ‘and everything else is in the drawers. The stove is electric. There’s no oven, so please use the kitchen downstairs if you need.’
‘If you need . . .’ I have no intention of preparing ANYTHING beyond coffee while I’m here.
Alessio knew she was just being kind and professional, so he forced his most genuine-looking smile, despite the gnawing jet lag. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘Do you like to cook?’ She leaned the small of her back against the edge of the kitchen sink.
Alessio stopped short. ‘Uhm.’ His stomach tightened, pinching as it always did when these kinds of questions now surfaced. Drawing upon Patrick’s, his psychologist’s, advice – ‘acknowledge the past so your future can be free of it’ – he answered, ‘I’m actually a chef.’
Am. Was. Ugh!
Her eyebrows rose with notable interest. ‘You’re a chef? A CHEF? Really?’
Confused by her jolt of enthusiasm, he asked, ‘Is that a problem?’
‘A problem? No, of course not!’ Her smile couldn’t be restrained.
He sat on the edge of the bed, allowing his weight to sink into the mattress. He felt each of the past twenty-eight hours of transit in his heavy legs. ‘I’m not currently working.’ Alessio paused a moment. ‘I don’t like the term “unemployed”, so let’s just say I’m currently between things.’
She smiled and looked about to say something more, but her attention was stolen by the tolling of bells from out in the piazza.
Alessio watched as she darted to the window and pulled the voile curtains aside. He checked the time on his phone. Twelve-fifteen. ‘That’s an odd time for the bells to ring. On the quarter hour.’
‘No. No.’ Her eyes never left the window, and Alessio could see how her grip on the curtains tightened. ‘It’s Impastino’s call to the townsfolk. Thirty-four chimes, calling everyone into the piazza for an announcement.’
‘Why thirty-four?’
She was now on her tiptoes, craning her neck to the right. ‘Because Impastino lost three hundred and forty men to the Second World War. It’s to honour them.’
Alessio’s expression flattened. ‘Three hundred and forty? That would’ve been—’
‘Almost half the town. Una tragedia.’ She continued to peer out over the open space, and Alessio joined her. ‘There’s a festival coming,’ she explained. ‘Our annual summer festival. The mayor – Felice Lorusso – he is going to announce the opening this afternoon and share all the details. I must go.’ She turned to face him, her smile returning. ‘Do you need anything else?’
‘No, thank you. Just some sleep.’
Francesca nodded. ‘I can imagine. Tranquillo. Get some rest.’ She gave Alessio’s shoulder a kind squeeze as she made to leave. ‘Tomorrow the restaurant is closed. We never open on Mondays. Please, join me for lunch on the terrazzo. I’d love to get to know you, seeing as you’ll be with us so long.’
Because there was no time or space available in his jet-lagged mind to reason his way out of his lodging – the bed was right there, and his head had taken to thumping – he nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
‘At noon. No tolling bells, I promise.’
* * *
Francesca burst back into the restaurant, bolted down the stairs from the landing and thrust herself halfway over the serving ledge into the kitchen. ‘Nonna! My God!’
Maria, who had been washing her hands in the trough, cried, ‘What?! WHAT?!’ She clutched at her cheeks with her sopping, soapy hands.
