‘Ok.’
He unlocked the door and let her slip past him into the dark dining room. She didn’t see the defeated hunch of his shoulders, or how his face fell.
You and I can’t just be friends. Of that I am now certain . . .
* * *
Francesca tiptoed her way through the apartment, noting that she couldn’t hear Maria’s usual melodic snoring. She stopped in the doorway of Maria’s bedroom, and on cue, the bedside lamp turned on.
‘How did tonight go?’ Maria asked, curled on her side, hand still on the lamp switch.
‘Like every year.’ But Francesca suspected the slight tremor in her voice gave her away.
‘And the shirt?’ Maria’s eyes narrowed in on the shirt around Francesca’s shoulders. ‘Cold, was it?’
‘By the end.’ She pulled the collar to her nose and breathed in Alessio’s scent. ‘He’s just so amazing, Nonna.’
‘You should be together.’
‘How? When I’m not cooking downstairs, we are already always together. But most of that time is spent out there! In public.’ She gestured towards the piazza. ‘How can we just be?’
‘Just be in here. Or in your apartment! And deal with the details and problems later.’
‘But I told him tonight that things need to wait . . .’
Maria scowled. ‘For what? Behind closed doors, anything goes.’
Fatigue drained away any desire Francesca had to argue the point, so instead she blew Maria a kiss. ‘Buonanotte, Nonna.’
‘Think about it.’ Then Maria plunged them into darkness.
ventidue
Two weeks later, under the beaming summer sun, the people of Impastino gathered in the piazza. Numerous. Raucous. Impervious to the scalding heat.
Alessio stood by his assigned cooking station on the specially assembled stage, which filled almost a quarter of the square. He locked eyes with Francesca, who stood front and centre in the crowd, flanked by Maria and Elena. Even though Francesca’s tense shoulders betrayed her anxiety, he was thankful to see her smile. Her eyes conveyed her confidence in him, and he nodded his acknowledgement.
He readjusted the red and white striped scarf tied around his neck, symbolic of Giacomo’s legacy, Trattoria dei Fiori, and its rightful place in this year’s festival.
Well, rightful as far as the town knew.
By Alessio’s side stood a councillor of the local comune who would serve as his English translator. While Francesca had insisted she was more than capable of translating for Alessio, Mayor Felice Lorusso had stressed that a third party would be a more impartial choice.
‘Buongiorno, carissimi!’ Mayor Lorusso’s stocky arms rose into the air. The townsfolk mirrored his infectious joy, whistling, cheering and crying out their enthusiasm. Alessio’s councillor leaned in close and got to work, his thick pugliese accent soaking through his English translation. ‘Today, as we gather together as a community to celebrate this centuries-old tradition, let us not forget those who have come before us. For it is in their handprints in the dough that we stand, rise and continue to thrive.’ Another wave of appreciative cheering rippled through the audience.
It was then that Alessio spotted the card-playing elderly trio in the crowd. The spirited men whose game he had interrupted with a cheeky quip that memorable morning at the bar. Upon locking eyes, the tallest of the three gestured up to Alessio with a clenched fist of support, with the other two applauding the presence of their banter partner. Alessio nodded down to them and mouthed, ‘Grazie!’ That one little connection, the moment of levity, it meant so much to Alessio. As if despite the charade, someone else was genuinely happy to have him there.
Alessio’s attention then turned to the other three cooking stations. Carlo was to his right, Sebastiano to his left, and Elio directly opposite, each also wearing their coloured scarves, chef whites and hats. Bucktoothed Carlo looked just as goofy as ever, his long limbs creating right angles as he fidgeted behind his station. Pudgy Sebastiano clearly couldn’t keep his feet still for nerves as he rocked back and forth. Elio wore a steel-cold, menacing look of confidence, as if it were an insult to the institution that was Impastino’s Festa della Pasta that Alessio was even there.
His competitors were the least of Alessio’s worries right now. It was his Nonna Immacolata who had brought him to Impastino, but in this moment, his mind only had space for Francesca. He forced himself to focus on her and all she’d taught him during their Secret Life of Pasta lessons.
His gaze flicked back to the crowd, and he caught the moment Francesca pulled her gold chain to her lips, speaking tenderly into her cupped palm, kissing the cluster of charms that usually sat against her bronzed skin. Alessio could lose and walk away, never needing to think about it again. Adding this life experience to the list of failures on his career card. But Francesca didn’t have that luxury. Too much of her passion and fire was wound up in this town. In this competition. This truly mattered to her. It represented the loss of her father, the distrust of her mother, and the steadfast love and hold of her grandmother.
Don’t fuck this up.
Homing in on the interpreter’s translation of Felice’s words, Alessio straightened his chef’s jacket, cleared his throat and turned to face the audience.
‘. . . The round’s challenge will therefore play out as follows.’ The mayor’s faithful assistant, Giovanni, slipped Felice a sheet of paper and his reading glasses. ‘Allora . . . ah, here! Eccoci! La prima tappa, your first round, shall proceed per the following structure: you will have an hour to prepare a savoury pasta dish which best represents the Adriatic Sea.’ He gestured beyond the Da Martino restaurant to the open waters which stretched to the shimmering horizon.
