Maria, sitting in her wooden chair by the end of the bench, sighed. ‘It’s all the sex.’
‘Nonna!’ Francesca erupted.
‘Sex? What do you mean, sex?’ Elena dusted her hands free of the dough and began furiously washing them in the trough.
‘Mamma, please! It’s nothing. Nothing’s going on.’ Francesca shot Maria a wide-eyed look.
Maria exhaled loudly. ‘Pffft!’
Drying her hands on her apron, Elena stepped forward, her face now flushed. ‘Francesca, I swear on San Francesco, if you and Alessio are—’
‘Of course they are!’ Maria piped up. ‘It’s good for the girl. Look at her. It’s been years since she’s looked like this.’
Elena threw her hands in the air. ‘No! No! I warned you against this. You promised me you would control yourself.’
‘MAMMA, ENOUGH!’ Francesca threw the dough against the splashback and it hit the steel bench with a thud, causing all the implements along its length to rattle. ‘Shut up!’
‘Don’t speak to me like that!’
‘I am thirty-three, Mamma! Stop treating me like a child! God!’ She began pacing the kitchen, her skin prickling with heat and sweat.
‘Just when I think we can begin things fresh and on a positive note, Cesca, you go and—I simply can’t trust you!’
‘Trust? TRUST?’ Even Francesca could hear the tremor in her voice. ‘You want to talk about trust?!’ This was it, the moment she had avoided for so long. The truth that had burned a hole through their already strained relationship. The biggest secret, held by all but Elena. Because Elena would never have accepted this for Francesca, let alone celebrated it. Now it was dangerously close to the surface, and the words just burst from Francesca’s mouth. ‘You, Mamma, are the one we can’t trust!’
Elena guffawed patronisingly. It rattled and bounced off the walls. ‘ME? I can’t be trusted?’
‘Yes! We all keep secrets from you, because we can’t trust you with OUR TRUTHS!’
Elena turned to catch Maria’s gaze. ‘She’s lost her mind!’
‘No.’ Maria rose to standing. ‘You have, Elena. Ever since we lost Giacomo, you have come undone. Before then you were stubborn, but now . . . now you are a nightmare!’
It was on. The three generations of women let loose, Elena berating them both, and Francesca and Maria uniting in their defence. Hands, arms, voices. In a single moment the argument had degenerated into a chaotic and toxic scene of dysfunctionality.
The first to rein in the mayhem was Francesca. ‘Ok, enough! ENOUGH!’ She leaned against the kitchen bench, her breathing laboured. ‘What have we become? This would kill Papà if he knew.’
‘Your papà knew better than to keep secrets, Cesca.’
‘Papà had his secrets too!’ Francesca retorted, and Maria nodded her agreement.
‘He did not. He told me everything. Everything!’
Francesca simply couldn’t help it. She knew something had to change. She said quietly, ‘Then how come you don’t know the real truth about London?’
‘London?’ Elena’s brow furrowed. ‘What about Lond—?’
‘The reason I went to London for the year. The truth. Hmm?’ Without intending to, Francesca had mirrored Elena’s defensive hands-on-hips stance.
Elena’s jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What. Happened. In London?’
‘I didn’t go to study hospitality English, Mamma. I went to study with Gattuso Giostro at his pasta academy. Nonna knew. Papà knew. In fact, it was his idea.’
Elena’s shoulders sagged and she blinked in disbelief. ‘Is this true, Mamma?’ she asked Maria.
‘It is,’ Maria confirmed. ‘And Francesca is better for it!’
A heavy silence settled over them. Then Elena finally whispered, ‘You all lied to me. Even him.’ Was she crying? Francesca couldn’t tell, as Elena had dropped her head in defeat. But she wiped something from her cheek. ‘I’ve heard enough. This is simply cruel.’
