Page 86 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘She wants us to put on our aprons,’ translated a young American from Boston who Maggie had overheard earlier saying he was travelling through Sicily to explore his heritage and the cooking class looked like ‘a fun thing to do’.

‘Be quiet! I’m talking!’ bellowed The Godmother.

Everyone fell silent. There were many words to describe the cooking class so far, but currently the word fun didn’t look like it was one of them.

‘Cooking is serious business,’ she continued, her sleeves rolled up, elbows covered in flour as she began demonstrating how to make today’s menu – lasagne alla zucca, parmigiana di melanzane, tiramisu – starting with the fresh pasta for the lasagne.

Everyone nodded mutely. The way The Godmother was cracking those eggs with a sharp flick of her wrist – smash – down on the marble top, spilling the whites and piercing the soft yellow yolk so that it oozed into the moat of flour, made everyone flinch. There was something very metaphorical about those eggs. Well, this was mafia country.

Careful not to be caught not paying attention, Maggie snuck a tentative look around the class. It was a mixed bunch of about fifteen students, of all ages and races. Apparently several had come on tours from different cruise ships. But there was no sign of Him. That said, she wasn’t really surprised. Despite his love of cooking, a class wasn’t really his thing. He was never one to follow recipes, preferring to make things up as they went along.

Maggie caught herself at her choice of words. Oh, the irony.

‘Signora, your attention, please!’

She jumped as The Godmother noticed her being distracted and paused from pounding and kneading the dough, to shoot her a furious scowl.

‘Sorry. Of course. Absolutely.’

Nodding vigorously, Maggie gave her full attention as she turned back to pummelling and beating it into shape. She needed to stop thinking about Theo or his texts, and focus. Like The Godmother said, cooking was serious business and at this rate she was going to get into trouble.

Which is why, when she heard the door creak open behind her and the scurry of footsteps, she didn’t turn around at first.

‘Scusi, scusi, sorry to intrude . . .’

It was only when she heard an unmistakable Southern drawl she dared glance over her shoulder. To see a woman in a leopard-print pantsuit and heels, tottering towards them. Despite the cool shade inside, she was still wearing her sunglasses and wide-brimmed sunhat, while in the crook of her arm she was carrying a designer tote bag that was so oversized it was almost bigger than she was.

Birdy.

Maggie recognized her immediately as the woman she and Flick had met in the restaurant in Rome. What on earth was she doing here? And, more importantly, was she going to survive the wrath of The Godmother, who looked up sharply at this sudden intrusion.

Maggie braced herself. As did the rest of the class.

‘They sent me to another culinary school, but it was run by complete schmucks! Luckily my driver is local so he knew all about your world-class reputation and drove me here with his foot on the gas . . . I just hope I’m not too late to join your class.’

But if Maggie was thinking Mamma Lucia was going to scream at Birdy and shoo her out of her kitchen, she was very much mistaken. Instead, seemingly flattered by these compliments from this glamorous American woman who, quite possibly, was of a similar age, The Godmother’s back visibly straightened, her chest inflated and, with a smile not unlike that of the Mona Lisa, she gestured for her to take an apron and join the rest of the students. Which Birdy dutifully did.

‘Grazie.’

‘Prego.’

The two women nodded respectfully to each other, like a couple of prize-winning boxers. In one corner there was the brassy American, in the other the terrifying Sicilian. It was as if both knew they’d met their match. It was quite remarkable actually.

Ten minutes later the demonstration was over and the students were asked to pick partners and move over to their work stations to begin their various tasks.

‘We meet again.’

As Birdy appeared at her side, Maggie was now the one who felt flattered.

‘You remember me?’

‘I’m good with faces. I had six husbands.’

‘Gosh.’

‘Though I rarely remember all their names.’ She laughed, removing her sunhat and sunglasses. ‘But I remember yours. It’s Maggie, right?’

‘Yes.’