One Summer in Rome: a deliciously uplifting summer romance!

One Summer in Rome: a deliciously uplifting summer romance! Samantha Tonge ‘A taste of Italy and a summer read you won’t forget!’ Mandy BaggotTo Rome…with love?Mary Smith is turning her very ordinary life upside-down! She’s bought herself a one-way ticket to Rome and is ready for a summer she’ll never forget.Men might be off the cards for waitress Mary, but within hours of arriving at the utterly charming family-run La Dolce Vita pizzeria, she’s already fallen in love with the bustling capital!Only Dante Rossi, the mysterious (and drop-dead gorgeous) chef seems displeased with her arrival. And in the heat of the kitchen, it doesn’t take long for long-buried secrets to surface and sparks to fly…A deliciously heartwarming romance to have you dreaming of summer. Perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Caroline Roberts.Praise for One Summer in Rome:‘Food, family and a Roman romance – this is the perfect summer read!’ Heidi Swain‘A book you won’t regret picking up if you love Jenny Colgan or Cathy Bramley’s books!’ Being Unique Books‘A perfectly uplifting story to enjoy in the sunshine!’ Fraser’s Fun House‘A charming novel!’ The Library Corner‘I couldn’t put this book down… A truly beautiful read.’ Nemesis Book Blog‘Light-hearted and feel-good.’ Pretty Little Book Reviews‘A lovely and summery read!’ The Cosiest Corner To Rome…with love? Mary Smith is turning her very ordinary life upside-down! She’s bought herself a one-way ticket to Rome and is ready for a summer she’ll never forget. Men might be off the cards for waitress Mary, but within hours of arriving at the utterly charming family-run La Dolce Vita pizzeria, she’s already fallen in love with the bustling capital! Only Dante Rossi, the mysterious (and drop-dead gorgeous) chef seems displeased with her arrival. And in the heat of the kitchen, it doesn’t take long for sparks to fly… A deliciously heartwarming romantic comedy to have you dreaming of summer. Perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Caroline Roberts. One Summer in Rome Samantha Tonge ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES Copyright (#ulink_48adf52c-63d5-5708-9523-45d62ccd9da5) An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Samantha Tonge 2018 Samantha Tonge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008239176 Version: 2018-03-21 SAMANTHA TONGE lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and a cat who thinks it’s a dog. Along with writing, her days are spent willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at Disneyland Paris. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing contemporary romance novels is her passion. samanthatonge.co.uk (http://samanthatonge.co.uk/) twitter.com/SamTongeWriter (https://twitter.com/SamTongeWriter) facebook.com/SamanthaTongeAuthor (https://www.facebook.com/SamanthaTongeAuthor) For Martin, Immy and Jay. Thanks for the memories we made together in Rome. Piano! Piano! Contents Cover (#u19ed8554-7b56-5995-9d4e-6cf2c63f37ec) Blurb (#u341f91e6-1176-5631-80bd-0bc477a92ff9) Title Page (#ubbbda372-bdac-5755-aa98-99f4d7048710) Copyright (#ulink_d37cf87f-f147-5080-8910-e25a9a7e20d7) Author Bio (#udd164454-350b-501d-b236-c8584415bcd4) Dedication (#ua9571a10-8260-5a31-8a56-092f4b56cbb0) Chapter One (#ulink_6e8fd435-6309-532e-8ca5-d88c71e05ebb) Chapter Two (#ulink_b5693019-08f8-5644-b5d7-37bc32a245b0) Chapter Three (#ulink_f8276186-fe35-56fe-bec2-2a746e4e7727) Chapter Four (#ulink_45e188f4-1bb4-5656-87a7-6f63b816025f) Chapter Five (#ulink_e39749f4-55bb-5b94-ac3e-4e832bc81518) Chapter Six (#ulink_5542181e-eb41-5193-bf5d-85f914bab574) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo) Endpages (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#ulink_d52a2f22-8498-5530-9da2-2d04d888bdbe) ‘Excuse me! Sorry, was that your bag?’ Mary bent down to set the small case upright and under the glare of its owner, squeezed her way through the crowds. An out-of-breath Jill followed closely, red in the face due to lack of oxygen and the indignant comments of passengers inadvertently pushed out the way. But Mary had precisely thirty minutes left to check in and board. Finally she reached the appropriate desk and handed over her passport and paperwork. How had this happened? Plain Mary Smith heading for Rome? A wry smile crossed her face. She blamed the travel agency, located right next to the job centre. On finally quitting her waitressing position at The Black Swan pub, she’d been determined to sign on. However, in the window of the shop next door was a stunning poster of the Coliseum. Ten minutes later, Mary found herself heading home with a bagful of Italian holiday brochures. Until the early hours, she flicked through them, each turn of a page increasing her flurry of excitement. ‘We’ve closed,’ said a tight-lipped young woman, after casting a cursory eye over Mary’s details. ‘This flight has had its last call.’ Jill, The Black Swan’s chef, caught up. ‘Huge apologies. You see the traffic …’ The woman raised one eyebrow as if she’d heard it all before. ‘My young friend can run fast,’ said Jill and she gave a beaming smile. ‘All she needs is for you to weigh that luggage.’ The check-in assistant consulted her watch and shook her head, ponytail swishing like a horse’s tail irritated by a fly. ‘Come on, Jill. Let’s go. It doesn’t matter,’ said Mary, feeling like a customer who tried to buy a drink after last orders. ‘I’m not going to beg to go on a trip I’m having doubts about anyway. I should never have handed in my notice.’ Perhaps this was fate’s way of saying … her? Rome? That’s make-believe. Mary didn’t know whether the tension in her stomach was disappointment or relief. Jill shook her head and Mary studied the greying curls and wrinkle-free cheeks, filled out by nature’s own Botox – a love of carbs. This friendship represented the closest relationship she’d ever had – apart from Jake. ‘You should have left months ago,’ said Jill. ‘I only stay because the hours suit for looking after Dave. Brenda falsely accused you of undercharging a customer – again. She’s never happy. Why would you want to work again for the landlady from hell?’ Because, Jill, experience has taught me that change could make things worse. Aged eight, she’d been so excited to leave her second set of foster parents. Their biological daughter hated Mary and the bathroom smelt. But the third couple couldn’t get rid of her quick enough when they unexpectedly found themselves expecting a child of their own. A puzzled look on her face, the assistant leant forward. ‘Don’t you want to go on holiday? Or at the least have a fortnight of the most fabulous ice cream?’ ‘Holiday? No. It’s a one-way trip. You’ll be doing me a favour, to be honest. Take the decision out of my hands, because I can’t afford to buy another flight.’ She shrugged. ‘As if I could reinvent myself in the sunshine … I don’t know what I was thinking when I booked my ticket.’ ‘Last-minute nerves,’ mouthed Jill, speaking as if she were sharing something taboo. The check-in assistant stared for a moment. ‘I’m all for reinventions,’ she said, eventually, in much friendlier tones. ‘Take last year, when my boyfriend dumped me. I dyed my hair blonde. Applied for this job. I’m dating an air steward now.’ With supersonic speed she weighed the small navy case. Mary swallowed. So this was really happening? Half-heartedly she took the boarding ticket and muttered her thanks. They left the check-in desk. ‘Right, off you go,’ said Jill. ‘We made it. No regrets now. It’s too late for those.’ Unable to budge, Mary bit her thumbnail. ‘But what if I’m making a mistake? Now that I’m here …’ She gazed at her passport. ‘What was I thinking? People like me don’t—’ ‘Stop right there. Don’t write yourself off. We all have the potential to achieve whatever we want.’ Gently Jill reached out for Mary’s hand and moved it away from her mouth. ‘We’ve been through this – over and over since I picked you up three hours ago. You have nothing to lose …’ ‘Just my self-esteem if I fail.’ ‘Rome is beautiful …’ ‘So is Hackney. Kind of. At night. If you squint.’ ‘… and you love pizza …’ ‘I hate tiramisu.’ ‘… and what could be worse than working for Brenda?’ Jill had got Mary there. Still. This was like a bungee jump except there was no elasticised cord. No safety net. No back-up plan in case things went wrong. ‘I don’t understand. At first you were so cautious about me taking this job.’ Mary stared at the floor. ‘I know I’ve moaned a lot since Jake left. Sorry about that. At least you won’t have to put up with my romantic problems once I’ve taken that flight.’ She gave an extra bright laugh. ‘You’ll probably be glad to see the back of me.’ ‘Poppet …’ Mary lifted her head. ‘You know our friendship means the world to me. These last few months …’ Jill’s voice broke. ‘You’ve been so supportive, listening to me talk through all my worries about Dave. I don’t know how I’d have managed without you …’ her eyes glistened as she smiled ‘… or your particularly uplifting triple chocolate cookies. But I’ve seen such a change in you, these last couple of weeks – until you started having reservations as departure day loomed. Your whole face has upturned as if gravity is having the opposite effect. And you’ve never been so animated as last Tuesday night when you came around to show off that Italy guide book.’ Jill straightened up. ‘So I’m not going to be selfish and persuade you to stay. Now pull yourself together this instant. You can always come back if it doesn’t work out.’ ‘But I’ve got no flat. No job,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve got the sofa in my lounge,’ Jill whispered back. ‘I’ll miss you heaps …’ Her voice wavered. ‘But it’s not as much as you’ll be missing if you turn down this chance. Dave is right.’ And with that, Jill delivered the sucker punch. Mary nodded as the words of her friend’s ill husband came to mind. He had acute lymphocytic leukaemia. The prognosis wasn’t good. Go for it, Mary. Step out of your comfort zone because there is nothing comfortable about regrets when you’re facing your own personal journey of no return. Mary stared at her friend and allowed herself to be wrapped in those squidgy arms. Jill always wore the same sandalwood body spray. Mary breathed it in and hoped to retain the memory of that fragrance. It might be months before she smelt it again. So, Mary Smith was really going to jack in her London life. Toby and Tilly, the little twins she babysat next door to her flat, in the tower block, had both burst into tears. They called her Mary Berry. With a wry smile Mary wondered who they’d miss more – her or her biscuits. This was it. Mary Smith was on the move. Heading across the Channel to work in the exotic-sounding Pizzeria Dolce Vita. ‘Okay, okay, this is the right decision,’ said Mary. ‘It absolutely is,’ said Jill, ‘as long as … just bear in mind …’ She shuffled from foot to foot. Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘As long as you aren’t doing a geographical.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Jill bit her lip. ‘Much as I’m going to miss you, there was another reason I was cautious about this move, at first. Just don’t expect to escape all your inner … your inner …’ ‘Issues?’ said Mary and she smiled. ‘Just you wait and see – I’m leaving all of that particular baggage well behind.’ The baggage of being the little girl nobody wanted. Oh, Mary had understood once she got older – prospective adoptive parents wanted a baby, not a shy five-year-old who soon became eight, eleven, fourteen … but those feelings of rejection never left and they made it all the harder when Jake had dumped her. Mary stood taller. One thing was for sure: she wouldn’t be looking for romance in Rome. ‘That’s what Sarah thought,’ said Jill, softly. Her niece had just got back from Rome. Mary was replacing her as a waitress, at Pizzeria Dolce Vita. ‘She took the job to escape the baggage of her stressful career in the city but the problem wasn’t the job, it was her perfectionist streak – Sarah believing she was never good enough. And it caught up with her big time. Whilst working for Alfonso, she also did evening courses in Italian culture and wine-tasting …’ ‘That’s why she had another breakdown and had to come back?’ Jill nodded. ‘Well, you know what? That’s helped me realise leaving is so the right decision because my problems are nothing like Sarah’s.’ She kissed Jill on the cheek and fingered the black haematite bead bracelet around her slim wrist. One of the heavier crystals from her collection, it bore the power to boost self-confidence. She pictured a dusky pink sunset behind the Vatican. Comforting bowls of spaghetti. Laughing street entertainers in one of the many piazzas. ‘You don’t need to worry, Jill. This is my fresh start and I’m more than capable of leaving my demons well and truly behind.’ She gave a broad smile. ‘It’s going to be the answer to all my troubles.’ Chapter Two (#ulink_db98cb8d-06cb-534c-bd2e-1f38100c7532) The aeroplane revved its engines, turned onto the runway, and took off. Heart pounding, Mary looked out of the window and watched a nearby city shrink into a Lego village. The pilot could be drunk. What if a terrorist was aboard? Perhaps they’d hit a storm? Okay. Deep breaths. Mary needed to think baking – that always calmed her down. ‘There isn’t anything a good biscuit can’t cure,’ one of her foster mums would declare. At the time Mary agreed as, instead of receiving sorely craved hugs, she’d been given comforting sweet treats in abundance. It was hard when the following foster couple had introduced a strict, calorie-controlled diet. Kale instead of cake? That plan was never going to encourage a close relationship between fourteen-year-old Mary and her new carers. Knuckles white, she clenched a smooth, coffee-coloured crystal in her hand. The plane was bound to crash. It was so heavy. Massive in length, with nothing underneath to support it. As the engines eased, Mary tore her glance away from the windows. Watching light, fluffy cloud only served to reinforce her sense of fragility. Instead, she gazed around at the June holidaymakers who had smugly beaten the July schools-off tourist crush. Happy faces filled the length of the plane and the female flight attendants, especially, were just as smart as she’d expected, with their pencil skirts and full make-up. Mary was the only person travelling on her own – or so it had seemed, until a businessman had sat down next to her. He was middle-aged with eyelashes so thick they made up for the receding hairline. Hands shaking a little, she flicked through the in-flight magazine. ‘Nervous flier?’ asked a deep voice. Mary smiled shyly. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. I’m always glad to land safely on the other side. I’m John. John Jones.’ Her shoulders relaxed. It was nice to meet someone with a name as boring as hers. ‘Mary Smith. And I don’t really know about being nervous. I’ve never flown before.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘It’s one of the safest forms of travel. The worst bit is over now. So, this will be your first trip abroad? Rome is an excellent choice.’ Why couldn’t she have made her first big journey a girls’ break in Ibiza or day trip with school? Oh no, Mary’s had to be on the back of ditching her old life – lock, stock, and barrel. She slipped the in-flight magazine back into the pouch on the seat in front and gazed at the crystal in her hand. Beautiful it was, with its cappuccino shades. John nudged her elbow. ‘That your lucky charm?’ He delved into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small, pink teddy on a key ring. Its fur was worn and it was missing one eye. ‘My young daughter insists that I carry this. Says that Little Ted will keep an eye on me. One eye, literally.’ Pulse slowing, Mary grinned. ‘That’s really sweet.’ He returned the teddy to his pocket and nodded at the stone. ‘My sister’s into healing crystals. They helped her through a rough patch last year. Never goes anywhere without her rose quartz bracelet. As you probably know it’s—’ ‘The crystal of love.’ Mary smiled. ‘Yes. It can help you move on from heartbreak or a broken friendship.’ John’s face turned purple for a second. ‘Treated like dirt, she was, by her ex-husband. But one year on and she’s met a decent bloke.’ Mary loved her crystals. Believed wholly that they worked, but she had stashed her rose quartz away after Jake left. She was convinced nothing or no one could ever unbreak her heart. ‘Which crystal is that?’ he asked. ‘What’s it supposed to—’ Mary squirmed. John groaned. ‘Jeez. Listen to me, getting carried away. Ignore me. The missus is always telling me to curb my chat. But it goes with the job, you see. I’m an international recruitment consultant. I ask people questions for a living.’ He smiled. ‘It’s too easy to get stuck in business mode and be a right nosy parker.’ She was being precious. John’s sister had crystals, so he wouldn’t judge. ‘It’s okay. This is quartz too – smoky quartz, a protective crystal, great for travelling. I’ve got some yellow citrine in my handbag, as well – that’s the crystal of good fortune. It should help me take my life in a new direction and bring prosperity and success.’ She shrugged. ‘Not that it’s money I’m after. Just a new chapter.’ Her voice wavered. ‘A better life, I guess.’ John eyed her curiously and then reached down and pulled a dog-eared book out of his briefcase. ‘I don’t know much about crystals. My sister tried to explain how they work. Something to do with atomic vibrations …’ Mary nodded. ‘Talking of chapters, I’m more of a self-help book man. Found them really useful, over the years. You know the sort – Become a Millionaire in One Year.’ ‘That clearly worked, seeing as you’re stuck in Economy,’ she said and gave a shy grin. John chuckled. ‘No. But it gave me some ideas on how to push my career forwards. Anyway …’ He passed Mary the book. She didn’t grip tight enough and it almost slipped to the floor. She swallowed. Jake always used to playfully tease her for being clumsy. ‘This is my current favourite.’ ‘Hook, Line, and Sinker,’ said Mary. Her brow knitted. ‘No offence, but I’m not interested in learning about fishing.’ John chuckled again. A warm sound it was, and comforting, like hearty soup simmering on a stove. ‘Me neither. No, this book is about setting goals and achieving them. It’s helped me get fit and draw up a savings plan so that the missus and me can eventually move house.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you got a job lined up?’ John pretended to bite his fist. ‘Aarghh, Mr Parker is doing it again …’ Mary slipped the crystal into her shorts’ pocket and smiled. ‘In a pizzeria. With lodgings. It was too good an opportunity to miss.’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Good on you. That takes guts. So, where do you see yourself in five years? What’s your plan?’ ‘Should I have one?’ Up until now, her plan had just been to take one day at a time. Pay the rent. And her bills. Hold down a job. Be independent. ‘Good grief, yes. Otherwise life just passes you by. At around your age, let me see …’ He thought for a moment. ‘I gave myself five years to buy my own car and put down a deposit on a home. And I managed that – albeit the wheels were an old banger and the new pad a tiny flat.’ The flight attendant offered them a drink and crisps, whilst Mary digested everything John had said. Perhaps this was her problem – she rarely made concrete plans for the future. There would have been no point in having aspirations, as a child. Her life was wholly in the hands of others. But now could she really, finally, work towards building a solid future of her own volition? ‘Hook, Line, and Sinker contains some great tips,’ said John and yawned. ‘It helps you set realistic goals, so that you aren’t heading for disappointment. It doesn’t matter how small and it says to concentrate on three areas – work, health, and love.’ He yawned again. ‘Right, I’m going to get some shut-eye. Little Ted’s owner kept me and her mum up most of the night.’ As he snuggled back into his seat, Mary looked through the book. Work, health, and love. She could do that – make three resolutions. She stared out of the window and awe extinguished fear as she marvelled at wisps of cloud. If humans could put a giant metal bird in the air then she could take control of her destiny. First, work – learning to assert herself had to be the number one goal. Landlady Brenda had walked all over her. At twenty-six the legacy of a life in care was that she still feared being rejected by anyone holding an important position in her life. That meant she put up with being taken advantage of, when it came to the nine to five. What if her new boss had the biggest Italian temper? Or didn’t let her keep tips? So that was her first resolution – to stand up for herself at work, whatever the cost, even if it meant returning to England within the first month. Secondly, health. She took out her iPod and put in her earphones. Her favourite pop salsa song came on. Of course! She should learn to dance. It has always been a dream since she’d first started watching her favourite ballroom dancing television programme. The sparkles and spray tans offered such an escape from the daily humdrum. Back in England she’d felt too self-conscious to join a ballroom class. It meant dancing with a partner and Jake would have rather spent an hour in a straitjacket than Lycra. But in Rome, no one would know her. Okay. So that was her second resolution decided upon. Now for love. Jake’s last ever words to her still resounded in her ears. Don’t say I didn’t invite you to join me. For Christ’s sake, most people would jump at the chance of moving to Dubai! But not you. Well suit yourself – and thanks for helping me waste the last year of my life. Santa beards of cloud, floating by, became blurry as she turned down the music. One year. That was the longest she’d ever dated anyone. Her chest tightened as she recalled the feeling of normality she’d revelled in, at becoming part of a couple. She’d come the nearest ever, with him, to emotionally letting go – or rather, letting him in. She’d risked getting close and had opened up her most vulnerable areas … shared some of her fears and dreams. Mary had dared ask the question – could he be The One? Yet still she’d held back from telling him the things she’d never even told Jill. Just in case, like everyone else, he left – a defence mechanism she appreciated now. They’d had a terrible argument, in the end. He’d shouted that she suffered from attachment disorder – blamed her biological parents. Mary squeezed her eyes tight. It had been hard to explain to him exactly why she couldn’t commit. But it was nothing to do with her birth mum and dad. She’d never met her father and up until the age of five, from what she could remember, had only felt love from her mum. Whereas her grandparents – that was a different matter. She recalled no hugs nor kind words, yet couldn’t blame them for giving her up. Time had given her perspective, as had getting to know Toby and Tilly next door. A small child was a lot of work for a couple who were heading towards their seventies – and who’d been estranged from their daughter. ‘Talk about an ice queen!’ Jake had shouted. ‘Didn’t the last twelve months mean anything?’ Maybe he should have worked it out – that, in fact, the last year had meant so, so much. That was why she felt hurt that he was effectively abandoning her, just like every person in her childhood. Oh, he’d asked her to go with him, but his plans – his future – were already in place. Cancelling or postponing Dubai, if she said no, never got a mention. Jake was leaving, regardless of her decision. ‘I’d be mad to turn down an opportunity like this,’ he’d said. ‘If anyone’s got attachment problems it’s you,’ a heartbroken Mary had muttered and she swore that her heart actually broke in two ragged halves that could never fit together again. Jake was just like the social workers who passed her case on. Just like the foster parents who got pregnant or moved abroad. Mary never felt like she truly belonged. Social Services didn’t encourage the use of the words “Mum” and “Dad” and that was hard for a little girl. Plus, looking back, Mary could see that the front she’d put on had probably fooled foster parents. The stories she’d heard, of other foster children, made her realise she must have appeared to be quite solid. Unaffected. Strong. ‘You’re lucky,’ said one social worker. ‘My last client is four and has never seen a piece of fruit.’ ‘What a relief to look after a child who’s so well behaved,’ said one foster parent. ‘In the past we’ve opened our wallets to children but still they’ve stolen from shops. You’re a good girl.’ And she was. Clean and tidy. She’d never committed a crime. Mary went to school. The records and diaries her carers had to keep were probably very short. And because of that, they’d never guessed that inside she was howling for attention. Perhaps she expected too much of grown-up life – to be someone’s Number One. And she tried to remind herself that there were always others who were worse off. Mary opened her eyes and sat up straighter in the aeroplane seat. She shook herself. Rome was about her future, not her past. ‘Get a grip and stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mary Smith,’ she murmured. She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. Sarah had given it to Jill who had passed it on, a couple of days ago. Apparently Alfonso had sent strict instructions for her to open it on the flight. Naturally, Mary had obeyed and waited until this moment. She slid her finger under the top flap, and pulled until it broke all the way along. She tugged out … a photo. Without studying it closely, Mary turned it over. We are all so excited to meet you, Maria! See you soon. Buon Viaggio! ‘Maria,’ she whispered and her face broke into a smile. Somehow her new life sounded better already. More exciting. Vibrant. She turned the photo back over and scrutinised every detail. A group of people stood in front of the ground floor of a building – the restaurant. A white canopy stretched forwards and underneath it stood eight tables, each covered with a pretty green gingham cover topped with a vase containing a rose. Clouds of cooling mist came out of jets, at the side of the restaurant. Above the canopy a scarlet sign read Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Dolce Vita. The good life? What was that exactly, Mary wondered? Perhaps it simply meant happiness, as the customers certainly appeared cheerful. As for the group standing in front, the middle-aged man was Alfonso. Portly. Hairless – apart from an impressive moustache. And chunky fingers giving a wide-fingered wave. His whole face shouted Welcome! – although his expression triggered a sense of sadness and she wasn’t quite sure why. In the end she decided it was because the smile only came from his mouth, not his eyes. She recognised him easily from her Skype interview. He wanted another English waitress, like Sarah. Apparently with her GCSE in Italian and experience in catering Mary had outshone the other candidates. He was effusive and friendly and immediately put her at ease. Alfonso’s arm was draped around the shoulders of a woman in her early twenties – that was bubbly Natale, who’d joined him during the interview to say hello. What a beautiful floral dress and long brunette waves that could have starred in any shampoo advert. She looked like Catherine Zeta Jones out of Jill’s favourite old show, The Darling Buds of May. Natale held hands with a little girl – no doubt the granddaughter, six-year-old Lucia, with her mop of black curls. A real Mediterranean Annie with a scampish grin, except she was no orphan; she was surrounded by family. Perhaps Mary should have felt a pang of envy, but she didn’t. Lucia looked around the age she was when Mary’s grandparents had handed her over to Social Services and she never saw her mum again. To the left stood a slim man, perhaps in his early thirties, with a high hairline and Harry Potter glasses. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and black bow tie. In his hand was a pen. He looked like someone with little time to spare. That had to be Rocco, the head waiter the family employed. Sarah didn’t get on with him – said he’d always been standoffish. Her stomach squeezed. Was it just bad luck that the camera had caught him frowning? Finally, her gaze settled upon … A tide of heat spread up her neck. A sensation she hadn’t experienced for months. To the right, next to Natale, that had to be Dante. Broad. Bronzed. Thick, burnt-caramel hair. She couldn’t determine his height as he crouched, one hand casually in his pocket. The other wrapped gently around the most adorable-looking dog. That’s what pulled Mary in most. Such tenderness, as if the pet was his most precious possession ever. Dante wore a wide smile – or was he simply squinting, in the sunlight? Mary wished he wasn’t wearing those trendy aviator sunglasses, but they matched what looked like expensive designer jeans that perfectly showed off his strong thighs. She’d wondered why he’d kept so quiet on Skype as Alfonso had encouraged Natale to ask questions and said it was a family interview. He’d simply sat in the background looking stern. Jill had mentioned something about a tragedy the whole family suffered a couple of years ago. Plus something about Dante facing his own problems. Looking for clues, she scrutinised his face. Did he have a drink problem? A physical illness? Depression? She looked at her watch. It wasn’t long before she’d find out. Chapter Three (#ulink_74368b31-3e4c-5972-a613-fc44b3f3e6f4) At least her heart was still working, thought Mary, as she immediately fell in love with Rome. Giovanni, a friend of Alfonso’s, had met her at the airport. The Rossi family were busy with the lunchtime restaurant rush. Taxi driver Giovanni spoke excellent English and proceeded to give her a historical rundown of the Italian capital. ‘Rome has two hundred and eighty fountains and more than nine hundred churches …’ So it was true – the Italian accent really was Viagra for the ears. It could make the most practical facts sound like the most wistful poetry. Her eyes widened as they passed the Coliseum and his deep, lilting tones explained how ancients used to fill it with water to stage mock sea battles. Majestic, with a kind of brutal beauty, it looked exactly like the images she’d seen in the movies. Same for the Vatican and the awe-inspiring domed outline of St Peter’s Basilica. A cosy glow infused her whole body as Giovanni turned into a network of small avenues, bustling with everyday Italian life. The prettiest ornate balconies complemented cream and yellow apartments. Sun-tanned locals gesticulated with their hands. The ground floor of buildings offered flower sellers and glitzy designer clothes shops. Stray cats darted across streets, inciting a cacophony of car horns. Executives, sipping espressos, tapped on laptops outside red-canopied caf?s. Lovers strolled, hand in hand, perusing menus. Mary hugged her knees. It was as if architects had been asked to build the complete opposite to grey Hackney – as if she’d dined on nothing but the limpest white bread and suddenly been offered a plump focaccia, bursting with tomatoes, cheese, and olives. ‘Now we head to Piazza Navona, where Alfonso’s restaurant is. You like the city, no?’ Giovanni said, with a chuckle, and glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s stunning,’ mumbled Mary, transfixed by passing sights. For some reason she’d expected every Italian she met to sport tailored clothes and salon-glossy hair. But most just looked … normal. Short or tall. Untidy or groomed. It was kind of comforting. Having never left the British Isles before, Mary realised what preconceived ideas she’d harboured. Perhaps not all Frenchmen wore berets. Maybe some Spaniards hated paella. She wondered what foreigners expected of England. Scones with every cup of tea? Received pronunciation? ‘You like a little history of the piazza – the square – where you’re going to live?’ ‘Per favore,’ she said, shyly trying out her Italian. ‘It is certainly romantic and was built about one hundred years before Christ. As a sports stadium. Picture animals fighting and gladiators …’ A vision of Ben-Hur popped into her mind with chariots racing around a track. ‘It boasts some of the best baroque architecture in the whole city, with the magnifico St Agnes church and Pamphili Palace. There are three splendid fountains and …’ The more Giovanni spoke, the more impatient Mary became and found herself leaning forward, to look out of the front windscreen. It sounded as if she’d be spending the next few months on a Hollywood film set. Finally the taxi pulled up outside a grocer’s and Giovanni pointed ahead. ‘Walk to the end of this avenue. You arrive at the piazza. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is the last building, down the end, on the left. I would drop you off, at the restaurant, but the traffic has been worse than I thought and my next fare awaits.’ ‘No problem. Honestly. You have been so kind.’ Mary took out her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’ Giovanni turned around and fiercely flapped his hand. ‘No! Prego, signorina. Now, go. Hurry and you will catch a slice of lunchtime pizza.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Grazie mille,’ she said and took a deep breath. Mary climbed onto the pavement and hauled out her bag. She slammed the door shut, watched Giovanni do a three-point turn, and then returned his wave as he drove off. Feeling like Paddington bear abandoned in London, Mary stood for a moment, wishing she had a nametag around her neck. But that sense of not belonging was nothing unusual and she brushed it away. After Giovanni’s description, she was itching to see her new home. Apparently the buildings surrounding it used to seat thirty thousand people watching animals – and men – tear each other apart. Humming, she reached the end of the avenue, case jiggling up and down on the cobbled ground as she entered the piazza. She gasped. As her pulse quickened, Mary’s eyes roved the long, curving oval of buildings and the road going around. The huge expanse of ground, in the middle, boasted the three fountains, artists, and street entertainers. Laughter, music, and chat provided the soundtrack. Tomato and garlic the smell. This place was paradise for all the senses. Down from the blue lagoon sky, the sun beat on her face, which broke in two with sheer joy. Mary had done it. Travelled to Italy. Reached Rome all on her own. She faced the middle Fountain of Four Rivers and her eyebrows knitted together as she recalled Giovanni’s words. The figures and animals at each corner of the huge rock represented the four continents that, at the time it was built, were under papal power. For a moment she simply stood, in awe of the sculpture, until the sound of trickling water accentuated her thirst. She glanced around and in the distance, to the right, saw the northern end Fountain of Neptune. She turned left and proceeded to walk along, gazing up at ornate balconies, punctuated with bursts of green foliage and flowers. ‘Attento!’ called a young man as he skateboarded past. Mary lowered her gaze and, with a grin, stepped out of the way. She passed a tap dancer and a man performing card tricks. The piazza reminded her of a jammy dodger biscuit – reliably pleasing on the outside, but vibrant and colourful in the centre. Small children ran around, undeterred by the heat. Wishing she’d brought a sunhat, Mary finally reached the pizza parlour. She took a deep breath. ‘Hello, Pizzeria Dolce Vita,’ she whispered. ‘Good to meet you.’ She stopped. Bit her lip, annoyed at an unexpected urge to flee. What if she didn’t fit in? Hated the job? What if this new venture turned out to be transitory? Mary flexed her hands, grabbed her case, and headed over to the southern Moor Fountain Giovanni had mentioned, right opposite the restaurant. She breathed in and out, in and out, and admired the rose-coloured marble. The fountain featured a large basin with a figure of a man standing in a conch shell, wrestling a dolphin. Surrounding it were four Tritons – or gods. The sound of running water steadied her nerves. Mary dug into her handbag and gave the yellow citrine crystal of new beginnings a determined stroke, before heading towards the white canopy shielding outdoor diners from the sun. She caught the eye of Rocco, dressed as he had been in the photo, with his white shirt and black bow tie. He finished taking an order and then came over. ‘You must be the new English waitress,’ he said, in an uninterested voice, yet peered hard over the top of his glasses. No red-carpet welcome here, but then she was nothing special – just another helping hand, not an affluent customer nor food reviewer. ‘Rocco?’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Ignoring the gesture he nodded. ‘Come. Alfonso is inside, preparing coffees.’ Pulling her case, Mary followed him towards the door and navigated her way along the narrow gap alleyway between seated customers. She pulled it up a mahogany step and stood for a moment, taking in the view ahead of her. In front were tables, with green gingham cloths and a vase – just like those outside. Then stretching ahead, along the left, was a mahogany bar and stools, with mirrors along the wall behind upside-down liquor bottles. She squinted. At the far end of it was a silver coffee machine. Further on, a wider dining room and right at the back a staircase marked Privato. Alfonso lifted the bar hatch and came out from behind the counter. Rocco hurried back outside whilst solid, warm arms wrapped themselves around Mary. Noisy kisses landed on each of her cheeks and she felt the bristle of an impressive moustache. She pinked up and stood back. ‘Buongiorno,’ Mary stuttered. ‘Maria! So glad you made it. Giovanni picked you up on time?’ ‘Yes. He gave me a lovely tour,’ she said and smiled. With his crinkly eyes and wide upturned mouth, it felt impossible not to mirror Alfonso’s warmth. ‘The restaurant is lovely,’ she said. ‘Really homely.’ He bowed. ‘Grazie. We work hard to make customers feel welcome, so that is the perfect compliment.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Now, scusa, but I have coffees and desserts to serve. Natale can take you upstairs. The pizza rush is over, so Dante is up there, preparing for your arrival. You must be hungry.’ Chunky fingers squeezed her arm. ‘You and I can chat later.’ ‘Maria!’ sang a cheerful, soprano voice. Natale came over, wearing a pastel cotton dress and carrying a tea towel. Another hug. A kiss on either cheek. Mary wasn’t used to such affection. Only from Jill – and … and Jake. She didn’t have any siblings to visit, nor uncles or aunts. Only one foster couple had got remotely close to her heart but they’d now moved to France. ‘Ah! The great English reserve,’ said Alfonso and grinned. ‘Maria, you must get used to us Italians being hands-on.’ Natale laughed and pulled a face. ‘Give her a chance, Pap?! And it is not all Italians. You just brought us up to be molto friendly.’ ‘Of course! Otherwise what is the point?’ He shrugged, wiped his brow again and hurried off. Natale slipped her arm through Mary’s and they headed towards the private stairs at the far end of the restaurant. Molto meant very. Hopefully Mary’s knowledge of Italian would return speedily. She looked sideways at Natale. It felt … good, linking arms. ‘Don’t worry.’ Natale smiled. ‘You will get used to us.’ She took the case, and Mary followed her up the stairs. ‘There is an entrance you can access from the back of the building – a more private staircase. Dante will show you around properly,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘You speak such good English, Natale. Why does Alfonso want a waitress from England?’ She turned around on the stairs and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Lots of reasons. Once we were asked if we cooked toad-in-the-hole. Chef was horrified.’ Mary wondered what he’d think of bubble and squeak. ‘And we get lots of tourists from Manchester, Newcastle, Scotland … the accent is not so easy to understand. Also, visitors seem to feel more comfortable with someone from their country of origin and ask all sorts of advice, like where the local doctor is, the best time of day to visit the Coliseum, if there is a cheap supermarket nearby … and this often means they become regular diners here, during their stay. We are so grateful Sarah was able to suggest a lovely replacement. The other people we interviewed were not nearly as suitable.’ Mary’s pulse quickened. ‘I won’t know anything to start with.’ It could take months. What if she didn’t get up to speed? Natale’s face softened. ‘No worry. By the time our busiest season starts, at the end of July, you will know this area like the back of your arm.’ ‘Hand,’ she corrected and they both grinned. After one flight of stairs they arrived in an open-plan lounge and kitchen area. What a contrast to the bustling restaurant. It was airy and bright. The colour scheme was white with colourful accessories. Purple cushions. A lush green rug. Vibrant paintings in old frames. Every object looked worn as if it hadn’t spent its life simply being a soulless decoration. A scratched glass coffee table stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a long sofa and two armchairs. The pine and silver kitchen stood on the left, separated from the living area by a long breakfast bar and a row of backed stools, plus a dining table towards the rear of the room. ‘It’s lovely,’ Mary said and gazed at the wall ahead, covered in a mosaic of family photos. Alfonso, with his arms around a woman his age. Perhaps that was his late wife. There was a smaller one of Natale and her little girl. No husband though? And … Dante in a police uniform. She’d thought he simply made pizza. Balancing two jobs must be difficult. She studied the photo. The sharp clothes made him look hot – but that was simply an observation. Jake had shattered her trust. She was here to get strong again and that meant men were off the menu. ‘No doubt you are thirsty,’ said Natale. ‘Let me put the coffee on. Do you take milk?’ ‘Yes please. One sugar.’ ‘Just like me,’ said Natale and that rosebud mouth curved upwards. She smiled and wished British politeness would allow her to ask for a long, cold drink instead. Whilst Natale busied herself with some sort of aluminium percolator, that she filled with water and eventually placed on top of the stove, Mary headed over to the right-hand side and a huge window facing the square. She looked down on tourists and artists and fought an urge to rub her eyes. Was her new home for real? Back in Hackney her view had been an abandoned warehouse. Whereas this was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of people and sounds coming and going. ‘Dante!’ sang out Natale. Seconds later heavy footsteps approached. Mary cleared her throat and turned around. A plastic shopping bag in one hand, he stood with the adorable dog by his side, a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt showing off his bronzed skin and strong forearms. Those perfectly fitted jeans reminded Mary of that iconic Levi’s jeans ad where the man strips off in a launderette. She touched her mouth. Such thoughts felt so unfamiliar after months pining for Jake. For the first time since he’d left, her body ached with need and told Mary that Dante provided something it had missed. Yet her heart ached in a different way and the physical reaction soon passed. ‘Be friendly, dear brother,’ said Natale, before winking at Mary and disappearing back down the stairs. Dante still wore the trendy sunglasses and who could blame him. He’d clearly just got back from the shops and it was atomic bright outside. He ruffled the dog’s head. It gazed up at him. He was tall. And broad. Toned too. Perfect policeman material. She folded her arms, as if defending herself against any attraction. ‘Va bene – go and say hello, girl,’ he said to the dog, in a voice as creamy as hot chocolate. Dante looked up. ‘Nice to meet you.’ ‘You too,’ said Mary and she knelt down as the dog padded over. ‘What’s she called?’ ‘Oro.’ He walked around the breakfast bar, to the stove. Mary chatted to Oro about her beautiful brown eyes and smart furry coat and laughed at the strong tail, wagging like a windscreen wiper. Then Mary got to her feet and Oro wandered back to the kitchen. Dante turned to face her, inhaled, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what my sister is thinking, making coffee. Folle!’ ‘I’m sure she meant well.’ ‘Si. There is not a mean bone in my sister’s body. But today is so warm. I need a long limonata. How about you? But scusa, first I need to know – is it Mary or Maria?’ he asked and tilted his head as if concentrating hard. ‘Oh. Um. Yes, lemonade please. And, Maria, I suppose.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘It’s a little more exotic but I don’t really mind.’ ‘You think?’ He ran a hand through that thick, burnt-caramel hair. ‘I like Mare-eee … un bel nome. Sounds beautiful. Like a gentle sea breeze.’ Her eyes widened at his poetic words. It had taken twenty-six years and an Italian policeman to entertain the idea that, perhaps, her name wasn’t so bad. She stared at him, wishing he’d take off those glasses. Perhaps his eyes would reveal a teasing nature, yet that hot-chocolate voice oozed sincerity. As if he’d read her mind, Dante took them off and rubbed a hand across his forehead. His hand eventually dropped, revealing a scar at the corner of one of his eyes. ‘Prego. Sit down on the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring over the drinks. Then I’ll show you around.’ Mary collapsed into one of the armchairs that looked more comfortable. Should she get out the Tupperware box of homemade shortbread she’d brought? It was a small gift to represent a big thank you: an iconic British sweet treat and one of Mary’s favourite recipes. However, overcome by shyness, she decided to just leave them out in the kitchen, later. Shadowed by devoted Oro, Dante eventually headed over. He brushed his calves along the sofa’s edge. What was he doing, thought Mary? He frowned when he reached the end of the cushioned front, sat down, and placed the lemonades on the coffee table. ‘Mary?’ His face reddened. ‘Where are you?’ She stared for a moment and then her throat felt drier but not from thirst. Of course. How could she have been so stupid and not worked it out? Oro meant gold. A great name for a golden retriever. It hadn’t clicked why he’d chosen that breed. Nor why he’d been wearing dark glasses. ‘I’m here. In the armchair,’ she said and leant forward to touch his arm, heart squeezing as if someone had mistaken it for a lemon that had made the lemonade. Poor Dante. What could have happened? Why had no one said? ‘Um, let me pass you a drink.’ ‘I’m blind, Mary. Not incapable,’ he said, in a tight voice, and pulled away. ‘Accept that and we’ll get along fine. Pap? employed you as a waitress. Not a nursemaid.’ Chapter Four (#ulink_a785def1-1d4f-5335-bf67-076e233b9284) Pastries. Lush Italian plum jam. Little Lucia, humming and kicking her legs against the dining table. Several days on and Mary reckoned she could get used to starting every day like this one. ‘More coffee?’ asked Natale, who sported a skirt and yellow and orange striped blouse – a vibrant contrast to Mary’s beige trousers and white T-shirt. Freckles scattered across her nose, like the musical score for her tinkling laugh. ‘No thanks. I’ll be saucer-eyed, otherwise. I’m used to drinking instant coffee, back in England.’ Natale pulled a face. ‘We tried that once, years ago on a family holiday to London. Pap? said it was the liquid equivalent of baby food and that no self-respecting adult should drink it.’ Mary grinned. She studied the pretty bead bracelet around the Italian woman’s slim wrist. ‘That’s lovely,’ she said and pointed. ‘I make my own jewellery.’ Natale’s heart-shaped face blushed. ‘But it’s only a hobby.’ ‘It looks very professional.’ Lucia studied them both and the necklace and then babbled for several moments to her mum in Italian, crumbs of pastry tumbling out of her mouth. Natale shook her finger at the little girl and then looked at Mary sheepishly. ‘Sorry, but it would seem that Lucia accidentally ended up in your bedroom yesterday. She says something about a crystal collection that, she thinks, would be great for making necklaces and bracelets.’ Mary stared at her plate for a second. What should she say? Not everyone understood believing in something that hadn’t been proved. ‘It’s okay,’ said Natale, ‘no need to explain.’ Mary thought back to the warm glow she’d felt when Natale had linked arms with her – something she’d done several times, over the last few days. Perhaps she’d dare to open up. Just a little. She pulled out the yellow citrine crystal from her shorts’ back pocket. ‘This is especially supportive of taking a new direction in life. It helps you achieve goals.’ She handed it to Natale and held her breath. Only Jill knew about Mary’s collection and her view was if Mary thought they worked then that was all that mattered. She’d reluctantly discussed her crystals with John Jones on the plane, but it wasn’t usually something she talked about. ‘What gorgeous saffron shades. That would make a lovely pendant.’ ‘I’ve looked online and found out about a crystal shop in Rome,’ said Mary shyly. ‘If it’s as good as my one at home, they sell all sizes and shapes of stone, some suitable for jewellery-making.’ Natale raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d love to come with you – unless …’ Mary beamed. ‘That would be great.’ Clearly bored with all the English talk, Lucia babbled to Natale again and the little girl’s head cocked to one side. ‘She wants to know if you have ever met the queen,’ said Natale and winked. ‘She’s hoping you’ve got a photo to show her friends. She’s seeing them at holiday club.’ Mary had understood a little and ruffled those black curls. She slipped the crystal back into her pocket. ‘No. The queen is a very busy woman, but …’ Mary got up and grabbed her handbag from the breakfast bar. She rummaged in her purse before sitting down again and passing Lucia a bright gold one-pound coin. She turned it over and pointed out the British monarch. ‘I don’t need my English money, any more …’ Nervously, she switched to Italian. ‘You take this to club, instead.’ The biggest smile crossed Lucia’s face before she gave Mary a tight hug. Without an ounce of resentment, Mary decided anyone would adopt this little girl, with her confident gaze and affectionate manner – whereas Mary had stood less chance with her quiet ways and lack of eye contact. ‘Grazie mille,’ said Natale, after her daughter had left to clean her teeth before heading off. ‘But watch out – I love my little treasure to bits, but with those wide innocent eyes, she has a way of getting what she wants. Like this holiday club! She’s begged to go because of all the craft and sports activities. So now school has finished, I said she could attend for three days each week. I can’t afford much more.’ ‘If only handing out a gold coin would embellish the road to friendship with everyone,’ said Mary, thinking out loud. She bit into another pastry. Piquant plum flavours danced across her tongue, against the smooth backdrop of buttery pastry. What a change from her plain English cornflakes and milk. ‘You mean Dante?’ asked Natale, gently. ‘This road you talk of – trouble already?’ ‘Sorry. Just ignore me.’ Inwardly Mary cringed at having been heard. ‘I’ve only been here a few days and expect too much.’ Natale raised an eyebrow. Mary had seen her do that to Lucia. It acted as an effective tactic to extract information. ‘I think I upset him, when I arrived on Sunday. I offered to pass him his drink and –’ ‘Ah …’ Natale leant back in her chair. ‘I’m so sorry, mia cara, Maria, I should have warned you about his blindness. But Dante … he is so independent. And …’ She cleared her throat. ‘What?’ ‘I feel you should know … Dante wasn’t that keen for you to be hired. He begrudgingly looked at all the applications we had but wasn’t happy when the rest of us chose yours.’ ‘Oh. Do you know why?’ What could have put him off? ‘I don’t think he feels we need an English waitress again. He was even more fervent after listening to the Skype interview.’ Mary blushed. ‘Was his dislike personal?’ ‘Dante reckons that the current staff’s command of English is good enough and that it would be better to hire another waitress who had fluent Italian.’ She sighed. ‘Dante knows best. That used to one of his tongue-in-cheek phrases before he lost his sight.’ ‘Monday, he wasn’t in, and I wondered if he was avoiding me. When he got back he went scowling to his room.’ ‘No. Dante is not like that. You are here now. He will make the best of it. And if he ever does have a problem, he will say it to your face. He simply went to visit an up-and-coming pizzeria that people are raving about. Every summer, in the middle of August, so about six weeks from now, a well-respected food critic called Signor Lombardi – or Signora, we don’t know – lists his top ten pizzerias in Rome. It is an important accolade that brings in lots of business from tourists. For five years we have featured, but last time had dropped to number ten. Alfonso sees this new place as the strongest competitor that could knock us out and that would be disastrous for our income. So Dante, he went to …’ ‘Spy?’ ‘Your word, not mine,’ she said and they both grinned. ‘But why should just one new pizzeria make a difference – there must be hundreds of such restaurants in Rome?’ ‘It’s really grown in popularity and has some quirky unique selling points, apparently. We’re on friendly terms with some of the other pizzerias featured on the winning list and they’ve told us how they feel this new place threatens their ranking as well.’ ‘So, was his bad mood because they really did make great pizza?’ ‘He didn’t say much. Probably. The local paper did a piece on the place last week and raved. Dante is very protective of Pizzeria Dolce Vita.’ ‘Okay. Now I feel stupid – thinking, as usual, that I was the cause of his upset and that the universe revolves around me.’ Natale laughed. ‘I think we all feel that sometimes – Lucia more than most! Whereas Dante, less than anyone I know. He’s always helping other people and rarely makes a fuss about his situation.’ Her tone softened. ‘It is almost two years since … since he went blind and he’s worked so hard not to be treated differently, and his condition has become normal to us now.’ Her eyes shone. ‘Once he’d set his mind to it, my brother learnt Braille faster than any student ever recorded at the local institute for the blind. Then he built up confidence walking around outside, with his cane. Finally he decided to get a guide dog, passed all the checks, and has had Oro for almost eight months now.’ ‘Why wouldn’t he get a dog?’ Mary asked and blushed. ‘Sorry – showing my ignorance.’ ‘Nessun problema. I didn’t know either, before Dante lost his sight. It is a big decision. You have to pay for food and vet bills – and the guide dog is a living, breathing animal that needs time and attention, like any pet, and a degree of routine. It wouldn’t suit certain lifestyles. Take one of his friends who travels the country doing computer training …’ ‘For the blind?’ ‘Si. There is a lot of great computer software out there, for the visually impaired, like text-to-speech applications that read out emails. And that’s the sort of lifestyle, moving around, that just wouldn’t suit a dog. Whereas our family set-up and Dante working from just one place, well, it is pretty much perfetto – although he still needs his cane if he is going somewhere unsuitable for a dog and if Oro is ill, like she was with a stomach upset a couple of months ago.’ ‘It’s so brave. Venturing out of the house with just a stick. I can’t imagine having to do that.’ ‘We are so proud, how he has turned things around – although my single brother says he only wanted a dog because they are great for attracting the attention of signorinas.’ She rolled her eyes. Mary smiled. ‘Oro is beautiful so I’m surprised his plan hasn’t worked.’ Natale’s shoulders dropped. ‘To be honest, he isn’t looking for love. There’s been no one since that terrible night that …’ she gulped ‘… destroyed his heart as well as his sight.’ Her hands covered her face. ‘I never thought he would get over the shock. Dante’s so lucky to be here, you see …’ Her voice broke, as her hands fell away. She took a few moments. Straightened up. Wiped her eyes with her arm. ‘To be honest, we try not to dwell on bad memories. For Dante’s sake, it is important to just think ahead.’ Mary squeezed Natale’s hand. She should never have brought the subject up. So, hard as it was, as the day passed, Mary resolved to quell her curiosity, which nevertheless grew, hour by hour. What on earth could have happened? How could an accident have affected his heart? As a policeman, had he been injured whilst walking the beat? Yet the Rossi family’s past was none of her business. Privacy kept wounds closed. If anyone understood that, Mary did. ‘Service!’ called Dante for what seemed like the hundredth time and Mary hurried to the silver kitchen hatch. She’d started her shift at four and was slowly getting used to the restaurant’s bustle. The hubbub of customer chat. Rocco’s unfriendly stares over his glasses. She swallowed as Dante’s face remained expressionless. Mary needed to prove that having an English waitress really was an asset. Honestly, this wasn’t quite the start she’d expected, alienating two of the people she had to work with. Oh, Dante had been polite enough. That first night he’d shown her around the house. Her bedroom was on the third – top – floor with his. From what Natale said, he must have been determined to prove he didn’t need the lowest one just because he couldn’t see. He made sure she was happy with everything in her room and then patiently explained the restaurant’s routine. However, he seemed to reserve his hot-chocolate voice for Oro or the family and smiles were few and far between. No one else would have noticed something was amiss, as he’d patiently explained the menu and complimented her waitressing skills yesterday, but Mary could tell some sort of defence system had been put in place. She’d done it often enough herself, when being introduced to potential foster parents. And Rocco … where had Mary gone wrong? Perhaps he had some prejudice against people from England. From the first moment she’d started work he’d fired out instructions at her and tutted if he had to explain anything more than once. He was super efficient and, against gender stereotype, multi-tasked liked no one she’d ever seen. He could chat to one customer whilst, with a nod, reassuring another their food was coming, and at the same time clear a table and take an order for coffee. Thank goodness for Alfonso and Natale. She gave a small smile as the friendly pair rushed past. Natale grinned. ‘You’re doing great,’ she whispered and, balancing two coffees, headed past the bar. Alfonso stopped to pat her arm. ‘You improve minute by minute, Maria. Just remember, not to ask if they want to order dessert as soon as their main is finished. Give them time to build up an appetite for one of Chef’s delights – then their answer will certainly be si! Wednesday is one of the quieter nights so we must encourage as much spending as possible.’ He winked before pushing open the swing door that led into the kitchen. He shouted something about the seafood tortellini going down well. At least Mary thought that was what he said. Her Italian was rustier than a shipwreck’s anchor. She squinted and saw Chef’s perspiring face become even redder. Enzo was in charge of all dishes other than pizza. Rocco had made it quite clear she was taking dessert orders too quickly. His business strategy was the opposite to landlady Brenda, whose aim had been to keep a healthy turnover of “bums on seats”. ‘Piano, piano!’ the Italian word for slowly, he had practically shouted at her, yesterday. A sense of unease had shifted inside her. Was she already letting Rocco treat her harshly like Brenda had, back in England, or was this just a rough period until Mary could do her job properly? How could she assert herself with him? Mary had only been here a matter of days. Yet she so wanted this job to work out and if Rocco kept badmouthing her, perhaps Alfonso would change his mind and … Deep breaths. She fingered her solid, steady haematite bracelet. She’d resolved never to be patronised at work again, and would achieve that – but all in good time. Mary reached the pass and lifted up two pizzas. Her mouth watered, and not just because all the rushing around made her crave a snack. Each plate carried a margherita – just cheese, tomato, and herbs. But there was no “just” about Dante’s pizzas. Several times she’d watched him prepare the dough, as he lovingly worked it between his palms. How he’d juggle it between his hands, in the air, and finally set it down on the floured unit, using his fingers, not eyes, to determine the thickness. His workstation was immaculate, with the toppings set out in metal containers, in the same position each night. With confidence he’d smooth on circles of piquant tomato sauce, then sprinkle on snowfalls of cheese, followed by a subtle pinch of oregano – or perhaps adding one of the more exotic toppings, such as artichoke hearts or caramelised onions. A young Rossi cousin, employed as a kitchen assistant, refilled the topping bowls and checked the pizzas were properly cooked after Dante called time. Mary breathed in the comforting smell of melted mozzarella, struggling to think of a better aroma in the whole wide world. The heat of the wood-fire oven warmed her face. It stood on the right of the kitchen, the tangerine flickering insides a primitive contrast to the rest of the modern cooking equipment. ‘Table five is waiting,’ said Rocco abruptly, as he walked past carrying a stack of plates. Mary hurried outside. She set down the plates and smiled at the young couple who’d been watching street entertainers. Dusk had fallen and the late June night air felt warm and pleasant – and lacking July and August’s suffocating humidity, Natale explained. Nevertheless, perspiration streamed down the face of the tap dancer performing in front of the restaurant. Mary scanned the whole piazza – the illuminated fountains and crowds strolling in between vibrant artists’ easels. A colourful Peruvian windpipe band played in front of the diners eating at the restaurant next door. Pinch me, someone, she thought, and admired the cloudless sky, lit up by stars and a half-moon. This was a dream, right? At some point she’d wake up in her cardboard box Hackney flat. A bawling, from the table behind, attracted her attention. An English mum and dad tried valiantly to placate their toddler. The mum shook a rattle. The dad offered the little boy a spoonful of ice cream. ‘Sorry,’ mouthed the mother. Mary went over. ‘Don’t worry. Is there anything I can do to help?’ She sighed. ‘I don’t think so – thanks. It’s very late for him, but this is our last night and we really wanted to come out. And the poor little mite’s teeth are coming through. We’ve managed to lose his teething ring and have run out of his rusk fingers to chew on, to ease the pain. We thought cold ice cream might help.’ ‘Hold on … I might have just the thing …’ Mary strode inside and went behind the bar. She reached for a Tupperware box, underneath the counter. It contained several round, brown biscuits. Early this morning she’d felt the urge to bake and then handed her creations around to staff whilst they took a break before the lunchtime rush. Alfonso had said to treat the family kitchen, upstairs, as her own, so she’d wasted no time in indulging her number one method of relieving stress. Not that she’d felt particularly anxious. It was just … the colour. The pace of life here. The gunfire that was Italian language. Add onto that the unfamiliar scrumptious smells. That view from her balcony. Rome’s cheerful weather. Overwhelmed didn’t do justice to how she felt. However, to ground herself she’d baked the plainest of biscuits. To the basic mixture she’d added just blended oats and a little vanilla essence. They tasted homely. Familiar. Safe. ‘Delizioso!’ Alfonso had said. ‘They’d be the perfect, simple accompaniment to a milky drink, with their firm texture and wholesome taste.’ So she’d made another batch in the kitchen downstairs, just before her shift started, while Chef tried out a new recipe for a citrus and poppy seed cake. Enzo came from Naples and ordered in lemons the size of babies’ heads, from his family’s farm. ‘We work together, Maria. The English love their afternoon tea, no? You can give me your expert opinion on my new cake.’ Frank Sinatra classics belting out from his CD player. Bearded Enzo was only in his thirties but had grown up with a father obsessed with The Rat Pack. Mary’s last foster dad had loved Dean Martin movies, so they had common ground. And she was more than happy just to stay in the restaurant. The Rossis thought she might spend the morning looking around the piazza or perhaps venture out for a coffee, but one step at a time. Mary was in no rush. Piano, piano, was going to be her new motto. She’d get used to Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Then the surrounding piazza. Perhaps after that she’d tackle the underground system and investigate Rome further. She hurried back outside and took off the lid and handed a biscuit to the toddler. Immediately the crying abated. ‘The rounded shape hopefully means they won’t jab his sore gums,’ said Mary. ‘And the taste is quite bland. Plus they shouldn’t crumble straight away …’ The little boy sucked hard and chewed. Was that a gurgle? The parents’ faces broke into smiles. Mary grinned. She jumped when thin fingers curled tightly around her elbow. She looked left at the black bow tie. Firmly, Rocco guided her to the back of the restaurant, where Alfonso was making coffees. Mary turned to face the waiter and noticed a pale yellow bruise on the side of his neck. ‘What are you thinking?’ he hissed and shook his head, before turning towards the bar. ‘Alfonso – I caught her giving one of her biscuits to a child out front.’ ‘The little boy is teething and didn’t like his ice cream – the parents were desperate to stop him crying,’ she said, in a puzzled voice. ‘I didn’t think it would matter if—’ ‘We have health and safety regulations to follow,’ said Rocco and sneered. ‘Guidelines about how food is made and stored. You could get us shut down!’ Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? ‘You made that second batch downstairs, didn’t you?’ said Alfonso in a soft voice. ‘And they’ve been stored in an airtight container, plus they were baked only today,’ she said, annoyed at the slight wavering of her voice. He jerked his head at Rocco to leave. ‘Did they work? Has the boy stopped crying?’ ‘Yes. Straight away.’ Alfonso’s face broke into a smile. ‘Then no harm done, this time. You meant well. Rocco is right – we have to be careful, but those biscuits sound safe.’ ‘I didn’t think. It won’t—’ ‘Service!’ called Dante. She left Alfonso and under Rocco’s glare headed over to the hatch. Three farmhouse pizzas waited, all with scarlet Italian ham, fancy mushrooms, and succulent black olives. ‘One was without the ham,’ she said, in a small voice and suddenly felt sick. This was all a lot harder than she’d expected. The frantic work, a different language, that humid heat, and a waiter watching her every movement … ‘The couple’s daughter is vegetarian.’ ‘Three Rustica – that’s what was read out to me,’ Dante said in a tight voice and called out something in Italian. The kitchen assistant appeared with the note Mary had written. Pizzeria Dolce Vita was still old-school and didn’t use fancy electronic notepads. Mary examined her scribbles. Three Rustica. There it was. She thought hard and her neck flushed. The daughter had said something in Italian and whilst she’d been trying to work out what was said, Mary must have forgotten to write down one without ham. ‘Can’t you just pick the ham off one?’ she said, uncertainly. Her old boss would have insisted. Brenda wasted no food for principles. ‘Of course not. We have high standards, Mary – and regulations to follow. That topping is now contaminated with meat. I shall have to start again.’ Dante pursed his lips. ‘Just be more careful, next time. The detail matters. Now take two of those, apologise profusely, say that one pizza will be a few minutes, and offer them a free half-carafe of wine.’ Mary delivered the pizzas, whilst Rocco walked past shaking his head. Then she took a moment in the toilets. She glanced down at her haematite bracelet and took a deep breath. ‘Come on, Mary Smith,’ she whispered, locked into one of the cubicles. ‘Get a grip. You’re only human. It’s still early days. You can do this.’ But errors continued to happen. Rocco and a customer both rolled their eyes when she put too much parmesan on his pasta. One couple complained that Mary had taken their coffees away before they’d finished. In a rush and ever the klutz, she’d bumped into Natale and knocked a cappuccino onto the floor. Then Rocco looked at her pointedly and said that the evening’s tips were well down. As soon as the last customers finally left, just after midnight, Mary headed over to the Moor Fountain and sat down on the ornate, metal barrier surrounding it. Despite being midweek, crowds of young people still huddled together, smoking and laughing on the ground. Artists swapped banter as they packed away their easels. She turned, at an awkward angle, away from the restaurant to watch the large pool of rippling water. Her throat felt thick. What on earth had she been thinking? Mary Smith, seamlessly moving to Rome and fitting in? Her new superior at work was just as bad as Brenda. She’d already offended a member of her host family. And the fast-moving pizzeria was a world away from working in a lazy pub. She took a tissue out of her apron and dabbed her eyes. Jill’s sofa suddenly seemed appealing. ‘What should I do?’ she muttered to herself. ‘Man – or rather woman – up and give it a few more days?’ Did she have what it takes, or should she cut her losses and run? ‘Mary? I’ve been trying to find you,’ said an abrupt voice. ‘Rocco mentioned he’d seen you head over here.’ She looked up and saw what a more romantic version of her might have described as an utterly gorgeous vision. Subtly muscular. Casually confident. With that thick, burnt-caramel bedroom hair. Yes it was Dante – and his attitude – standing in front of her. Chapter Five (#ulink_9ddc580c-de9b-5237-ade7-bd34feb739e2) ‘Not ready for bed?’ he asked, minus the hot-chocolate tones reserved for others. ‘No. I … the fountain – it’s so pretty.’ She bent down and tickled Oro behind the ears but the dog stood resolutely by Dante’s side. Oro wouldn’t acknowledge attention from admirers unless Dante said va bene, girl – in other words, it’s okay, have a few moments off-duty. ‘Pretty enough to keep you away from a mochaccino?’ he asked in a formal voice and jerked his head towards the restaurant and a table, at the front, bearing two tall drinks. ‘I never turn down chocolate – solid or liquid,’ Mary said and steadied her voice, grateful he couldn’t have seen her crying. They walked over to Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Feeling for the chair, he sat down. Mary sat opposite. The dog lay on the floor, next to its master’s feet. Instinctively, she stared at Dante’s dark eyes. It wasn’t obvious that he couldn’t see, the scar at one corner being the only clue that something wasn’t right. She blew her nose and put the tissue back in her apron, then lifted up the glass. Dante’s head tilted. ‘You drink without saying cheers first?’ Mary dithered. She hadn’t thought there might be some etiquette. But then Italians did take their coffee very seriously. ‘Aren’t you English supposed to be considerate,’ he continued and shook his head. ‘Or because I can’t see, are you taking advantage?’ Wasn’t that just a bit picky? Or was she really being that rude? ‘No. Dante. Of course not,’ she said and sighed. ‘Scusa, I didn’t think. Clearly I have a lot more to learn about Italian life than I thought. The drink looked so warm and inviting and—’ He gave a small smile. ‘Oh, very good. I’d better put Italian humour at the top of my list of things to learn about.’ She took a sip and, after eyeing him shyly, spluttered out aloud. ‘Jeez, Dante, do you find this funny as well? Using cold water to make my drink?’ ‘Eh? Oh no, I hope the machine hasn’t broken again …’ He took a small sip. ‘Ah, the English tease too?’ Another small smile then they sat in awkward silence. ‘Actually, it’s delicious,’ she said. ‘Just what I needed. Grazie mille.’ ‘A mochaccino is my favourite – a cappuccino blended with a shot of cocoa syrup.’ ‘How did you know I’d drunk some?’ ‘The table moved when you picked up the glass and I heard you swallow.’ ‘You must have great hearing.’ He shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘It’s true what they say – if you lose one of your senses the others compensate. I already know when you are walking near as your footsteps are much less weighty than anyone else’s. And your perfume … it smells strong, like I imagine English countryside to be.’ ‘It’s lavender oil. Supposed to be calming.’ The shy look that always accompanied her attempts at humour crossed her face. ‘I stocked up before I came, to help me deal with you feisty Romans.’ ‘My mental image is right then. You are of slight build – proven by the fact you need an oil to help you out.’ Mary cocked her head and it hit home that, for the first time ever, she was having a conversation with a man who couldn’t judge her appearance. ‘It must be so frustrating … not knowing what people look like. That is …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Um, hope that doesn’t offend, it’s just …’ Sometimes she was as clumsy with words as actions. ‘No problem. I prefer directness – it makes a change from everyone else tiptoeing around.’ Guess she was used to being forthright. She always had been, as a child. When people – children, adults – asked about her parents, she’d just tell them straight: ‘I’m fostered.’ She’d seen other children lie and concoct webs of lies, to create fantasy families. What was the point? These dream figures never appeared in real life. Not that Mary offered the information, unless quizzed. The Rossi family didn’t seem to know anything about her background and she preferred it that way. Dante cleared his throat. ‘Natale and I have just been chatting. Sunday night … you thought you’d upset me but perhaps it is the other way around.’ Heat rushed into her face. ‘Natale shouldn’t have—’ He lifted his hand. ‘One thing you must know about my sister – she can’t abide seeing people hurting. She only mentioned it because she likes you, Mary. Take it as a compliment. She wants you to stay. And apparently Lucia thinks you are practically related to the queen since you gave her that coin.’ Mary smiled. ‘And you’ve been crying. Just now.’ ‘No, I just—’ ‘You blew your nose. So unless you have suddenly developed a cold or hay fever, there is no other explanation.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped on Sunday. Apologies. But can I give you a word of advice?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘You need to toughen up. The restaurant business is rough and tumble. Words get said in the heat of the moment when we have busy tourists to serve.’ She smarted. ‘I assure you, I’m used to the rough and tumble, as you put it. And I was having a private moment by the fountain. You don’t need to worry in public.’ She paused. ‘I’m used to putting on a brave face.’ Well, so far so good for her resolution about work and standing up for herself. Not that it was difficult. Dante had touched a raw nerve. She prided herself on getting through difficult circumstances. Her childhood was proof of that. ‘Perhaps you should take your own advice,’ she shot back, before thinking. ‘Natale said the visit to that competing pizzeria … Margherita Margherita isn’t it called – upset you?’ His face flushed. ‘Touch?.’ ‘Is their food really so good that Pizzeria Dolce Vita might lose its ranking?’ ‘The concept is good. But it wasn’t just that …’ ‘What then?’ ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he muttered. She shrugged. ‘Not having fluent Italian doesn’t mean I can’t understand business problems.’ His face flushed darker. ‘If you must know it wasn’t business – the owner treated me like an idiot. People’s pity. Them patronising me. It is the worst thing about being blind. I cannot stomach it.’ ‘Oh, Dante … I’m sorry, I …’ ‘She insisted on reading the menu to me in a really loud, slow voice, even though I just wanted a plain pizza, to see how they coped with the basics. And she “forgot” to give me a knife and fork. It took me a while to feel around and realise they weren’t on the table. It was as if she was determined to make me feel uncomfortable.’ ‘That’s awful.’ ‘Maybe you are right and I do need to be less sensitive,’ he said, in a tight voice. ‘But I was a policeman. It used to be my job to look after others.’ He took another mouthful of drink. ‘I’ve never been used to accepting help and am not prepared to start now.’ ‘Of course, I mean, I’m sure you’re just as capable as before and—’ ‘Don’t you patronise me either.’ Mary pursed her lips and scraped back her chair. ‘Leaving already?’ he said and a smirk crossed his face. ‘Not always the best of company, am I?’ Not with her, no. With everyone else he seemed warm and friendly. ‘I just need to stretch my legs before bed,’ she muttered. ‘And take a proper look around the piazza whilst it is empty.’ ‘Are you crazy? It may look picture-postcard pretty but at this time of night there might still be dangers lurking.’ He stood up too. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Mary snorted. ‘Dante – I’m not a child.’ He folded his arms. ‘What’s the point, anyway, at night-time? You won’t see as much.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll see as much as you. Okay. Come along. You can fill me in on what you “see” with those other senses. We’ll experience it together.’ He didn’t say anything for a moment, just tilted his head ‘Okay. Let’s finish these drinks and then Oro and I will give you a personal tour – although I expect Giovanni gave you a full history of Piazza Navona. That man is an oracle of information. It gets him a lot of tips.’ ‘He told me all about the gladiator fights they used to hold here. And about those beautiful buildings, up the other end.’ ‘St Agnes church and Pamphili Palace?’ Mary nodded. ‘Mary? I can’t see you just nod. Remember that.’ ‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think.’ ‘No worries. I carry off my blindness so well,’ he said. ‘My handsome charm usually distracts people from the obvious.’ Mary studied his face. Already it was clear that one of his coping mechanisms was to make jokes about his sight. It would take a little getting used to, but she understood. Sometimes that was how she’d got through school. Unconfident as she was of trying to make others laugh, it felt a lot better than seeing serious faces sympathise when they found out about her past. ‘Which of the three fountains do you like best?’ said Dante as they eventually stood in the middle of the piazza. For half-an-hour they had strolled around. Through the moonlight, Mary had admired the impressive baroque architecture and terracotta colour of certain buildings. She’d marvelled at the picture-perfect avenues leading off the piazza, which were home to small shops and inviting bistros. Dante had pointed out the varied sounds from each fountain. He’d made her aware of the range of smells, as they passed different restaurants. One favoured garlic. Another clearly baked its own bread. ‘Definitely the Moor Fountain, opposite your family’s restaurant. The rose marble is gorgeous and the figure fighting the dolphin oozes authority.’ Dante nodded and then said to Oro, ‘Gabriel.’ Oro led them towards an artist who was sitting in front of his easel, by the far edge of the piazza, just in front of a bench. The man had greying curls down to his shoulders and even though the night chill had set in, just wore a vest T-shirt and chinos. ‘Dante! I thought you were ignoring me, because of your beautiful companion.’ He threw his cigarette to the ground. The men hugged and clapped each other on the back. ‘Come va?’ He looked at Mary, smiled, and gabbled something fast, in Italian. Dante bowed. ‘Of course I’ll introduce you. This is our new waitress from England—’ ‘Ah yes, I have heard of Maria,’ Gabriel said, before continuing to say something in Italian. Dante remained expressionless. The artist held out his hand. ‘Sorry, for my rudeness.’ He bowed. ‘I was just telling Dante about your eyes. Even in this poor light I see the most radiant shade of green. Magnifico. You must let me paint you, one day.’ Mary’s cheeks flamed. ‘That’s kind of you.’ She cleared her throat, keen to change the subject. Compliments never sat well. They’d felt false as a child. Social workers sorry that yet another placement hadn’t worked out would brightly comment on her clothes or hair, as if that would extinguish her sense of rejection. ‘How is your mother?’ asked Dante in soft tones. ‘Which ward is she on? I’ll visit her this week.’ ‘You’re a good friend,’ said Gabriel and squeezed his arm. ‘The hospital said she was very lucky not to break something, tripping over like that. It is just bruising.’ Mary looked away. Dante clearly had heart. Why was his tone so unfriendly with her? She caught sight of Gabriel’s easel. ‘Where is that?’ she said and pointed to an oil painting of the sweetest restaurant. ‘What an adorable building. I just love those window boxes filled with flowers and the painting of daisies on the walls.’ Dante’s brow furrowed. ‘You’ve been painting Margherita Margherita? But why? And it’s half-an-hour away from here.’ Gabriel lifted up a bottle of beer and took a swig. ‘The owner, Margherita, is a very persuasive woman. She passed by here a couple of weeks ago. I’m just putting the final touches to this. She wants to hang it in the restaurant and replicate miniature versions on postcards as well and—’ ‘Che cavolo!’ That was the first time Mary had heard Dante swear. ‘On Monday I visited her restaurant,’ said Dante. ‘She recognised me immediately and must have come to take a look at Pizzeria Dolce Vita.’ Mary shrugged. ‘I guess it makes sense that she’d also check out the competition.’ Dante scowled. ‘She could take away our Lombardi rating, if we aren’t careful.’ He spoke to Gabriel in Italian for a few moments, mentioning the fifteenth of August. He must have been talking about the important Top Ten list. ‘Ah …’ Gabriel stroked his beard. ‘Scusa, amico mio. I had no idea. I give her the money back. My friendship with you comes first.’ ‘Grazie, my friend, grazie, but no. The last thing I want is for her to think we are worried. And I don’t want you to lose income. Sell her stupid drawings – no offence. It will make no difference to what customers think of her actual pizza.’ Dante was still brooding as they returned to Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Everyone else was in bed. He sat on the sofa, head in hands. ‘Could that place really knock your family’s restaurant off the Lombardi List?’ Dante looked up and grimaced. ‘You would think not – there is no tradition there. No love. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is based on the work of two generations of our family.’ ‘Your grandparents owned it?’ ‘Si. They have both passed on now. They devoted their youth to working hard to make the pizzeria a success, which meant they didn’t have my dad until their late thirties. It started out as a coffee bar, they just rented. Then they did pizzas for lunch. Business boomed, so they took on staff and waited tables. In the Seventies, when the British and other nationalities became more adventurous, and airfares became competitive, Nonna and Nonno never looked back as tourism grew. Eventually, they could afford to buy the whole building and move in.’ He snorted. ‘But Margherita Margherita – her concept is to create pizzas just like the ones in takeaway shops.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You cannot just order a pizza. There are about six different choices of crust. Stuffed with cheese or garlic sauce, and they offer crispy pizzas or deep pan. There is nothing authentic. No true Italian style.’ He caught her eye. ‘I know. Can’t help it. I am a pizza snob – and proud of it.’ ‘Did it taste good?’ He groaned. ‘Si. And I listened to a family at the table next to mine – the children loved all the different choices.’ ‘How did this Margherita woman deal with the kids, if she was patronising to you?’ He thought for a second. ‘Well, actually. I heard the family talking. She gave them colouring books and crayons. Another modern concept.’ She yawned. ‘This heat makes me feel shattered. I must still be acclimatising. It’s off to bed for me.’ He stared into the distance. She sat down beside him. Offhand person or not, she didn’t like seeing anyone upset. ‘We have several weeks to make sure this place knocks Margherita Margherita sideways.’ ‘Perhaps you are right, Audrey. No point worrying about the what-ifs.’ ‘Audrey?’ ‘Gabriel. He told me you looked just like Audrey Hepburn. Is it true? He said classy and petite, with a very appealing gnome haircut.’ ‘Gnome? I think you mean pixie,’ she muttered. ‘Same thing,’ he muttered back. Mary shuffled in her seat. ‘Right, I’m off—’ ‘You don’t like compliments, do you?’ he said, in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘But Gabriel knows what he is talking about. He’s painted hundreds of women over the years and doesn’t give out flattery easily.’ Dante rubbed his forehead. ‘Funny. I imagined you with hair tied back in a ponytail. Guess my sixth sense still needs to be refined.’ Mary’s hair used to be long. Until Jake left and she felt the need for a makeover. What a clich?. Cutting off the locks he’d so loved was supposed to free her from tortured thoughts about him. Yet it hadn’t for a long time. ‘It must take a while for you to get to know exactly how someone looks.’ ‘True and in the beginning I really resented that. But I have learnt patience and almost prefer it now. I actually think the sighted are at a disadvantage in a few areas like …’ His voice quietened. ‘Like romance.’ ‘Oh.’ Mary was taken aback. ‘How? I mean, if you can’t see, for a start you’ll never experience love at first sight.’ ‘Ah, that is one of the many myths about being blind. Sighted people get led astray by appearance. They like someone in those first few seconds because of, I don’t know – their build, flirty eyes, or confident gait. Perhaps they think this is true love and only find out they were wrong when they are in too deep. But for a blind person, love at first sight – or meeting – that can still happen but derives from the voice, which reveals a person’s brain and personality: the things that really matter, long term.’ He smiled. ‘Take you. From the first words you spoke, I could tell you were a little shy but … I sensed an underlying determination.’ ‘So don’t looks matter, to you? I mean, you clearly take care of yourself. Your clothes are in fashion and … well, you know …’ she squirmed ‘… you don’t look too bad.’ ‘I know. Hot stuff, aren’t I, isn’t that what you English say?’ Was that sarcasm in his voice? ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she replied. ‘But what I’m saying is …’ he continued, as if not having heard her, ‘yes, looks matter, I am only human – but they are secondary. Compassion. Humour. A curiosity about the world. Those qualities mean so much more.’ He shrugged. ‘And in time I get to know someone well enough to map out their face. Then, in my own way, I can see how they actually look.’ ‘Map out?’ ‘With my hands. I feel their features and build a mental map, in the same way I figure out journeys in my head. That is how I get around the house – the city. I memorise routes. Fortunately, I’ve always been good at navigation.’ He shrugged. ‘People believe guide dogs lead the way, but that’s not true. I must know the roads to take. Oro just keeps me safe when it comes to obstacles and crossings. She knows to wait at kerbs. And can take me to friends, like Gabriel just now. But only if they are close.’ ‘And how exactly do you map out a face?’ ‘The nose, mouth, hair. Before my … what happened, I never realised just how much information you could pick up from the tips of your fingers. It helps me imagine how someone appears when, for example, they are angry or sad.’ She stared at him and then impulsively took his hands and placed them on her cheeks. His neck reddened. ‘Are you sure, Mary? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.’ ‘Positive,’ she said. They were only colleagues. Why should she feel unease? ‘I wouldn’t want you falling for Gabriel’s illusion that I look like an iconic film star. I’m all for keeping it real.’ Softly Dante ran his fingers across her features. She closed her eyes so that he could brush over her eyelids. His fingers ran down her nose and across her lips. The top one, then the bottom, tracing their outlines. Then they glided over her cheeks and down her neck. His fingers then gently traced lines through her short hair. A spurt of desire took her by surprise. Her body must be desperate for physical attention if she reacted to someone as disagreeable as him. What if he’d noticed? She would actually die, right there, on the spot, if Dante sensed her albeit involuntary attraction. ‘See, I’m just a plain Jane, as we say in English,’ she mumbled and got to her feet. ‘And I’m sure now you understand why I need my beauty sleep. Goodnight.’ Mary bumped into the coffee table as she quickly stood up and hurried upstairs. Chapter Six (#ulink_77c82591-97f4-5f14-b9be-e98a60fa5ceb) ‘That place was amazing,’ said Mary as she and Natale stood outside Margherita Margherita. They’d just visited the crystal shop that stocked everything from small tumble stones to large jagged chunks of gemstone. Natale smiled. ‘Maria – we have seen the Coliseum. Yet you seem more impressed with the little stones there, instead of the large ones that built our city’s impressive amphitheatre.’ They’d just walked past the awe-inspiring monument. Brave and bold, it stood against the bluebell horizon, sunlight illuminating it like an Instagram filter, Mary thought. The areas eroded and damaged by weather, over the centuries, gave it an even greater sense of strength. Despite the mid-July crowds it stood still and calm, like a mountain emanating serenity. For some reason, an image of Dante came into her mind, along with thoughts of the harsh weather he’d faced in his life. Daily she witnessed his fearlessness as he ventured out with Oro among the crowds. A strong, unwavering, steadfast will, qualities you’d name if you personalised the Coliseum. He also had cracks: glimpses, now again, of broken parts. Having broken parts … she could relate to that. Perhaps, in another life, she and Dante could have been good friends. However, yesterday Rocco had delighted in expanding on what she’d found out from Natale. He’d told her that Dante thought an English waitress was a waste of resources – and an inconvenience, what with her having to live-in. Yet as far as Mary knew, Dante and Sarah had got on well. So what didn’t he like about Mary? Only this morning he’d once again been snappy with her, as if the night when he’d mapped out her face hadn’t taken place. ‘The shop was so much bigger than the crystal stall on Hackney market.’ ‘I picked up lots of pretty crystals for my jewellery-making.’ ‘Prettiness isn’t important.’ Mary grinned. ‘I’ll say it again – it’s their healing properties that count.’ ‘Let us not continue that argument,’ Natale said and grinned back. She gazed at the restaurant in front of them. ‘It certainly looks popular, here.’ They waited to be seated. Dante hadn’t stopped talking about this competitor, so the two women had decided to investigate their rival for themselves. Window boxes brimmed with violet and yellow flowers. Illustrated on either side of the door were large daisies, against brickwork, just like in Gabriel’s painting. Mary picked up a menu from a nearby table, and fanned her face. With schools starting to break up, the number of tourists had begun to swell. Finally they came to the front of the queue. ‘Tavolo per due?’ said a young waiter. ‘Si. Grazie,’ said Natale and he led them over to a table that sat outside, just in front of a glass window. They ordered drinks. ‘Love the vases with daisies, on each table,’ Mary said and tapped her foot to the Italian folk accordion music playing in the background. Three small children sat at a neighbouring table and coloured in drawings of pizza. Mary turned to look through the glass window. ‘Look through there, at that wall, next to the bar. They’ve pinned up children’s drawings. It looks like they held some sort of competition.’ ‘Clever thinking.’ Natale gazed at the scribbling kids. ‘Keep the little ones happy, which means their mamma and pap? will stay longer – and spend more money.’ ‘And look!’ Mary stared at two parties leaving. The waiter pulled out one of the plastic daisies, from each vase, and gave them to one member of each group, to take home. ‘Molto clever,’ said Natale. ‘The customer puts the daisy in their house or hotel and it reminds them to come back here.’ She gazed at a group of middle-aged men. ‘They are business associates who used to come to Pizzeria Dolce Vita.’ She scanned the menu. ‘As Dante said, just look at the choice of crusts and toppings – and the prices are lower than ours.’ ‘Yet the atmosphere is that of an authentic Italian restaurant. It’s as if here you get the best of both worlds.’ ‘This is not good. Now I understand why my brother has been so worried. This restaurant is hitting the mark.’ ‘I wonder if the owner is here. I want to know if she’s rude to everyone or just Dante.’ Mary could see how it might happen. Dante wasn’t the easiest person to get on with. Or so it seemed. Many a time, now, she’d watched him chat and laugh with strangers. Mary felt an uncomfortable twinge in her chest. Perhaps he’d just taken a dislike to her. The waiter came over and Natale ordered a plain margherita with a green salad. Mary decided on a folded-over calzone with four cheeses and caramelised onions. ‘I thought I was unadventurous!’ teased Mary, once the waiter had left. ‘You didn’t fancy one of their specials?’ ‘No. If their margherita tastes good then that is cause for concern. Intricate toppings can hide a poorly made dough or bland sauce.’ She shook back her brunette locks. ‘But talking about being adventurous, you are the one who has moved abroad. Two weeks in and how are you going?’ ‘Did your lovely dad put you up to this? Alfonso is always asking “Come va?” and tells me whenever a customer is pleased with my service.’ Her chest glowed. ‘I think he makes up the compliments, if he thinks I’m looking stressed.’ She grinned. ‘No. I just … Sarah … never seemed completely relaxed. We felt terrible when we discovered she’d been ill. She’d seemed so happy – apart from not really getting on with Rocco. Oh, the arguments …’ ‘Didn’t she ever talk to you about her problems? Not even a hint?’ ‘No. We didn’t have the closeness that I … sort of … already feel with you. It is strange, no? With some people you just click.’ Do you? Mary hadn’t had much experience of that, apart from Jill. Was it her fault? Had she built an emotional moat? Occasionally she’d let a boyfriend cross over – like Jake. But even then, it took a while – if ever – for Mary to completely let down the drawbridge and open up. Yet she did feel comfortable with Natale. Accepted. ‘Yes,’ she said, shyly, ‘you are easy to talk to. And I don’t seem to mind when you tease me – like laughing when I wore different-coloured socks.’ ‘It must be British eccentricity,’ said Natale, airily. ‘Unless you have trouble remembering which is right and which is left.’ ‘Why would I need to remember that? Honestly, you Italians are so obsessive …’ ‘Because we are NORMAL,’ she insisted, with a deadpan face. ‘NO ONE who likes Justin Bieber is normal,’ Mary replied. ‘I only pretend to, for Lucia’s sake,’ said Natale indignantly. They both laughed. ‘But seriously,’ said Natale, after a sip of sparkling water, ‘it is strange, Rocco and Sarah not getting on. He is a treasure. Been with us, ooh, five years. We helped him celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday, just after he started. A couple of months ago, he turned thirty.’ Relatively young, thought Mary, yet his face seemed to carry the scars of a lifetime’s responsibilities and disappointments. ‘Is he married? Rocco never speaks of his private life.’ ‘No. He lives with a friend. Angelo. Rent is high in Rome. It makes sense to share. He’s a real asset. Such a strong work ethic. We are always telling him to take a break, but he won’t. Our place is like a second home for him. You wouldn’t think he had his own to go to. Thank goodness.’ She swallowed. ‘Rocco virtually ran the place single-handed after Mamma … after she died, almost one year ago.’ Natale shrugged. ‘I just don’t get why Sarah would find him difficult.’ Mary pursed her lips. Give her an hour and she could explain. But it was early days and if Rocco was so popular with the Rossi family, then perhaps she ought to keep her concerns to herself. Even if he had blamed her for a coffee order he got wrong. Plus laughed at her Italian in front of customers. ‘I heard that you’d lost your mum,’ she said, softly. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘You would have got on with her. Mamma loved astrology. Why do you have such a big interest in crystals?’ she asked and Mary wondered if she was changing the subject on purpose. How could she tell her the truth? That she’d never had a steadying influence in her younger days. Foster parents changed. Caseworkers swapped clients. Whereas crystals – they remained steady. They offered hope – and a wisdom she’d received from nowhere else. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Years ago, I read about them in a teen magazine,’ she said, tentatively. ‘That article triggered my curiosity. It was about a girl who’d just had her heart broken. Every night she slept with healing crystals under her pillow. Six months later she was engaged to another bloke.’ ‘So … your crystals help you emotionally.’ Cautiously, Mary nodded. ‘They have made you feel relaxed and at home, in Piazza Navona?’ Her face broke into a smile. ‘How could I not feel relaxed? My room is so spacious and bright. Lucia makes me laugh. You and I have some lovely chats. And I get to do my baking.’ ‘Si,’ said Natale. ‘The ginger cream sandwich cookies you made, yesterday, were particularly delizioso.’ Granted, the first few days had been challenging. Mary was used to living alone and thought she’d prefer the quiet. However, soon she found herself looking forward to breakfast conversation with Natale, about the day ahead, and the evening mochaccino outside had become something of a habit – but not with Dante. Sometimes Alfonso kept her company but normally, in the evening, she’d find him sitting alone inside, in deep contemplation. Or Gabriel might pop across the piazza to see her for a friendly chat. However, Dante had reverted to being coolly polite. Granted one afternoon he’d sat down with her, at the back of the restaurant, to point out mistakes she was making with her Italian. But that would have been for the good of the restaurant. Apart from that he had kept his distance, emotionally as well as physically. ‘You okay?’ said Natale, bringing Mary back to the present. ‘Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.’ Natale raised an eyebrow. ‘I was thinking about Dante. I … I can’t believe how many pizzas he manages to make each day. It’s amazing.’ ‘By now you know that my brother never likes to stay still. He is determined to stay busy and that life will continue more or less as it has always done.’ ‘He still goes out with his police friends.’ ‘Si. He sees old colleagues at least once every couple of weeks if he can. Losing his sight hasn’t affected his love of good food and wine – or office gossip. And he takes Lucia to the park – and swimming, seeing as her dad …’ Mary leant forwards. ‘He left before I gave birth,’ said Natale, quickly. ‘We were both so young – me seventeen, one year younger than him … To be honest, in his company I … how you say … went off the rails?’ ‘Really? But you seem so sorted. So solid.’ ‘I’ve had to grow up. My parents offered me one hundred per cent support, but made it clear I would have to face my responsibilities. His parents did everything they could to encourage my boyfriend to be part of his daughter’s life, but he disappeared shortly before my due date – apparently went to work abroad.’ ‘Oh, Natale. That must have been – must be so hard.’ She gazed at her lap for a moment. ‘It is for the best. With him I drank … smoked … smoked all kinds of stuff.’ She looked up. ‘I almost ended up with a police record.’ Mary’s eyes widened. ‘You are shocked?’ ‘Only because, well, your family, from the outside, it seems so … idyllic. And ordinary. I mean that as a positive.’ ‘What, the cosy Italian family running a restaurant filled with laughter and singing – and ice cream?’ Mary looked sheepish. ‘And it is true. We love the bones of each other. But with Mamma gone, with Lucia missing a father and Dante losing his sight – I’d say we are far from ordinary.’ ‘But you’ve pulled together. Stood together. In my eyes that makes you the perfect family. Always looking out for each other.’ Natale pursed her lips. ‘Sorry – have I said something wrong?’ ‘No, of course not – it’s just … you don’t know the whole story.’ What could she mean? But then they didn’t know the full story about Mary. So why should she expect Natale to share every detail? ‘It’s great that Dante helps out with Lucia,’ said Mary. ‘And that must have helped him build his confidence too, in the beginning – trying out activities with a child who won’t judge.’ ‘I’m sure you are right – although he has always spent time with her. Did right from the first weeks when her father ran off, in the days when he could still see.’ Natale fiddled with her watch. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without him. Pap? was so wrapped up with being angry and Mamma …’ Mary squeezed her arm. ‘I caught part of Dante’s conversation with your dad, the other day,’ she said, eventually. ‘He went into a school to give a talk? I’d be scared of doing that.’ ‘Dante belongs to a volunteer programme, to spread awareness about his condition. Oro always gets thoroughly spoilt by the schoolchildren.’ Natale’s heart-shaped face fell for a second. ‘I don’t talk about this with Pap? – he would only worry – but sometimes I think Dante keeps too busy.’ ‘Better than staying in and overthinking his situation, surely?’ Natale finished her water. ‘But he even goes to the cinema now. They provide …’ ‘We call it audio description, in English.’ Natale nodded. ‘Thing is, he was never a big fan of the movies, so why bother now …? I think he just does it to prove a point and to block things out – Mamma dying a year after his blindness …’ ‘What a terrible time for you all.’ It would have been unbearable to watch this family going through such grief. For just a second, Mary’s heart warmed towards Dante. And Rocco – could the waiter really be so bad if he’d been such a support? Tears welled in Natale’s eyes. ‘You have no idea,’ she whispered. ‘And sometimes it still feels so raw.’ Mary blinked rapidly. She wanted to ask more but knew that often, all people wanted was someone to listen. ‘Dante hardly spoke for a few weeks and then suddenly came to life with all these intentions and a kind of … harder attitude. After the funeral he threw himself into learning Braille and that was when he started to talk about getting a guide dog.’ Natale dabbed her eyes with a napkin. ‘Whereas Pap? … I still see him struggle, really struggle with Mamma’s death.’ ‘And you?’ Mary said, gently. Thinking about it, the family hardly ever spoke about the mother. Natale blew her nose. ‘I am the lucky one – Lucia takes up most of my thoughts. For that I’m grateful.’ She sat more upright. ‘Although there is one thing Dante has given up. Dancing. He used to love going to nightclubs whenever he could. He’s inherited Alfonso’s genes.’ Mary smiled and pictured Alfonso who would occasionally enjoy swaying under the canopy at night, Enzo’s jazz music playing in the background after the last customer had left. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/samantha-tonge/one-summer-in-rome-a-deliciously-uplifting-summer-romance/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.