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 cafés. 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, Papà! 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. Papà employed you as a waitress. Not a nursemaid.’