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. Papà 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.