It’s time forme to leave. Marco’s convinced me to stay around for an extra day to help with an event. He’s been prepping for this for weeks and could really do with the extra pair of hands, so I decide to stick around for another twenty-four hours. And then I’m gone, off to my next adventure.
I’ve come to a realization. It has taken me a long time, a change of direction, a new hobby, and a different continent but, after my summer at culinary school, I will need to go home. The thing is, I don’t know where home is. I don’t have my apartment anymore or my old job. I can’t live with my mom and dad again. Not at my age. I need to find a new place to exist. A new life to forge. I need to settle, to be present, to be more permanent.
I think I need to go and discover this about me—where I fit, where I should be. That’s the next step in this adventure. I’m not sure I want to continue to be as nomadic as I have been. But I need to know where home will be.
Chapter 41
Hannah
Miranda and Paulmarry in the town hall in the Piazza Grande. Kew Gardens was swanky, but it’s got nothing on this Renaissance palazzo. I’ve just watched two of my favorite people say, “I do,” and I confess my eyes wandered too much toward the grand, ornate furniture, antiques, and gilt-framed portraits held within.
While Paul and Miranda sign documents and the photographer takes their pictures, Joan, Geoff, and I sit in the second row of chairs, watching our friends look so contented and happy while a harpist plays a selection of pop songs melodically on her strings. This was Paul’s concession to having a harpist at all—that there be no real classical music. It had to be recognizable. We’re having fun trying to identify what we’re listening to.
“It’s ‘Fix You’ by Coldplay,” I offer tentatively for the second time. I have no idea.
“It’s ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ by the Verve,” Geoff retorts knowledgeably as the harpist moves steadily into her second tune. Both Joan and I turn to him.
“Oh, you won’t score coffee with us, but you’ll play this game,” Joan mutters.
“I understand this game,” Geoff replies. “And I’m good at it.” Joan and I have to nod our agreement reluctantly as, the verymoment the next one starts, Geoff practically shouts with joy, “It’s ‘F.E.A.R.’ by Ian Brown.”
I give him a look. “Geoff,” I whine, “you’re not even giving us a chance to guess.”
“You can guess the next one, as long as you don’t say ‘Fix You’ by Coldplay for the third time.”
As we file out into the gentle Tuscan spring sunshine and throw pale dried-petal confetti toward the bride and groom, I realize how lucky I actually am to have friends whom I count as family.
I look over to the restaurant in the corner of the piazza as we leave the ceremony. Miranda chose this restaurant to cater for the wedding after reading the Tripadvisor reviews. She’d approached them and negotiated directly with the owner/chef and said it was far cheaper than hiring a caterer. Sometimes she just knows what she wants and goes for it. I wish I was more like that. Although recently I think I’m not a million miles away from getting there. Making choices, decisions, powering under my own steam. It’s led to me being genuinely happy.
Waiters and waitresses begin carrying trays over to us and we take glasses of Prosecco and little skewers of antipasti to nibble as we walk across the square toward the private enclave where we’re going to eat, drink, and be merry for the next few hours.
I see the waiter who served me yesterday and smile at him. He doesn’t recognize me, which is mildly disconcerting. I’m not wearingthatmuch more makeup today compared to yesterday. Crikey, am I so forgettable? I neck my glass of Prosecco and make a beeline for a sleek-looking Italian waitress, who looks mildly alarmed at the number of us British people swooping in on her and her Prosecco tray. I’m no different, but I do at least give her a thank-you and a smile as I take the remaining three glasses for myself, Joan, and Geoff. They’re only halfway through their first ones and look at me and my eagerness with curiosity.
We’re led into a garden area, where in the distance six largecircular tables have been set up with white linen tablecloths, napkins, and small jars of wild flowers. Other than the flowers and the glassware, everything is white. White fairy lights are draped around the cream brick walls, where hanging potted plants dot the masonry and tea lights flicker in the breezeless afternoon.
Miranda comes over to us and we hug her in turn and give her our congratulations.
“It looks like an Instagram picture,” I squeal.
“I know!” she squeals back. “I’m supposed to be mingling, so obviously I’m starting with you three and I’m not moving until Paul gives me a look.”
“You were right when you said no fit men,” I say and give her a little elbow nudge for fun.
“I know—sorry. Still, a few of those waiters are quite good-looking.”
“A few of those waiters look about nineteen,” I chastise her.
“So?” remarks Joan seriously, and Geoff gives Miranda and me a “what the fuck?” look.
—
We settle in for the wedding breakfast. I’ve never understood why it’s called a breakfast when it’s always quite clearly lunch. The waiters wheel in wagons heaped with a colorful array of meats, cheeses, and breads for us to pick on, and we’re encouraged to hover, plate up our own, and indulge until the main course arrives. Miranda confessed that the only bridezilla moment she was going to have was making sure that the food was mostly beige. With an ivory wedding dress, she wasn’t taking any chances with marinara-sauce spillages, and so the main course is a trio of pastas that I hoover up readily, with my favorite being orecchiette in cream with crispy asparagus spears, toasted pine nuts, and burrata. I never thought it was possible to love pasta quite as much as this and, when it’s gone, I look longingly around just in case there’s more being offered out. There isn’t.
And then I cry buckets when it’s time for the speeches as I watch Miranda’s dad give the loveliest speech about the day she was born. And to finish, the best man tells lots of jokes about blow-up dolls, and how Paul wrote all his French verbs up his arm and cheated his way to a B in his GCSE. We laugh. His mum’s face falls slack in horror. Which makes us laugh even more.
After the speeches I’m polite enough to remember that I need to turn to the person on my other side and engage him in conversation too, as he’s finished talking to the guest on his other side.
It’s one of Paul’s buddies called Jim, and we discuss holidays and Italy and Tuscany. We’ve neither of us been here before, but I’ve had the benefit of a few days here now and Jim’s decided to stay on a bit longer, so we talk about where he could go. I pull my phone out, show him some pictures of the churches…oh, so many churches, galleries, museums, vineyards.
