I pedal up Richmond Hill that evening, shouting into the wind things like, ‘You can keep your two and a half grand and your disgusting sauce!’ and ‘“Like Mamma used to make”? Er, I don’t think so!’
By the time I reach Il MulinoI’m feeling much better, though after today, how canWhen Harry Met Sallystill be my number one go-to film when I’m feeling blue?
On the plus side, Lionel considers me ‘a prospect’ (thank God he wasn’t witness to this afternoon’s performance) and has agreed to take me on his agency’s books. He may not be the crème de la crème of agents, but he has far more contacts than I do, and unrepresentedactors are taken less seriously by casting directors. So despite another ego-bashing, something positive has come about to balance things out, and will be toasted in red wine at the end of the shift.
* * *
I wish I hadn’t decided to break in my new black heels tonight. With a full restaurant, I’m multitasking like a woman possessed: meeting and greeting, hanging up coats, taking multipleorders from large tables, uncorking wine, answering the phone, making reservations, clearing and laying tables.
Since that unfortunate mishap with the minestrone, I have now ditched my tentative Britishness when faced with large tables of vociferous, gesticulating customers, and have adopted Rosalba’s serving technique. It can best be described as a kind of simplified cha-cha-cha (minus herhip action) and goes like this: holding the dishes high, take to the floor, approach the table, step forward, step back, step forward, side-together-side, side-together-side, aaand place the plates on the table (carefully), turn, step forward, and return to the kitchen.Missione compiuta! Mission accomplished!
The bell rings angrily. Napoli lost to Manchester City in the Champions League earlier,and there’s been a lot of banging and crashing coming from the kitchen tonight, accompanied by ‘Vaffanculo!’ ‘Cazzo!’, ‘Che cavalo!’ which even Pavarotti at full pelt is unable to drown out.
Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my skirt, smooth my hair, and enter the lion’s den with a wide smile.
Sergio tuts and waves his hand at the two starters. ‘Vai! Go!’
This is all I need afterthe afternoon I’ve had. Thank God this is the last order.
‘Vai!’
I think I prefer Sergio the Sleazy to Sergio the Surly; in fact neither would be preferable. Things would be so much better were he not around.
Grabbing a knife from the wall, he starts furiously chopping up parsley.
‘Vaiii!’
Okay! I’m going, I’m going.
Blinking back hot tears, I pick up the starters and amjust sailing through the doors, when he lets out a blood-curdling howl. My plates smash to the floor, sending tomatoes, mozzarella, avocado, and basil hurtling through the air. I spin round to see thick liquid, the colour of claret spurting from his hand, splashing the white-tiled walls. A waxy, grey hue floods his skin; his strangely wide eyes roll back as he drops to the floor like a stone.
‘Luigi!’ I scream. Oh God, oh God, what’s the first aid procedure? Something about elevation? Is that right? Grabbing two vegetable crates from under the sink, I remove his blood-splattered clogs and raise his legs.
‘Che cosa?’ says Luigi, appearing through the door. ‘Madonna mia!’ he exclaims, raising his hands, horror sweeping across his face.
‘Ambulanza!Pronto!’ I cry, a stab ofpanic piercing through me.
Now what? Control the bleeding, yes, control the bleeding – but how? Nonna Maria appears at my side clutching a tea towel and kneels by Sergio, mumbling in Italian, tugging at her crucifix. I grab the towel and his slippy, blood-soaked hand. My stomach lurches as I see his lifeless, fleshy fingers dangling like broken twigs. I feel sick and giddy. Please God, thisis not a good time for me to pass out. I bind them tightly with the towel and raise his arm above his head, pushing his hand hard against my chest. Blood trickles through my fingers, dripping onto my crisp, white shirt. I must keep my cool, practical head on until the ambulance arrives.
‘Maria, ice! Erm …gelato?’ (No, no, that’s ice cream.) ‘Glace!’ She looks at me, bewildered. No, that’sFrench. ‘Ghiaccio? Yes, ghiaccio!’
Sergio’s eyes flicker open and he twists his head sideways, moaning like a wounded animal. The sound chills me. I gently squeeze his other hand and we hold one another’s upside-down gaze. The pain in his expression slices through me. I want to tell him he’s going to be okay, but can’t think of the right words.
‘Ambulanza – here pronto.Tutto bene. Tuttobene.’
I look towards the door. Wherearethey?
‘Dio mio!’ cries Rosalba, appearing at my side, face blanched with shock.
‘Rosalba, we must keep him warm. Get his coat.’
Where the hell are they? Please hurry,please.
* * *
A siren screams, and like a scene fromER, two paramedics burst through the swing doors wheeling a stretcher.
‘We’ve got you, mate,’ says one ofthem, kneeling as he opens his medical bag. ‘I’m just going to give you some morphine to relieve the pain and steady that racing heart of yours, okay?’ I look away as the needle is produced. I feel Sergio’s body judder.
