‘You haven’t been home for ages, and now you’re only stayingtwo nights? Did you hear that, Brian?’ she shouted to Dad, tearfully.
To appease her, I found myself saying I’d been cast in the lead role in a London play – actually, I think the wordsWest Endpopped out unintentionally. It then took three more phone calls to dissuade her from flying over for my opening night. Aargh. I’ve definitely jinxed the evening now. That’s karma for you.
Luigiand I have worked out the seating arrangements and the set menu for my guest/s. Wendy, Faye, and Céline have volunteered to be front of house (Rachel will be in Stockport with the in-laws); Luke has offered to play interlude music; and lighting is courtesy of Francesco, who has given me an early Christmas present of fiftyMomenti di Firenzecandles. Lighting rigs are too expensive to hire, andI want to keep it simple and intimate, like in Shakespeare’s day.
I promise myself that if only Portia turns up, we’ll all still have a great night and I won’t let it ruin the start of a new year.
* * *
Don’t get me wrong. I like Christmas, but being bombarded with cheesy holiday hits in the run-up to the big day, sometimes makes me want to knock over the nearest Christmas tree andhead for the emergency exit, screaming.
So how come, when these same songs are sung in Italian, I feel all cosy and Christmassy inside?
Il Mulino’s secret is in the simplicity: the natural cone wreath hanging on the door; the candles, the boxes of panettone, and woven willow stars dangling from the ceiling; the traditional, hand-madepresepe(nativity scene) made by Sergio’s children;the warm atmosphere, made warmer by merry people enjoying good food and wine – no crass commercialism here, no office party drunks letting off poppers while singing along to Slade’s ‘It’s Chriiiiiistmas’ and exchanging tacky gifts from Secret Santa, likeGrow Your Own BoyfriendorPenis Pasta.
Francesco and Nonna Maria have prepared a typical Christmas Eve meal for us to celebrate our lastshift before the New Year. Traditionally Christmas Eve is agiorno di magrowhen you eat light food (normally fish) to give your stomach a rest before thepranzo di Natalethe next day.
I don’t see anythingmagroabout the huge platter of calamari, swordfish, tuna, salmon, and eel before me. I won’t be trying thecapitone(eel) again though, particularly after Francesco tells me it was aliveand kicking just one hour ago.
It’s gone two by the time we’ve cleared up and high time I was on my way if I’m to make my early flight in five hours’ time.
I bid everyone aBuon Natale, my stomach diving into free fall as I realise the next time we meet will be the night ofTeatro a Cena.
‘I walk with you,’ says Francesco, holding the door open.
He tells me he too is flying ina few hours’ time to spend Christmas withla famiglia. Family? Does he mean parents, or wife and children? I’m reminded yet again of how little I know about him.
‘I have something for you,’ he says, producing a beautifully wrapped gift.
‘Francesco, that’s so kind. I feel awful. With the play and everything I didn’t buy …’
‘Silenzio,’ he says, pressing his fingers against my mouth,one eyebrow raised sexily. He removes my cycle helmet, smooths back a few stray strands of my hair, and plants a long, gentle kiss on my lips. I close my eyes, head swimming, heart pounding.
‘Buon natale, amore,’ he says plonking my cycle helmet back on my head.
Unable to contain my excitement, I stop on Richmond Bridge and rip open his gift:The Lonely Planet Guide to Florence.There’sa message inside:
Un invito/an invitation … F x
Love to, Francesco, but who is Isabella – and will you be spending Christmas with her?
