‘Awa’ and bile yer heid!’ snarls the man, chips still in hand as he sways down the street.
‘Scusi?’
‘Bit difficult to translate,’ I say. ‘Why aren’t you at the restaurant?’
‘I ask Zio Luigi for two days’ holiday. He call Sergio and …’
‘How is he now?’ I ask.‘He sent me flowers.’
Francesco shrugs his shoulders. ‘Better. He want to come back to work, but slowly, slowly.’
‘And what will happen then?’
‘Then … then I must return to Naples.’
Large spots of rain begin to pelt the pavement.
‘My hotel is just around the corner, in the Royal Mile,’ says Francesco. ‘Will you come and have dinner with me?’
‘I ate already, but … yes, Francesco,thank you. I’d like that.’
He hails a cab, which drops us outside The Witchery, a sixteenth-century merchant’s house near the castle.
As we enter the reception area, I catch sight of myself, hair like a toilet brush from being trapped inside a wig cap all day, scrubbed face and ripped jeans. Had I known I was coming here, I’d have made more effort.
With its dark panelled walls, low,heraldic ceiling, lavish tapestries, and dim candlelight, the dining room makes me feel like I’m walking onto the set ofWolf Hall.I half expect Damian Lewis as King Henry to appear and start ordering everyone about.
Over a dinner of caviar and Cairngorm venison, Francesco opens up to me for the first time, recounting a little about his childhood.
‘We live in an apartment, right on theedge of the sea. We can see Capri from the balcony.’
He then goes on to tell me that as a teenager, he was a huge fan of Rick Romano’s TV cop show, and I confess he was my first major crush after Doctor Zhivago.
‘Francesco, I need to ask you something …’ I blurt out, emboldened by several glasses of Montepulciano.
‘Che cosa, cara?’ he says, putting his wine down. I try not to drownin his stare.
‘Who’s Isabella?’ I ask, voice shaky. He turns away from me. My heart starts to sink. ‘I wasn’t spying. It’s just that ages ago, when we were at the coffee shop, your phone …’
‘Isabella is my daughter.’
‘Oh. Why didn’t you tell me? I don’t mind that you’re divorced or separated from …’
‘Divorced? Separated? No.’ A cloud drifts across his face.
‘What then? You’restill …?’ The words stick in my throat. Why didn’t I pluck up the courage to confront him about this before?
‘Alessandra, my wife …’ he says in a low voice.
‘Yes,’ I say, dreading what he’s about to tell me and thanking God I didn’t allow things to progress any further.
‘My wife and our second, unborn child were taken from me by a crazy motorcyclist driving too fast.’
I look athim in silence, the candlelight illuminating his deep-set, glistening eyes. Moments pass.
‘God, Francesco, I am so sorry. I had no idea,’ I whisper, squeezing his hand.
‘Many years ago now,’ he says, letting out a long sigh and laying his cheek on my hand. ‘Allora, cara, we must live every day like it is our last.’
