Then there were the smells, the ambience, the intimate pleasure of sharing home-made food and conversation, surrounded by these people and in this place that had survived so much. She let out a mournful sigh. A takeaway from Domino’s would never taste the same after tonight.
With Stefano now tucked up in bed, Elena stepped outside, laundry basket under her arm, the moon lighting her way along the flagstone steps. As she gathered in the washing from the line, her thoughts turned to Lucy. She was also mourning. It was a different type of loss, but still a life-shattering sadness, even if the relationship appeared to Elena to have been too much like hard work. Lucy had given her heart, invested her hopes and dreams in that one person, to find him gone in the blink of an eye, taking her future with him.
She deserved someone kind and loyal, open and honest, someone who would enhance her life, who wouldn’t string her along for years then let her down, someone like…
‘Elena!’ She could almost see Giancarlo shaking his head, holding up his hand and groaning, ‘Elena!No! Per favore! No!’
She was the first to admit that her well-intentioned attempts at playing Cupid for Dario had been pretty disastrous so far. There had been a particularly creepy stalking incident involving a mum from Stefano’s school, when Dario had been forced to change his mobile phone number and the locks to his apartment; after that he and Giancarlo had made Elena promise to surrender her matchmaking role. But though she’d only known Lucy for a very short time, she was certain she wasn’t a temperamental, bunny-boiling diva. While Elena understood their both being single didn’t equalcompatibility, there was no denying the spark between them that evening, or Dario’s smile as he had kissed Lucy’s hand on their first meeting; it had been intimate and full of promise. And it hadn’t escaped her notice that a rosy hue had filled Lucy’s cheeks which, according to Elena’s inbuilt love detector, was less embarrassment and more excitement.
Elena sighed wistfully. She could still recall that overpowering, heart-quickening feeling she’d had when she first looked into Giancarlo’s eyes on the London Tube all those years ago.
Lucy stepped out onto the moonlit balcony in her pyjamas, her feet cooled by the balm of the terracotta tiles. She leaned against the wrought-iron railing and looked up at the star-spangled sky, a light sea breeze caressing her face. Had it only been three days since she’d left Scotland? It felt more like three weeks – but in a good way.
Her senses had never been bombarded like this before; she’d been driven in an Italian police car by a dashing officer in uniform, eaten flowers, drunk Christ’s tears, caught a fish (kind of), discovered mindfulness in a cemetery, created an authentic pizza and, Holy Mary, Mother of God, she had a schoolgirl crush on a clergyman.
Chapter Eight
Lucy’s eyes pinged open, her phone vibrating furiously. Her arm floundered around on the bedside table, her finger finally locating the off button. Five o’clock. She stretched and arched her back, her brain clunking into gear. Monday. Mozzarella Monday!
She’d so been looking forward to this, but at this godforsaken hour, the thought of giant blobs of cheese bobbing about in milk was enough to make her want to throw up.
After showering, she tiptoed past Stefano’s bedroom and staggered into the kitchen.
‘Buongiorno.’Elena greeted her with a wide smile and a cup of steaming coffee.
‘My father-in-law will meet you at the factory at seven-thirty, by the staff gate, and show you around. I’ll join you later, after I’ve taken Stefano to school and been to the market,d’accordo?’
‘D’accordo. Agreed.’Lucy downed the dregs of her mind-sharpening espresso, then slipped on her new sandals. ‘Ciao,Elena.’
Lucy hurried up the sun-washed driveway and dragged one of the gates open. As it clanked shut, her gaze was drawn to an open window where a tousle-haired Stefano was rubbing his eyes with one hand and waving to her with the other. She smiled and wavedback, her arms high in the air, wobbling slightly in her slippery sandals.
Turning the corner onto the main road, she was met by the stench of an overflowing refuse cart, mixed with the woody aroma of strong coffee, the putt-putt sound of speeding scooters, the hiss of bus brakes, the impatient honking of car horns, a screaming police siren, and the rapid-fire conversations of early morning commuters, phones clasped to their ears, domestic and business dramas unfolding. And it was still only six-thirty.
Boarding the bus to the city, Lucy felt a sense of pride that the woman behind the counter of thetabaccheriahad immediately understood her Italian and issued her with the correct ticket. The bus rumbled on its way, bustling with boisterous Italian chit-chat and easy laughter; pensioners, school children, shoppers, commuters, all talking over one another, gesticulating wildly, while the driver, one hand on the wheel, belted out some Verdi.
Leaning against the half-open window, Lucy drank in the sights and sounds of her first solo journey into the city.
As they slowed to a stop at a red traffic light, her attention was drawn to the buzz of a shiny green scooter pulling up alongside them.
A surge of envy washed over her; just like the fashionable clothes she’d seen, to Lucy’s mind the Vespa epitomised understated Italian elegance and style; a window into the bygone era of classic Fellini films andla dolce vita.
How she ached to ride around Italian streets on two wheels, à la Loren and Hepburn.
The bus eventually wheezed to a halt outside the factory, jolting her out of her reverie.
‘Arrivederci. Buona giornata,’ said the driver with a wide, wrinkle-etched smile.
‘Grazie. Arrivederci.’ Lucy gave him a cheery wave as she stepped down onto the dusty pavement.
On the opposite side of the road, pacing up and down, phone glued to his ear, was a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman. From Elena’s description, this had to be SignorMoretti.
Looking to her left, Lucy stepped blithely onto the pedestrian crossing as a bright orange Fiat 500 convertible approached, a nun at the wheel, wimple billowing. Instead of slowing down, the car accelerated, narrowly avoiding a collision. After several lily-livered attempts, it began to dawn on Lucy that traffic etiquette in Naples was about survival of the fittest. There was nothing else for it; removing her slippery sandals and screwing up her courage, she launched into a game of Russian roulette with the oncoming cars, buses and scooters, heaving a sigh of relief as she reached the other side. Her feet felt as if they had walked over a bed of nails, but she was grateful to be alive.
Phone call over, the dapper gentleman glanced at his watch. Lucy hobbled over to him.
‘Signor Moretti?’
‘Sì?Aah. Signorina Anderson!’ He went to shake her hand, his gaze falling to her dirty, bare feet. ‘Piacere,’ he said with a puzzled look, a bemused smile lifting his inky-black, jutting eyebrows.
