‘Honestly, I don’t mind at all. In fact I’d really like to do it,’ I said, taking the paper and pen Benji had shoved at me.
‘I’m making the cake,’ she said firmly, giving me a tight smile. Her meaning was clear.
‘Mum!’ Benji whined, drawing out the word. ‘Last year the cake you made wasrubbish.Nobody could even tell what it was and it was all splodgy and –’
‘Benji. Enough,’ Rob, Benji’s dad, clipped and surprisingly Benji listened – although, since I’d met Rob (after he came back from Somalia two months ago) I’d come to realize that if he gave an order it was rarely challenged (except by his wife). He was ex-military and now worked for a security company protecting oil tankers in Somalia. I found him unbelievably intimidating at first, but soon realized that despite his bulky frame and severe, close-cropped haircut, which screamedDon’t mess with me!he was a big softy and a brilliant dad.
Other than the kids, he was the only one who had seemed pleased to see me, and he was being his usual brusque but warm self.
‘Frankie, how about you sketch them out for us?’ he asked softly, giving me an encouraging smile whilst his wife glared at him.
‘Got it,’ Tom shouted as he slammed through the front door, letting a blast of cold air through the house. In my flustered state earlier I had left my mobile in the van and Tom had gone out to retrieve it when I realized I didn’t have it. When he reached us he must have noticed Sarah and Rob in stare-down. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ muttered Sarah grumpily. She turned away from us as Tom flopped down next to me, chucking my mobile on my lap and putting his arm along the back of the sofa behind me. All afternoon he’d been making possessive gestures like that, scooting my chair closer to him during the meal, sticking to me like glue, openly showing his irritation at the cold treatment I was receiving from his family.
I decided to ignore the whole situation and sketch the cakes. Then I was out of there. I’d had enough of this awkwardness to last me a lifetime. Obviously Tom’s family, like him, had realized I wasn’t worth the effort and were making this clear to me. After about fifteen minutes I was done. Benji was delighted with the sketches (much to Sarah’s disgust), and he settled on me making him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cake.
As I started mumbling my thanks and rose to leave, there was a loud banging at the front door, followed by the doorbell ringing an obnoxious number of times.
‘What on earth?’ Mary muttered as she moved from the living room. I was still frantically searching for my handbag, ready to use this unexpected visitor as the perfect distraction to make my getaway, when I heard a familiar hoarse voice from the doorway. Panic shot through me.
No. It simply wasn’t possible. I got out my phone, checked the call history, and then closed my eyes.
‘Did you answer my phone?’ I asked Tom, my eyes still closed.
‘Oh yeah, sorry, I meant to tell you. It was your –’
‘Francesca! Bella mia!’ the dishevelled man striding into the living room shouted. He then proceeded to snatch me off the sofa and twirl me round in a fierce hug, pitching us both slightly to the side due to his very obviously inebriated state. Tom shot up and steadied us before we could careen into the coffee table.
‘Papa,’ I wheezed, easing back slightly so I could breath. If I thought today couldn’t be anymore mortifying, when I took in everyone’s shocked expressions around the room, I realized I was very wrong.
I could smell the Special Brew on his breath, mixed with the unmistakable stale odour of someone who hadn’t washed in a goodly amount of time. Unfortunately there was also a strong scent of urine and even vomit mixed in. The effect was pretty overpowering.
‘Where have you been? I was worried,’ I asked gently, moving my hands to cup his face and smooth back his wild, overlong, greying hair.
‘Ah, bella Francesca,’ he rasped out, ‘always you worry, cara. You know me: tough as old boots.’
‘Frankie?’ I heard Tom ask tentatively, and I realized that Papa and I had been talking in Italian, although I doubted that the others could miss the meaning of the word ‘Papa’.
‘You are the young man I spoke to, no?’ Papa turned to Tom, smiling and showing off his yellow, decaying teeth. ‘You are looking after my Francesca?’ Why Papa thought I needed looking after now, when he’d certainly never bothered to do it before, amazed me.
‘Yes, sir,’ Tom said firmly, giving me a warning look when I opened my mouth to correct my father, who had clearly assumed Tom and I were something that we definitely were not, especially after today. Papa clapped him with a little too much force on his shoulder.
‘This is good,’ he declared. ‘A good strong man for my Francesca. She looks after me you know. Such a good girl. I don’t deserve her.’ He was starting to slur, and pitched slightly to the side again, taking me with him as he still had his arm firmly around my shoulders.
‘Mr Rossetti.’ Tom’s dad stepped forward, offering his hand to Papa. I winced as they shook, knowing my father’s hands likely had not seen soap in some days. ‘I’m Jack and this is my wife, Mary.’ Mary snapped out of her shocked silence and stepped forward. She gave Papa a warm smile.
‘You look like you’ve been … travelling for a while,’ she said carefully. ‘Can I offer you something to eat?’
I shook my head vigorously, ‘No, no, honestly. We need to get going,’ I urged, pulling on Papa’s arm. ‘Papa, come on. I need to get you home to shower and into some new clothes,’ I said in a low voice, wishing that the others couldn’t hear me. He stumbled slightly but was otherwise immovable. I needed to get him out of there and clean. Given the state he was in, I knew it was going to be a struggle to get him showered on my own; but I’d done it before, many times, and no doubt I would do it again. Maybe he was the lost cause everyone assumed, but I loved him.
The Papa of my early childhood had been a proud man. He drank (it was practically a requirement of an Italian chef) but it was always in control. Somehow things changed around the time I was ten. The drinking took over. He couldn’t do his job properly. Gio and Gabriella kept him on as long as they could, but in the end it was impossible. I could still remember the screaming rows and Mamma pleading with him. But in the end he chose the drink over us, over everything. The ironic thing was that, after he left, Mamma’s drinking also began to spiral out of control.
‘Frankie,’ Mary cut in, and I turned to her. Bizarrely she was giving me her first genuinely warm expression that day as she cupped my cheek with her hand. ‘Go and help Tom make tea, then we can all have some of your cake.’ This was the first time she had even mentioned the huge Christmas cake I had brought with me – don’t ask me why I had made such a massive cake just for me (and Papa if he turned up); I guess I just couldn’t help myself.
‘But I –’
As I started to protest I saw her shoot Jack and Rob a significant look, and they moved towards Papa.
