Chapter 11 #4
‘She said she couldn’t live with me,’ Filippo continued.
‘I was suffocating her. I tried to ask her what I’d done wrong, but – poof!
She walked away.’ He explained that they hadn’t yet sold their house, which was being rented out, and that his stylish, smart, beautiful, successful ex had told him to ‘get rid of his baggage’ or they would have no future together.
He’d been wondering if his baggage might be the stuff he’d brought with him from Europe – his cassone and escritoire and vintage watch collection.
Should he have sold them all and started afresh in his new life?
But after seeing Michelle’s comments on his feedback form, he now realised he had other issues to resolve.
‘I made mistakes in the past,’ he admitted, ‘but I thought I’d addressed them.
I truly thought you would give me top marks on that form.
Instead, I seem to have made the same mistakes all over again.
’ He put down his wine and began to count off failings on his fingers.
‘I’m not connecting, I’m putting on a show, I’m laying down too many rules, I’m treating you like a hotel guest—’
‘Which is better than spending all day on the couch,’ Michelle interrupted, because she was starting to feel sorry for him. ‘I used to live with a human sloth, so I can tell you now, there are way worse things than cooking lovely food.’
He looked troubled, so she jumped up and smiled her encouragement, telling herself that this time she was going to earn her fee.
This time she would provide a genuinely helpful, insightful, educational Dreamwives experience that would lift the shadow from Filippo’s handsome face.
‘Let’s start again, shall we? Give it another go?
We can see what happens if you get more practice, okay? ’
He gazed up at her. Then something sparked deep in his eyes. ‘Va bene.’
‘Good.’ Michelle knew exactly where to begin. ‘First off, I’m going to make us dinner.’
As she headed for the kitchen, she saw Filippo blanch.
It was a miracle that Michelle had ever learned to cook. Her mother had been a constant presence, wrenching spoons from her hand, criticising the way she chopped vegetables, tasting, rejecting, complaining. In comparison, coping with Filippo’s anxiety was a breeze.
‘I didn’t know what you might like,’ he explained, throwing open his well-stocked fridge, ‘so I bought ingredients for tortelli di zucca, for costoletta alla valdostana – breaded veal topped with cheese and ham – and there’s casoncelli to eat with butter and sage—’
‘I’ll do spaghetti puttanesca,’ said Michelle, who had already brought the olives back from the living room.
Puttanesca and spag bol were the only pasta recipes she’d ever mastered that didn’t come from a jar, and she was pretty sure he’d have spaghetti, tomatoes and olive oil (weren’t they the colours on the Italian flag?).
Every Italian kept at least one garlic clove tucked away somewhere. ‘Do you have anchovies?’
He brightened. ‘I do! Don Bocarte. And chilli flakes. And capers from Salina. The spaghetti isn’t fresh—’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’re good to go.’ Michelle started opening cupboards, but before she could locate even a cutting board, ingredients and equipment started flying off the shelves as Filippo darted around collecting things for her.
He insisted on sharpening her knife, and was very pointed about placing a dispenser of Sicilian sea salt beside the pasta pot in case she forgot it.
When he gave her detailed instructions about rinsing the can after adding the tomatoes, she realised she would have to distract him. Otherwise, cooking this meal would be like sitting an exam.
‘My dad was interesting today,’ she said. ‘He nearly got run over by an ambulance.’
That did the trick. Filippo’s eyes widened. ‘What? How?’
‘I had to take him to hospital for a post-operative check-up, and I kept telling him where outpatients was but he wouldn’t listen. He went off in a huff and I just stood there, knowing he would have to come back eventually, but then I heard honking—’
‘Dio mio!’
‘—and I ran to look, and he was trying to get in through the ambulance entrance. With his walking frame.’ Michelle sighed as she pushed the garlic, olives, anchovies, capers and chilli flakes around Filippo’s beautiful Essteele skillet.
‘He’s insanely stubborn. Always thinks he’s right.
’ At that very moment, he was probably ignoring the in-home respite carer hired by Michelle for $90 an hour.
‘My family is the same,’ Filippo jumped in. ‘So many unwritten rules! So much derision if you make a mistake! For outsiders, it’s hard to fit in.’ A twisted smile. ‘My mother, you know . . . she’s very strong. Lots of drama.’
I bet, thought Michelle, wondering how many of Filippo’s girlfriends his mother had scared away. ‘Does she vet all the love interests? My mum did.’
‘Sempre.’ Filippo cast up his eyes. ‘The spying! The interrogations!’ A look of horror crossed his face and he lunged at Michelle, crying, ‘No! Don’t break the pasta!’
When she let the spaghetti slide into the pot unharmed, he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘You’re teasing me,’ he complained.
‘I’m not. What difference does snapping it make?’
He groaned. ‘Please don’t say that,’ he begged. ‘And please don’t forget the quarter-cup of pasta water in the sauce. To thicken and bind? Very important.’
Clearly, Michelle was going to need another distraction. She reached for her phone, opened the opera karaoke app, and revisited ‘Pa-Pa-Pa-Papageno’. As the distinctive opening chords rang out, Filippo began to smile again – then frowned when no one started singing.
He didn’t catch on until Michelle launched into Papagena’s first three notes, waving her spatula at him. Instantly, he followed up with a cascade of ‘pa-pa-pa’s in a surprisingly strong baritone. When those ended and the German began, his accent was flawless.
Michelle couldn’t speak German. She used English instead, and he immediately switched.
‘What a pleasure that will be, when the gods remember us, crown our love with children, such dear little children . . .’
As Filippo became more and more animated, Michelle let him take the lead; she had to concentrate on her cooking. But she’d never sung a duet with anyone and she enjoyed it a lot.
As soon as the song ended, Filippo grabbed her phone. ‘Opera karaoke! I want this app.’ He peered greedily at her playlist. ‘Oh – and of course we Italians lead. Number one, “Nessun Dorma”.’
Next thing Michelle knew, he was making a pretty decent stab at the Pavarotti classic.
Though he couldn’t quite nail the high note, he made a joke of that, the same way he made a joke of the emoting, the lyrics, the costume.
His Italian rolled out, rich and resonant, while he plonked a colander on his head instead of a crown. Michelle had to laugh.
And when he was done, she applauded. ‘Though I’m not a huge fan of Turandot,’ she said.
‘What?’ He was still projecting to a La Scala–sized audience. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Her parents had introduced her to opera because it was a status symbol, but Rolf had also accused her mother of being Turandot the Chinese ice princess, trying to chop off his head all the time. ‘Anyway, dinner’s ready. We can serve ourselves. You want parmesan?’
Filippo glanced around, as if expecting veal or steak to materialise. His tone was hesitant as he asked, ‘No secondo?’
‘Nope.’ Michelle couldn’t see the point; the pasta would fill her up.
‘Salad?’
‘Go for it.’ She wasn’t in the mood for salad herself, though she was happy to let Filippo mess around with green leaves and balsamic vinegar.
He had already laid the dining table with linen, silver, crystal, fine china and even a bunch of tulips, but she let that slide.
When he told her she ‘didn’t want’ a glass of the uncorked pinot noir, because an Italian red like a Barbera would pair better with a puttanesca, she let that go too, submitting to his superior palate.
But she put her foot down when, after the main course, he suggested a dessert wine – especially when she heard they would be eating ice cream.
‘Ice cream doesn’t need wine,’ she said, aware she’d probably uttered a blasphemy. ‘Unless it’s plain old vanilla?’
‘Erm . . . as a matter of fact, we have a choice.’ For some reason, Filippo seemed embarrassed. And when he shepherded Michelle back into the kitchen and opened one of his freezer doors, she saw why.
Seven ice-cream tubs were stacked in there, all from a famous gelateria in Double Bay called Casa Cremeria. Michelle knew each tub cost $18.
‘Wow.’ Her eyes jumped from flavour to flavour: Salted Lychee and Pistachio Fudge, Crème de Menthe Choc Chip, Cinnamon and Black Sesame, Caramelised Saltbush and Pickled Mango. ‘This is a lot.’ She was only half-joking when she asked, ‘Are you an addict?’
‘No!’ Filippo seemed genuinely hurt. ‘I was thinking of you.’
‘When you bought that?’ Michelle pointed at the Fish-eye and Finger-lime Crunch.
He bit back a smile. ‘I mean when I bought a wide choice of flavours. I didn’t want to dictate.’
‘Well, it was a nice thought, but . . . you don’t think this is a little over-anxious?’ Michelle did. She couldn’t help wondering about the princess he’d been living with if this was his response to criticism.
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Filippo looked down at the ice cream as if he were bracing himself. Then, sheepishly, he pulled open the other freezer door. Eight more tubs sat behind it.
Michelle’s jaw dropped. After a brief silence, she locked eyes with Filippo – and they both cracked up.