Chapter 39
39
TWO YEARS LATER
‘The weather has been so crap this week,’ Priya says as she glances out of the window, shooting a dirty look at the rainy streets of Manchester. ‘It’s times like these I bet you miss living in Italy.’
I laugh, swirling my wine in its glass.
‘Well, I was born in the rain, so it makes sense that I live in it most of the time,’ I reply.
‘True,’ she replies. ‘I’m a firm believer in destiny and, if you’re supposed to live in the rain, why fight it?’
‘At least here we can pretend we’re in Italy,’ I point out.
‘Yep, as Italian restaurants go, it doesn’t get more authentic than this,’ she says with a smile.
‘So, how’s work been lately?’ I ask, taking a sip of my wine before I dig into the bowl of taralli on the table.
‘Same old, same old,’ she replies. ‘James is still Rick’s number one special boy, and Liz is still Liz.’
‘Sometimes people don’t change,’ I say with a shrug.
‘Yep, and it’s always the ones who should,’ she jokes. ‘It’s all much of the same really. Your replacement is fine, but we don’t have much in common. I still really wish you would come back.’
I know she’s only being semi-serious. Well, I’m sure she would love me to be back there, like the good old days, but I know that she’s happy for me now.
‘I miss parts of it too, mostly working with you,’ I admit. ‘But when it was time to move back to England, I just knew that I needed a change.’
Priya reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
‘I understand,’ she says sincerely. ‘And I’m so proud of you. You’re doing so well. Oh, look, it’s our waiter.’
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I would love the spaghetti carbonara,’ Priya tells him.
‘And for you?’ he asks me with a cheeky smile.
‘Can I please have the Margherita pizza,’ I reply. ‘But with some ham and pineapple on it.’
‘Robin, no! ’ he replies.
It still gives me the tingles, whenever he says that to me. It’s impossible not to smile.
‘That’s what you get, for dating an English girl,’ Priya tells him. ‘Plus, seeing as though you’re our waiter, isn’t the customer always right?’
‘Not this one,’ he replies with a laugh.
‘See, I’m paying tribute to my culture and to yours,’ I remind Andrea.
‘I’m pretty sure pineapples are from, like, South America,’ Priya reminds me.
‘Not these ones,’ I tell her. ‘They came from Stoke, and I know, because I ordered them.’
By the time I had finished my project at Come a Casa, and Andrea had finished revamping their recipes, it was a no-brainer that we should open a restaurant together. Well, it was always his dream, and I was in the mood for something new. Yes, I still have a passion for marketing, but it is so much more fun when you’re doing it for yourself, for something that you care about.
Andrea doesn’t usually work as a waiter – he’s usually in the kitchen – but knowing that Priya was joining me for lunch today, I’m guessing he couldn’t resist popping out.
‘Well, my first choice was the pene,’ I tell him flirtatiously, not that Priya has a clue what our in-joke means. ‘But I hear the chef is saving that for later.’
‘Okay, fine.’ He gives in with a cheeky smile. ‘Then, for now, you can have your monstrosity of a pizza.’
‘ Grazie mille ,’ I say, blowing him a kiss.
‘What did I just witness?’ Priya jokes. ‘Was that some kind of weird foreplay?’
I laugh off her words.
‘Italians just really hate putting pineapple on pizza,’ I say simply.
Our restaurant is called Villa Fiore – a nod to Andrea’s mum and dad’s restaurant. It’s right at home in Manchester city centre. We’ve gone for something cool, sleek and contemporary. Every corner of the place is Instagrammable – we’re really popular with influencers – with flowers absolutely everywhere.
But at the same time, the place is so traditional. Everything that comes out of the kitchen is so authentically Italian – well, with the exception of my pizza today but, come on, I’m the co-owner, surely I’m allowed whatever I want?
‘So, how are the two of you doing?’ Priya asks in a low voice, now that we’re alone again.
‘Just… amazing,’ I blurt. ‘I mean, the rain makes him miserable, he says he’s never seen so much rain, and last week we went out for dinner at a place that had something on the menu called cheeseburger macaroni, which sent him off on one – I thought he was about to pack his bag and go home.’
Priya laughs.
‘I mean, I’ve not known him for long, but that sounds about right,’ she replies.
‘But, yeah, things are great,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I can’t complain.’
‘Robin,’ I hear my mum call out. ‘Robin, hello?’
‘Actually, maybe I can complain,’ I joke to Priya as my mum, dad and two of their friends wander over.
It’s Auntie Irene (who isn’t actually my auntie) and her husband, Kelvin, who for some reason the title of uncle never quite caught on for.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly.
‘Oh, darling, I still can’t get over how amazing this place is,’ Mum coos.
‘Can Andrea make me some of that pasta, the one that looks like ears, with the bacon?’ Dad adds.
I laugh.
‘Yeah, well, you have to sit at a table and actually order it,’ I remind him. ‘But I’m sure he will.’
‘We were all going out for a bite to eat and I thought, well, my daughter has a restaurant, so we’ve got to go there,’ Mum tells me. ‘Plus, your Auntie Irene really wants to see your engagement ring. Go on, show her.’
I smile as I oblige, holding out my left hand, so that Auntie Irene can see my ring.
Yes, it is actually my ring now and, yes, finally, we are actually engaged. For real, for no one’s benefit but our own.
‘Oh, Robin, it’s beautiful,’ Auntie Irene says. ‘So beautiful. I bet it’s worth a bob or two.’
‘She’s not selling it, so don’t get any ideas,’ Kelvin jokes. ‘Now, come on, I’ve heard a lot about this ear pasta. Let’s get sat down. The sooner we sit down, the sooner we can order, the sooner we can eat.’
I know, ear pasta doesn’t sound delicious at all – that’s not actually what it’s called – but, trust me, what he is referring to is incredible.
‘We had better get to our table,’ Mum tells me. ‘But do send Andrea out to say hello, won’t you? We’d love to see him.’
‘I will,’ I tell her with a smile.
‘Ooh, my daughter, the restaurateur,’ she says giddily. ‘I’m still pinching myself.’
The four of them head off to their table which, luckily, isn’t next to ours.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘Where were we?’
‘Aww, they’re dead proud of you,’ Priya points out. ‘It’s cute.’
‘It’s… intense,’ I reply. ‘But really nice.’
I love that my parents love it here, and Tom comes all the time, on dates, or with his friends. The only thing they love more than this place is Andrea – I mean, how could they not love him? Sometimes I feel like they love him more than they love me, it’s that intense (but not really). I think they’re all just happy that I’m happy – and that they get free pizza whenever they come here.
‘I still can’t believe you’re getting married,’ she says. ‘Not that you’re not marriable.’
‘Thanks,’ I say with a chuckle. ‘I can’t believe it either.’
‘And in Italy, no less,’ she adds.
‘Well, after Andrea’s sister’s wedding – which was honestly just so amazing – I am sold on the idea,’ I reply. ‘I think I knew I wanted to get married in Italy before I even knew that Andrea would marry me.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she says. ‘Really, I can’t.’
‘Oh, did I tell you we’ve invited Rick and his wife?’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘No!’ she replies.
‘Yep,’ I say with a smile. ‘Well, he and Andrea play on the same five-a-side football team, which is, yeah, strange. But, after we all got on so well at the wedding, we’ve just kept in touch. As funny as it sounds, now that he’s not my boss, he’s actually quite fun to be around – don’t tell him I said that.’
‘Oh, I would never want to give him the ego boost,’ she replies.
Did I ever think I would get a big Italian summer wedding of my own? Absolutely not. Now that I’m planning one, am I the happiest I’ve ever been? Absolutely.
‘I’ll be right back, I’d just better go and warn Andrea that they’re here,’ I tell Priya.
‘Sure,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Do what you’ve got to do.’
I head into the kitchen where, right on cue, I see Andrea sprinkling pineapple on my pizza.
‘The pizza chef, he refused to do it,’ Andrea tells me with a smile.
‘Aw, then I owe you an extra-special thank you,’ I say.
‘Francesco, these are ready to go in,’ Andrea calls out to the pizza chef.
‘Can you pop into the office for a minute?’ I ask him.
‘Of course,’ he replies.
We head into the next room, where the office is. The second Andrea closes the door, I practically launch myself at him.
I can feel him laughing through our kisses.
‘It’s just pineapple,’ he jokes.
‘It’s not just that, it’s everything,’ I tell him. ‘I love you, you’re amazing, I can’t believe we’re getting married, and that this place is ours… and, yeah, the pineapple.’
I kiss him again.
‘I’m very happy too,’ he says. ‘But I’m also working, so I have to keep my hands clean, so… no hanky panky.’
I snort.
Since we moved back to Manchester, Andrea has been picking up all of these weird and wonderful English phrases, and he sounds so, so cute when he uses them. Especially phrases like ‘hanky panky’.
‘Oh, by the way, my mum and dad are here, with some of their friends,’ I tell him.
‘That’s great,’ he replies. ‘I’ll come out to say ciao .’
‘They would love that,’ I reply. ‘You’re so good to them.’
‘It comes with the job,’ he says simply.
I give him a look – one that he knows all too well.
‘Well, seeing as though you’re popping back out into the restaurant, and you’ll probably be shaking a bunch of hands, you’re going to need to wash them anyway, right?’
Andrea smiles.
‘That’s true,’ he says. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Not quite hanky panky,’ I tell him. ‘But something close.’
‘I mean, I’m sure I could make the time,’ he reasons as he kisses my neck.
‘I’m sure you could too,’ I reply. ‘But I just got an Italian chef to make me a ham and pineapple pizza, so there’s no way I’m letting that go cold.’
‘Okay then, just a taste,’ he whispers into my ear.
‘That sounds good to me,’ I reply. ‘We’ve got the rest of our lives for everything else.’