Chapter 10 #2
What did she know? Nothing. And from what he could hear, Francesca wasn’t going to share Alessio’s backstory.
He pictured her standing there, taking those metaphorical bullets for him.
While he hadn’t asked her to keep his past a secret, he respected her for doing so.
Even if it now meant copping an earful from her less than impressed mother.
Yes I fucking can!
He felt a prick of defensive anger.
Go in there and tell her everything you’ve done. All you’ve achieved. The awards. The reputation. The full houses. The four-month waitlist. The three fucking Hats.
He stood and began to pace at the foot of the bed. He wasn’t in there to defend himself, but part of him wished he was. To shut Elena down, to acknowledge Francesca’s discretion, to stand up for himself . . .
It was then that he pulled himself to a stop.
Stand up for yourself? Since the closure, since the locking of those doors, you’ve never once entertained the idea of acknowledging everything you DID achieve. You simply drowned in the failure. Your enthusiasm and drive? They drowned too . . . but could this resurrect them?
That realisation pushed him towards the door.
He stopped for a moment and caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall.
As if super-imposed over his own face he could imagine that of his Nonna Immacolata.
The matching bridge of the aquiline nose.
Those hazel-brown eyes. That defiant, stubborn spirit.
The melancholy. She was with him. He knew she was.
And for the first time since arriving in town, something inside his belly urged him to fight.
He flung open the door, causing it to bang on his hinges. He walked the few paces between the apartments, and without so much as knocking, opened the door and marched inside.
With a hand raised to silence the women, he said, ‘Be quiet. All of you. I’ve heard enough.
You,’ he pointed to Francesca, which caused her to shrink backwards, ‘what you did was not at all ok. Without my knowledge or consent. You had no right. And you,’ his finger now moved to Elena, ‘the way you talk to your daughter is awful. I have no idea what experiences have brought you to this place in your relationship, but this is neither healthy nor fair. She fucked up, I’m not excusing that. But this is just too much.’
‘This doesn’t concern you, Alessio. Leave. Pack your things.’ Elena attempted to wave him from their apartment, but Alessio’s gaze fell on Francesca, sitting with tear-soaked eyes at the dining table, fists balled on the wooden top. He felt a sudden longing to protect her, despite her actions.
He turned on his heel and locked eyes with Elena. ‘You say, Non sappiamo se sa cucinare bene! But actually, I can. I’m a chef.’
Elena’s eyelashes fluttered. ‘So Francesca said. But I haven’t seen anything to inspire any confidence.’
Alessio bristled. ‘I’m a damn fine chef, actually.
One of Australia’s greatest up-and-coming talents, so some say.
I won awards. I was sought after. My opinion mattered.
My kitchen set trends – and ended them. I took risks.
I’m literally one of the best. So don’t for a second cast aspersions where they aren’t wanted or needed. ’
‘So why are you not in your own kitchen back in Australia?’ She pressed her lips into a tight line.
Francesca piped up. ‘You don’t need to tell her, Alessio. You can leave and that’s that.’
But he silenced her with his index finger raised mid-air.
‘Because I lost my business to the post-pandemic world of economic crises and the exorbitant cost-of-living issues. I’m here to reset and reboot and to have some time for myself.
To look for my roots in this town. I am leaving behind some of the shittiest years of my life to be here in the spirit of healing. ’
‘We too are in a period of healing, Alessio. We are mourning.’ Elena’s expression was flat.
‘This . . .’ He gestured between them all, indicating the tense atmosphere. ‘This isn’t mourning. And it’s certainly not healing. You’re all struggling. That’s what I see.’
‘I don’t need a psychological assessment. Grazie.’ Again, Elena attempted to brush him aside, and anger flared within him. Then he looked again at Francesca.
He remembered the enthusiasm with which she had prepared their lunch on the terrazzo, her intuitive knowledge of the flavours, the ingredients .
. . and it was suddenly clear to him that Francesca would never be able to flourish in this mess.
He understood now why she had escaped to London and why she, her father and Maria had conspired to keep it a secret.
As long as Francesca was here in Impastino, in this situation, she would always struggle to break free.
Just as he was about to turn and leave, his mind snagged on a memory.
Something his psychologist had once shared with him about acknowledging growth and healing.
At the time, Alessio had taken it as a throw-away comment to fill the dying moments of the session.
He hadn’t really considered it, because back then he couldn’t see himself ever being in a place of acceptance and change.
‘You’ll know that your acceptance has transitioned to growth when you are able to use your own knowledge about your journey to support someone else.
It will take an immense amount of strength, courage and a deep sense of self-awareness.
But one day, Alessio, I truly believe you will reach that point.
And, you will have the power to change someone else’s life. For the better.’
He stepped towards Francesca and the rest of the scene around them blurred to white noise.
The thought of being in that kitchen downstairs and working alongside this dysfunctional trio of stubborn southern Italian women made his breath hitch and filled him with core-shaking anxiety.
It made no sense, but he couldn’t stop the words tumbling from his lips.
‘I’ll do it.’