Chapter 34
trentaquattro
Francesca knocked gently on their apartment door.
‘It’s open,’ she heard him say, so she entered, closing it quietly behind her.
‘I thought you’d be asleep.’
Alessio exhaled. ‘Still buzzing after today. Nonna gone to bed? Your mum?’
‘Both settled.’ She padded over to the bed where he sat with a bundle of paper and a few open cookbooks. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Studying for the final round.’
‘That’s three weeks away. Can you please just rest for a moment?’
‘I had been reading up until ten minutes ago.’ He gestured to his latest street library box find, next to him on the bedspread. ‘But I finished it.’
Francesca’s gaze ran over the recipes and notebooks before settling on the annotated photocopy of his nonna’s proxy marriage certificate. With a kind smile, she gestured to it. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Forgot I left it there.’ Alessio reached for it and folded it in half.
He slipped the certificate behind the novel’s cover and set it down on his nightstand.
Francesca noted that there was something wistful in his expression.
‘The irony is that I came here to learn about Nonna, yet I feel like I’ve learned a lot about myself, too. ’
Francesca sat on the edge of the mattress and stretched out both arms to catch his legs. ‘Life’s strange like that.’
‘I’ve rediscovered an enjoyment of cooking that I thought had no chance of resuscitation. Look, I’m even studying again!’ Francesca smiled in support. ‘And . . .’ He faltered for a moment before his eyes met hers. ‘And I met you.’
‘And I met you.’ She shimmied across to her side of the bed and nuzzled against him, Alessio’s arm wrapping around her instinctively.
‘I’m proud of you. And not just for what you’ve achieved at the festa.
But for being back in the kitchen again.
I saw the effort it took.’ She felt his skin grow hot under the cotton of his tee.
‘And I’m proud of you for pushing past your family’s obstacles. You continue to fight for what you’re passionate about, no matter the cost. And you’re a brilliant teacher.’
‘Graz—’ The word trickled from her lips, unfinished.
He gave her a gentle shoulder bump. ‘What’s that about?’
‘I . . . I just feel like I have very little control over my life here. I feel stuck.’
‘In Impastino?’
Her nose scrunched. ‘No, here. In this place. The trattoria has so much potential. There are things we could do to . . . And the Festa della Pasta . . . Its rules are archaic! I am a woman so I cannot compete. Even though I am the head chef of my family’s restaurant. ’ She let out a long, frustrated sigh.
‘I agree. I see all your potential. Never forget it.’
‘Grazie. This is why London meant so much to me. It was my space and my way.’
‘This is why you should go and finish—’
But Francesca had already pounced on him, muzzling his mouth with her palm.
‘Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. It’s impossible.
’ Looking down into Alessio’s magnetic eyes, she shook her head.
‘I can’t think about London . . . when all I am conscious of is losing you in three weeks when you go back home.
’ She slowly peeled herself from him and Alessio propped himself up, leaning back on his elbows.
‘That’s been on your mind?’
She nodded. ‘Sì.’
Francesca watched as Alessio’s expression softened. ‘I couldn’t have ever expected this. But this thing between us . . . It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known before.’
She felt her own eyes sting with tears. ‘Will it just end?’
Alessio reached up and caressed her cheek. ‘I don’t want it to.’
‘It doesn’t have to. You can sta—’
‘Do I want to go? No. Do I want to leave you behind? No. But I have loose ends to tie up at home.’
‘What ends? You came here to restart your life because you had nothing there. You told me . . .’
The pause that settled between them tortured her.
He’s going to pull away now. He can’t commit to anything more. Just accept that.
‘Francesca, part of me worries that this side of me, this Alessio – Alessio of Impastino – can only exist here. As if he’s not real.
Just manufactured. A by-product of your affection, your care, this town, all the pasta, the sun, the sand .
. . How do I know if this version of me can exist back home, where my life awaits? ’
‘Then stay. And the problem goes away.’
His leaned over and planted a sweet kiss on the tip of her nose.
‘I need to go home. I don’t want to, but I need to.
I have my apartment. A mortgage. My car.
My parents. I need to just take this Alessio’s energy there and see what happens in areas of my life I wasn’t ready to face before. That also includes work.’
‘And after that you will come back?’
‘Maybe.’
‘My pasta love wasn’t strong enough for you.’
‘Your pasta love helped heal a part of me I thought was broken for good. It was unexpected and beautiful. Like you.’
‘So, we might be saying goodbye in three weeks?’
‘We will say goodbye. But hopefully not forever.’
She lay down beside him and pulled him close, burying her head into his shoulder. ‘Then let’s make the next three weeks the best of our lives.’
At 3 am Alessio awoke slick with sweat.
Francesca was lying on her side, facing away from him. Alessio could make out the lines of her curls stuck to the back of her neck.
He quietly padded to the window and opened it, and the cool flush of the night air wafted across his bare chest. It was reviving and refreshing. Francesca must have felt it even in her sleep, as she rolled onto her back, as if welcoming its reprieve across her skin.
The moonlight cast shadows over the furniture, outlining the -silhouettes of their little shared life in that poky apartment. Their temporary life.
Francesca’s fervent desire to have Alessio stay plagued him. He didn’t want to go home; he hadn’t lied. But all logic and reason told him he had to return to sort out the mess his former life had been.
He cautiously paced the apartment, trying to reconcile the war waging between his heart and mind. Eventually he came to a stop and leaned against Francesca’s bookshelf, watching her sleep. The rise and fall of her chest, the way her arm moulded to the curve of her waist.
A woman unlike any he’d met before. A companion.
A friend. A confidante. These were three qualities he’d never experienced so perfectly in tandem with affection and physical attraction.
Her wild enthusiasm. Her passion, her fire, her humour.
The way she defended the little things. Her care and kindness.
Her desire to prove herself, her ambition.
It was then that an idea germinated in Alessio’s mind. And there, by the bookshelf, he reached for his phone and opened a new email.
Still awake at 4 am, Alessio needed something that might serve as a distraction. Doom-scrolling wasn’t a healthy option, that much he knew.
His eyes landed upon the street library book he’d finished that night, and he figured now was as good a time as any to return it. So, he slipped on his scuffs and yesterday’s tee as quietly as possible so as not to wake Francesca.
Alessio descended the rear stairs with only the moonlight to light the way, thankful the sun hadn’t yet broken over the arid landscape of the lower plains. He walked through the trattoria, crossed the piazza, and returned the book to the street library box.
On his way back he stopped by the central fountain to splash some water on his face. While it was cool and fortifying, something stole his attention and he stopped still, hunched over, hands full of water.
The hairs along the back of his neck prickled, despite the thick clinging heat.
Where are you?
Slowly, he rose and turned around.
I can feel you watching me.
As nonchalantly as possible, Alessio surveyed the piazza. He found not a soul, not a single pair of eyes. No movement, save a few seagulls kicking through dry leaves at Lu Ientu’s front door.
I can’t see you, but I can feel you . . .
Instinctively, he turned to carefully assess Da Martino, pretending to wipe his face dry with the hem of his tee while he scrutinised it.
It was faint. He could barely make it out at the distance. But there, high up on Da Martino’s terrazzo, was the pale glow of a lit cigarette.
Gotcha! Three weeks until I shut you up for good . . .
Locking the trattoria’s front door behind him, Alessio felt somehow bolstered by the encounter in the piazza.
The presence of someone watching him from the inky shadows didn’t perturb him.
Being scrutinised and studied was second nature to him.
And if it was indeed Elio, Alessio just hoped it indicated his rival was rattled about their final showdown.
Walking past the kitchen on his way back to bed, Alessio stopped short.
Caught by a ray of moonlight shining in through the kitchen window was Francesca’s tazza della pasta.
It was sitting on the bench beside the Virgin Mary–shaped bottle of holy water.
He realised he had a unique opportunity here, alone in the kitchen.
Was it genuine curiosity, or the stubborn part of himself he struggled to truly switch off?
Was it the desire to prove himself as a ‘100 grams per person’ kind of chef?
‘Buongiorno, San Francesco,’ he whispered with a respectful nod to their watchful guide, then he stepped inside and picked up the cup.
The perfect measure?
Alessio still wasn’t sold.
He set it back down and reached for the electric scales. He just had to know.
Alessio scooped a level cup of ‘00’ flour, flattened off the top with the back of a knife, and emptied it into the weighing bowl. He watched the red digits dance for a moment before settling.
There it was. All he needed to know.
His eyes flicked up to San Francesco and he said, ‘This stays between us.’