Chapter 16
DELANEY
The walk to the restaurant is reasonably short – thank god, because these heels are already killing me – and quiet.
Well, not quiet as such – we’re enveloped by the richly textured soundscape of the island – people outside restaurants laughing and talking in multiple languages, the sharp cries of seagulls, the chatter of sparrows, a light breeze rustling in the trees, the clatter of my heels on the stone path.
But there’s no conversation – not ideal when we’re spending the next couple of hours together at dinner. But maybe Nick’s lost in thought like I am.
When we arrive at the restaurant, he opens the door for me – a small but sweet gesture that’s very date-like – and I thank him, lifting my gaze to meet his.
Nope, don’t do that, Delaney. I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting as I look around.
The ma?tre d’, an attractive forty-something man, greets us with a smile.
‘Buonasera e benvenuti a Ristorante Azzurra di Mare. è un piacere avervi con noi.’ He must clock the confusion on my face because he seamlessly switches to English. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here. Do you have a reservation?’
‘Thank you – it’ll be under Delaney Cole.’
‘Ah, sì, Signorina Cole, Signor James, this way please.’
Forgetting what I’ve just told myself, I grin at Nick, who grins back, and we follow the ma?tre d’ out onto a limestone terrace, where round tables sit discreetly apart.
He leads us to a table at the centre of the terrace, right next to the low stone wall.
A crisp white tablecloth flutters gently and a sprig of rosemary rises from a handblown-glass bud vase.
I inhale deeply, the scent of rosemary mixing with the lemon and brine in the air.
The ma?tre d’ pulls out my rattan-backed chair and Nick takes the seat opposite. As I sit, my eyes are drawn to the incredible view.
A patchwork of rooftops spill across the hillside, glowing in the setting sun.
White pinpricks of string lights dance amongst the trees or adorn balconies like strands of pearls.
Below us, the piazza bustles with families and couples – locals and tourists mingling.
The campanile stands proudly, its face illuminated, keeping time for us all.
And the seagulls we heard on the way here arc across the sky, silhouettes now, loudly declaring the close of the day.
I really want to get this on film. Finn and Lexi need to have dinner here – at sunset. I smile to myself. That epilogue’s going to be so epic.
‘The chef is preparing a special menu for you,’ says the ma?tre d’, dragging me from my thoughts. He hands us each a one-page menu written in English. ‘And the sommelier will come soon to recommend some wine.’ He places a leather-bound wine list on the table. ‘Can I offer you an apéritif?’ he asks.
‘Well, we are sort of celebrating,’ says Nick, ‘so how about two glasses of prosecco?’
‘Of course, signore.’ He gives us a smile and leaves.
‘I realise it’s premature,’ says Nick, ‘celebrating, but—’
‘Hey, no, not at all – you gotta celebrate the milestones.’
He grins at me. ‘That’s what I was thinking too.’
‘So, I don’t know about you but when I heard “chef’s-table dining”, I envisioned something completely different. I figured we’d be cloistered near the kitchen at a tiny table, right in the thick of the action.’
‘I guess I hadn’t given it much thought. Are you disappointed?’ he asks.
‘Hell no. This is way better. If the food sucks, the view alone is worth it.’
He laughs softly, then looks out at the view, his gaze panning slowly from right to left.
‘You’re doing what I did,’ I say, and his head swivels towards me, his expression curious. ‘Picturing the shot.’
‘Well, obviously this needs to be in the montage.’
‘Totally. But we’ll have to make sure it doesn’t come across as a tourism commercial for Capri.’
‘Hah!’ he laughs. ‘Or that’s how we get permission to film here. We promise them a spectacular ad campaign.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, unconvinced. ‘I can get us a filming permit without promising them anything. In fact, when I’m done with them, the mayor of Capri will be begging us to film here.’
He smirks. ‘Is there a mayor of Capri?’ he asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I declare, and he sniggers. ‘Yet. But once we get funding, I’ll find out.’
He shakes his head disbelievingly. ‘It hasn’t sunk in yet.’
‘Well, like I said, no pr—’
‘Promises,’ he finishes, talking over me. His expression clouds, but before I can reassure him, our drinks arrive, along with a plate of appetisers. I glance at the menu:
APERITIVO
Marinated anchovies on crostini
I’m not usually into anchovies, but they smell amazing – not at all like the soggy little things you’d get on a shitty pizza.
We thank the waiter and when I turn to Nick, he’s holding out his glass. ‘To you, Delaney.’
‘Hmm, not sure about that.’
‘You have something different in mind?’ he asks.
‘How about to Finn and Lexi.’
I raise my glass, looking at him expectantly.
I do not want Nick to toast me – either professionally, because there’s that whole no-promises thing, or personally, because he’s engaged, he was supposed to be getting married this week, and I’ve got a boyfriend – even though right now he’s being an asshole.
All that adds up, and a toast to Delaney is asking for trouble and a big fat no-no.
‘To Finn and Lexi,’ Nick says after a stupidly long moment of staring into my eyes – also a big fat no-no.
I clink glasses with him and sip, fixing my gaze on anything but my date.
Fuck – not date – dinner companion. Geez, now I sound like my grandmother, who at ninety-four has a more active social life than me.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asks Nick and I glance over.
‘Huh – what – sorry?’
He gives me a bemused smile. ‘It’s just… your face,’ he says, circling his forefinger in front of his. ‘It’s very expressive but right now, I can’t figure out if you’ve found a frog in your pocket or sat on a pinecone.’
‘Okay, you’ve lost me.’ But then I get it. ‘Oh!’ I say, breaking into laughter. ‘The kids’ pranks on Maria in The Sound of Music. That’s kind of an obscure reference.’
‘You got there in the end – and I made you laugh.’
‘Touché,’ I acknowledge, raising my glass. I take another sip and it’s going down smoothly. Maybe too smoothly. I’ve already had limoncello – I need to pace myself. Especially after yesterday. And today. And tonight before we left the suite.
Seriously, what am I doing?
‘Are you going to tell me what’s really going on in there?’ Nick asks. When I look at him, his eyes lift to my forehead then land back on mine.
‘Nope,’ I say – a single syllable that’s punching way above its weight class.
He seems to accept that we’re not going to discuss it – ‘it’ being a swarm of confusing, inappropriate, insistent feelings. He reaches for the wine list instead.
‘That thing is thicker than my AP Bio textbook – and as daunting,’ I say, helping myself to a crostini and taking a big bite. Holy shit – best anchovies ever.
‘Come on,’ he says, glancing up, ‘you said yourself that you know about wine. Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by a mere three-pound leather-bound tome?’ he teases.
‘I meant the wine aisle at Trader Joe’s – that,’ I say, pointing at the menu, ‘is a whole other kettle of fish. Is it even in English?’
‘Sort of,’ he says, continuing to read. ‘Lots of varietals I haven’t heard of, though.’
‘See?’
He snaps it shut and rests it on his lap. ‘I’m happy to go with the sommelier’s suggestions – you?’
‘Sure. And you should eat that before I do,’ I say, nodding at the crostini.
He picks it up and takes a huge bite. His eyes grow wide as he chews.
‘Right?’ I ask.
‘Mmm.’ He swallows, then washes it down with prosecco. ‘So, the food doesn’t suck,’ he says.
‘Not so far.’
‘And True North is really footing the bill?’ he asks.
‘That’s what they said, but even if they don’t – worth it.’
‘Worth it,’ he says at the same time, and we share a smile.
We really need to stop that. Or not, I think as his brown eyes stare into mine.
Girl, you are playing with fire.
* * *
Nick
I can’t recall the last time I had a meal this good – or a conversation.
After a stilted beginning – Delaney seemed a little in her head on the way here – we’ve fallen into the same easy simpatico that began during the trip to the Blue Grotto and gelled this afternoon while we were working.
‘Okay,’ she says, spearing seared amberjack with her fork and pointing it at me. ‘Favourite director.’
She pops the fish into her mouth, chews, then moans, and I do my best not to make the leap to other kinds of moans. To be fair, the food is mind-blowing – after a lifetime of ambivalence towards anchovies, the crostini has catapulted me into the pro-anchovy camp.
For primo we had linguine al limone di Capri, the same dish I had my first day on Capri. Only not the same, because – with apologies to my surly waiter friend – the waterfront restaurant is Pizza Express compared to Ristorante Azzurra di Mare.
The fish with roasted eggplant and caponata is possibly the best fish I’ve ever had. Well, there were those grilled snapper skewers in Thailand – so, second-best.
And the wine! We left it to the sommelier, who was happy for us to share a glass for each course – otherwise, with five courses, we’d be staggering back to the hotel, three sheets to the wind.
Actually, considering Delaney’s petite stature, make that four sheets.
With the pasta, we had Greco di Tufo – its minerality reminiscent of a Fiano – and now we’re onto a delicious medium-bodied red called Aglianico del Taburno.
‘Nick.’
‘Sorry – favourite director… right,’ I say. ‘Let me think…’
I load up my own fork and take a bite while I ponder one of the most important questions a film lover might ever be asked. Delaney keeps eating, her tilted head the only hint that she’s running an egg timer in her head.