Chapter 4
Joe had told Stella to come and go as she pleased but even though they’d now been engaged for three whole weeks and she was officially moving in at the end of the month, she still felt awkward just waltzing through his front door without loudly announcing her arrival.
‘Hi, I’m here!’ she called, dropping her bag on the hall table and walking into the kitchen. The aroma of frying onions made her stomach rumble despite the substantial prawn and avocado salad she and her best friend Carol had eaten just a few hours earlier.
Joe turned away from the range cooker.
‘Hello, darling.’ He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Wine? I’m cooking my signature spaghetti so I’ve opened some red. Here you are, you go and sit down and relax.’
She kicked off her shoes and sat on the leather couch at the far end of the kitchen-diner, arranging the overstuffed cushions behind her. A wine merchant’s brochure lay on the coffee table. She’d left Joe to choose the drinks for the wedding.
Everything else for the big day was beginning to come together.
Thanks to Carol’s gentle bullying, Stella had already sorted out a venue, a menu and a photographer.
She’d even found her wedding outfit thanks to her daughter, Lauren, taking an unheard of day off and dragging Stella around the local boutiques.
Lauren hadn’t exactly been over the moon about what she considered to be her mother’s all-too-hasty engagement but when it came to practical matters she was laser-focused.
The dress Stella had chosen was pale oyster, it seemed more appropriate at her age than traditional white and Lauren had promptly declared it ‘The One’ in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.
Stella had worn a white dress to marry Ricky – a short satin number she’d plucked from a rack at the back of a second-hand shop.
Ricky had worn his leathers. They’d had a quick registry office ceremony then all gone down to the local pub for sausages and mash.
It hadn’t been the wedding she’d imagined, growing up.
She’d dreamt of the church of Sant’ Agata, floor-length white lace, a bouquet of flowers gathered from the Ligurian hillside, her mother’s wedding veil.
And Gino. She’d even imagined the suit he would wear.
Her family and his would put aside their long-held hostility.
The whole village would be there, even Fernanda.
‘Stella!’ Joe’s voice cut in. ‘Our food’s ready. I thought you were dropping off! Your eyes were closed.’
‘Oh, sorry!’ She scrambled to her feet and took a seat at the kitchen table.
The pasta, as she’d suspected, was limp but Joe had tried and that was what counted.
Once they were married, she’d gently take over the cooking.
She’d make mesciua with chickpeas and grains, veal belly stuffed with vegetables and cheese and she’d chop great green bunches of basil to make bright fresh pesto the way she’d learnt back in the village.
Back in the days when her mother’s kitchen was still a place of energetic endeavour, warmth, joy and love.
She realised he was looking at her expectantly.
‘Delicious,’ she said.
‘I’m glad I decided to cook tonight. I hope this wedding planning isn’t tiring you out.’
She bit back a yawn. ‘No, I’m glad of something to do.’
‘More fun than working in a supermarket.’
Stella smiled weakly. She could hardly believe it when they’d called everyone in to announce the redundancies. They hadn’t even wanted her to work her notice, that was how little they valued her.
‘It’s a blessing in disguise, you know.’ He patted her hand.
The weighty diamond ring glittered under the kitchen spotlights.
It had looked a little out of place with her nylon uniform, but she’d enjoyed working on the till at Save Mart, a fact that mystified Joe, who’d been dropping heavy hints for weeks about cutting her hours.
‘I’ll look for another job,’ Stella said firmly. ‘Just as soon as I’ve finished this wedding admin. Every time I cross something off the list Carol or Lauren think of something else I need to do.’
‘Perhaps I should have whisked you off to Gretna Green.’
‘You could whisk me off anywhere.’ She took a welcome break from the spaghetti to squeeze his hand.
‘Funny you should say that…’
‘Why? Have you booked the honeymoon already?’ They’d talked about the Maldives, Portugal, even a safari.
‘I’ll tell you – show you – after we’ve finished.’ He mopped up the remains of his pasta sauce with a small piece of bread. Conscious her bowl was still half full, Stella chomped through the rest, glad she had a couple of Rennies in her handbag.
He swivelled round and took an envelope from the drawer behind him. She recognised the logo of the high street travel agent at once.
‘Open it.’ He smiled.
She scanned the printed itinerary. So, he had booked their honeymoon.
‘Two weeks in the south of France? How lovely.’
‘Look more closely.’
‘But that’s in less than a week!’ Her voice came out in a squeak. Had he changed the date of the wedding without even asking her? Carol would be furious; she’d booked the two of them in a for a whole raft of hard-to-get hair and beauty appointments.
‘This isn’t our honeymoon, you daft thing. It’s for your birthday. You didn’t really expect us to celebrate your sixtieth down the local Chinese like I said we would? Take a look at the hotel.’ He held out his phone.
She expanded the screen: an exclusive-looking yellow villa with bottle-green shutters perched on a cliff; a terracotta tiled roof; vivid pink bougainvillea cascading down one wall; small tables lit by lanterns on a long terrace.
An infinity pool. Absolutely dreamy. It certainly beat the shiny wallpaper and slightly limp pot plants at the Yin Court.
And a celebratory meal locally hadn’t seemed quite so special once Lauren had cried off to go to some super-important conference in the States.
‘It looks like Italy.’
‘Portofino.’
‘Portofino, of course! I recognise the harbour now.’ She’d seen pictures of the exclusive Ligurian resort, but never visited. Never been back to Italy, save for Florence and Rome, since she’d left. ‘But surely it’s easier to fly into Genoa than Nice.’
‘It’s not a one-destination holiday. We’re going somewhere else first.’ Joe grasped her hands in his. His eyes were shining.
‘Where?’ Stella tried to push down the feeling of dread. She extricated her hand and took another, very large, mouthful of wine.
‘I told the woman in the travel agent’s the name of the little village you came from but she said there weren’t any hotels there.’
Stella let out a breath. No Airbnbs either, she hoped.
‘She told me San Remo was the nearest big town and when she showed me the pictures of the palm trees on the seafront I couldn’t resist booking us in for a few nights. I know you’ve probably been there a million times but I hope you’ll indulge me.’
‘But why do you want to go there?’
He didn’t seem to notice the tremble in her voice.
‘I want to see the area where you grew up. I want to know everything I can about my soon-to-be wonderful wife. I want to share everything with you. Our present, our future and our past.’
Stella swallowed. She knew she should be honest with the man she was marrying. But she couldn’t bear to share her shame.
‘The past’s been and gone,’ she said as breezily as she could muster. ‘It’s our future together that matters.’