Chapter 14 Sophie
S OPHIE
The last of the diners left over an hour ago and the kitchen is so clean, it’s gleaming. Sophie throws her dirty apron in the wicker linen basket in the corner of the huge walk-in pantry.
Rocco seals the lid on a plastic takeaway container packed to the brim with leftover white bean soup and, with a permanent marker, he labels it before piling it on top of containers of eggplant parmigiana.
‘What do you do with the leftovers?’ she asks him.
‘This we freeze, then on Sunday we take the frozen food to church. The nuns distribute it to families who need it. Every week we take maybe twenty-five, thirty containers.’ He shrugs one shoulder. ‘It’s not much, but better than nothing, eh?’
‘It’s a lot better than nothing. I’ve seen so much waste in other restaurants, this is fantastic.’ She watches him squat to load the containers into the freezer, thinking he just got a tiny bit hotter with his humanitarian goodwill on top of that sexy butt.
He slams the freezer door shut and stands up, reaching into the pocket of his tight pants to pull out a fat wad of cash. ‘Take this, Sophie. It is not enough for all of your help today, but it is at least something.’
She laughs and waves it away. ‘I don’t want your money! Put that away.’
‘Okay, then wait one second.’ He walks out into the restaurant, returning with the jar of tips. He slides it on the bench towards her. ‘You have been here working for over twelve hours. This is yours.’
‘No, the tips are for us all to share.’
‘Not today. Today it is yours. It is not just me who says so, the others insist as well. Apart from all your help cooking and serving and cleaning, if you were not here to translate, what would we have done with the Scottish guests tonight, eh? Not one word I understood! So fast the man talks, och aye, och aye . What is he even saying? Mamma-mia!’ He flings his arms around.
‘I did some work in Glasgow.’ She laughs. ‘I had the best time today. I feel like I should be the one paying you for letting me be a part of it.’
Even though they’d been under the pump with barely a minute to rest from morning until the final dish had been cleaned this evening, she’d loved every minute of working in the Bianchi kitchen. As well as the delightful Scottish couple, she’d had fun chatting with other tourists and some of the locals this evening. There hadn’t been a single complaint about Signora Bianchi’s absence.
It didn’t hurt that the food was to die for. Sophie had been dazzled by Rocco in the kitchen, blown away by the skill with which he’d sliced dozens of eggplants so finely and salted them with a speed that had to be seen to be believed. Then he’d created the most perfect seasoning for the bean soup, with the genius touch of adding a splash of soy sauce to the pot – not something she’d have expected in an Italian kitchen. What she’d imagined might be a rather dull entrée had in fact been mouth-watering.
‘Is this your mother’s recipe?’ she’d asked him when he fed her a mouthful of parmigiana sauce bursting with basil and oregano.
‘No, this is something I throw together just now. Mamma would kill me for using dried herbs. But she is not here, so I cheat.’ He’d grinned.
Once Rocco heard from Signora Bianchi, just before lunch, that his father had finally agreed to have the heart surgery, which has now been scheduled for two days’ time, he was so buoyed by the news that he sang along (hilariously tunelessly) with the radio to English songs Sophie knew and Italian ones she didn’t.
‘I’m the only Venetian man in history who cannot sing,’ he announced proudly, dancing around the kitchen to Taylor Swift. ‘My papà could have been a professional singer if he wanted, and Mamma and Marina have the voices of angels. They all want to die of shame when they hear me sing.’
‘This is correct. Please stop, my ears are bleeding,’ Marina had quipped as she walked past.
While they worked, Rocco had regaled Sophie with stories of past hotel guests and restaurant mishaps, like the politician who’d brought his mistress out for dinner only to be met by his wife who, thinking he was away, had snuck a night out with her lover. Or the story of the day a distracted Signore Bianchi had mistaken the mayonnaise for custard and filled all the pastries with it, narrowly escaping death by rolling pin when Signora Bianchi had discovered his error. Rocco had her laughing until she was drying her eyes. But best of all, he hadn’t probed into her personal life or her past, not even a little bit.
His cousin Salvatore had been with them all day too. He was a sweet and easygoing kid, quite shy. He hadn’t spoken much, but his English was perfectly fluent just like the others.
Rocco had ribbed Salvatore mercilessly about a new girl appearing on his Instagram feed lately, and he’d taken the teasing with a smile.
Marina had kept to herself for most of the day; she’d been as quiet as Rocco had been extroverted, and she’d spent long periods of time glued to the phone and computer on the reception desk, looking terribly busy and important.
Salvatore’s sister, Chiara, who was just as stunning as Marina, had been in and out between the kitchen and reception all day too, but she had a more relaxed nature than Marina. Which wasn’t all that surprising. A person hurtling towards the ground with a parachute that refused to open would be more relaxed than Marina, whose movements had been fast and twitchy, and she’d barely cracked a smile, despite Sophie twisting herself into knots trying to get her to engage.
Sophie had even pulled out the big guns with anecdotes about celebrity chefs, like how Jamie Oliver’s wife, Jules, had dropped in to visit him at work and how Jamie had run to Jules and lifted her up as if he hadn’t seen her in months, making everyone swoon. And how Yotam Ottolenghi, after a day in the kitchen, had invited her back to his home, where he’d cooked the most amazing lamb meatballs that they had eaten wrapped in fresh pita bread, while sitting on outdoor ottomans by the pool with a few of his friends who had spontaneously stopped by.
Marina couldn’t have cared less.
Why do you need her to like you?
Who cares?
Bec had replied when Sophie had messaged her in the afternoon to bitch about it.
Because I need EVERYONE to like me.
It’s my toxic trait, you know that.
I thought your toxic trait was waking up on time but then staying in bed until you’re running late.
So I have two toxic traits.
What are you, the toxic trait police?
What about how you always ask for advice and then never follow it?
Shut up
Sophie has thirteen days left in this hotel and she’s going to crack that uptight Italian chick if it kills her.
Marina has already left the hotel tonight to go and see her parents at the hospital and Rocco’s about to join her. He turns off the kitchen lights and together, he and Sophie leave the kitchen. She’s desperate for a good lie-down.
Rocco leaves the concertina doors of the restaurant open and keeps the fairy lights in the trees switched on. ‘Sometimes the guests come down at night to eat the leftover cakes and pastries we leave out on the table,’ he explains.
Sophie thinks there’s a very strong likelihood she’ll be one such guest.
‘Have a good night, Sophie. Thank you again. You are an angel – a very beautiful and clever Australian angel.’ He picks up her hand when they’re out in the lobby and plants a soft kiss on it, smiling at her sheepishly over his glasses, turning her insides to mush.
They head in opposite directions, he for the front door and she for the stairs leading up to her suite.
The second she’s in her room, she reaches inside the sleeves of her dress to unclip her bra, breathing a sigh of relief. Two minutes later, she’s in her 101 Dalmatians pyjamas sprawled out on the bed, counting out the contents of the tips jar. She’s surprised to find it adds up to over two hundred euro. So much for Bec thinking she was being taken advantage of.
Instead of working on her feature like she’s supposed to, she instead browses the vintage-style dresses saved to her Pinterest board named Shit I don’t need but v much want.
A few minutes later, there’s a gentle knock at the door.
‘Just a second!’ She slips a robe over her pyjamas and opens the door to find a smiling Rocco. He’s holding a silver tray with a pot of tea and two blueberry and lemon shortcake biscuits from the breakfast buffet.
‘You’re not legally contracted to bring me sweets every night, you know.’ She laughs.
‘To say thank you for all the help.’ He beams at her.
‘That’s so kind of you. I’ve been eyeing off those biscuits all day. Come in.’ She scoops a pile of clothes off the armchair and gestures for him to sit.
‘No, no, I am not staying. I only wanted to bring you the tea.’
‘I thought you were going to the hospital.’
‘I bumped into Mamma and Marina outside on the steps. Papà is asleep, so Mamma has come home to be in her own bed tonight. Yesterday she slept in a chair.’
‘Poor thing, she must be so exhausted.’
‘Yes.’
They fall into silence. Feeling awkward standing there, saying nothing, Sophie points at the painting of the Pope. ‘Do you ever feel like his eyes are following you?’
He turns to look at it. ‘All the time. Be careful, Sophie. Don’t misbehave under the eyes of il Papa, eh?’ He catches her eye and she feels herself redden.
What’s the score with this guy? She’s been watching him all day and has seen how gentle and kind he is with everyone he comes across. But he isn’t vanilla like some of the other men she’s known, who are lovely but have the personality of a brick. He’s funny and enigmatic, and he’s sexy as hell in his own sweet way, how he lopes around with his long legs, and his messy hair and those enormous honey-coloured eyes that are always smiling behind his glasses. Even the smell of his aftershave turns her on.
It also became more and more obvious to her during their conversations throughout the day that he’s single, so there has to be a catch. There’s always a catch. What skeletons are you hiding, Rocco?
‘I should go and see if Mamma needs anything,’ he says.
She watches him as he leaves, taking in his toned butt in the tight black pants for at least the tenth time today. Whatever Rocco’s story is, he’s definitely hot.
Back in her room, the shortbread is beyond delicious and the tea is brewed to perfection, making her crush even harder on him, a man who can make perfect tea!
Once she’s finished, she slides on her ugg boots and walks down to the kitchen. There, she finds a sponge under the sink to give the tray a quick wipe down and then she washes and dries the crockery. As she puts everything away in the right drawers, she smiles at how at home she already feels in this kitchen.
When she heads back up the stairs, a man’s coming down them. He’s gorgeous . Hemsworth-level gorgeous. He smiles at her when they make eye contact.
‘Hiya! How’s it going?’ She smiles back at him, wishing she was in something more glamorous than baggy sleepwear.
‘Oh, hey, another Aussie!’ He stops when they reach the same step. He’s tall and built with wavy dark hair that falls in soft waves to his shoulders, which she instinctively wants to reach out and stroke. His eyes are a deep blue, his jaw so chiselled it could grate cheese.
‘I’m heading out to see that Venice Rising exhibit,’ he says. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Not yet, no. I want to, though.’
‘I’m looking for the ones that light up at night.’
‘Enjoy! Let me know what they’re like tomorrow. I’ll be working in the restaurant.’
‘For sure, I will, yeah. I’m Christian, by the way. And you?’
Excellent, I’ve found myself a religious nut on the staircase. Typical. ‘Oh, sorry, I’m not really interested in religion, thanks.’
He laughs a big laugh. ‘No, I mean my name’s Christian.’
She slaps her head. ‘Shit. Ugh, I’m such an idiot. I’m Sophie.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He’s still smiling. ‘Thanks for the laugh, Sophie. I promise I’m not going to pull out a Watchtower mag from my back pocket.’ This time he holds her eye for a fraction longer.
It’s long enough for her to recognise something in him. Something that makes Sophie’s gut tighten, not in a good way. For reasons she can’t explain, that gorgeous smile of his doesn’t feel so innocent any more. Her own smile disappears as his electric eyes on her feel more penetrative than friendly. Two words come crashing strong and hard into Sophie’s head. Aggressive mimicry . This guy’s looks are there to lure his prey. Of that she’s one hundred per cent certain.
‘Well, I’m off to bed. Have a good night,’ she says quickly. She jogs up the stairs, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder, even though she’s positive he’s watching her.
‘You too, hey?’ he calls out.
She doesn’t answer him.
As soon as she reaches the first floor, the lift bell dings and the doors open. She jumps, her breath catching, expecting him to walk out of the lift, thinking he’s followed her up here.
She exhales when an elderly man, who’s short and round and who, like her, is also dressed in pyjamas, steps out of the lift with a smile.
‘Buonasera, signora!’ He throws his arms in the air with flair.
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was Signore Bianchi. He looks just like the photos she’s seen of him, an older George Costanza.
‘Buonasera,’ she says before quickly walking to her suite.
She fumbles with the key card and closes the door behind her, checking twice that it’s locked. The man on the staircase has made pins and needles race up and down her spine. She’s never had such a visceral aversion to someone before, and she only hopes that the whole aggressive mimicry gig he’s got going on hasn’t been successful in luring someone to prey on.
But men like that always get what they want, don’t they? Who is this man’s victim, then? There has to be one.