Chapter 30
It turns out that Constanza is right; the pesto they make together that afternoon is unlike any pesto Tilly has ever tasted. Her mouth waters as they chop basil and mix in grated Parmesan and a hearty glug of extra virgin olive oil, made from the olive trees that surround the farmhouse.
‘Now, we add a pinch of salt,’ says Constanza. ‘Show me your “pinch”.’
Tilly helps herself to a few grains from the painted ceramic bowl in the centre. Harper takes a slightly bigger pinch. Constanza looks around the group, shaking her head. ‘No, no. This is a pinch!’ And she scoops a large mound of salt using all her fingers.
Tilly meets Harper’s eye and they both smile. Tilly scans her sister’s face like she has been doing regularly throughout the afternoon but Harper looks away, turning her attention back to her pestle and mortar.
‘I could eat this with a spoon,’ says Deborah, who is stood the other side of Tilly. ‘Who even needs the pasta?’
‘Ah, but you haven’t tasted your pasta yet,’ says Constanza.
The pasta dough comes out of the fridge and Constanza hands out rolling pins.
It’s hard work rolling the dough, but there’s something satisfying about seeing it stretch into a thin sheet.
Beside her Tilly can hear the occasional pound as Harper hits her rolling pin against the dough with more vigour than is probably necessary.
Constanza shows them how to cut the pasta into long strips. ‘Today we make tagliatelle. Tomorrow is ravioli and spaghetti.’
Constanza gets everyone to carry over their piles of flour-dusted pasta as she heats up an enormous vat of water, reaching for a box of table salt and pouring for a long time. ‘You need to taste the Mediterranean Sea in your pasta water.’
Once the pasta is ready, they all help lay a long table under the olive trees, a white tablecloth fluttering in the breeze, weighted down by jugs of sunflowers. Bottles of Chianti Classico are placed in the middle and Tilly pours for everyone, with an especially generous serving for Harper.
As Tilly sets down a bowl of salad, she sneaks a glimpse of Harper’s phone over her sister’s shoulder.
Harper is scrolling rapidly, faces flashing by on the screen.
Tilly instantly recognizes the dating app from when Rachel asked Tilly to write her profile.
Tilly teased her about the fact that a ghostwriter was asking someone to ghostwrite her dating page.
Before Tilly can get a proper look, Harper slips her phone back into her pocket and spins around with a smile. ‘What else can I help with?’
Tilly knows that she should give Harper space, that her sister will talk when she is ready. But she can’t help wondering whether the reason Harper is putting on this faux happy front is because of Tilly. Because Harper doesn’t want to burden her.
‘Dinner is ready!’ says Constanza, waving a tea towel with a flourish.
Plates are passed along the table, filled with huge piles of fresh pasta smothered in vivid green pesto and showerings of Parmesan. The air smells of basil, wine and hot earth.
‘Buon appetito,’ declares Constanza, and they all dig in.
From the first mouthful Tilly knows she will never eat pesto from a jar again.
‘Wow, this is delicious,’ says Tiff. ‘We thought about having pasta at our wedding but my mum said you couldn’t serve pasta at a wedding, didn’t she, Tim?’
Tim looks up, mouth full of pasta, and nods.
‘When did you get married?’ Tilly asks, scooping another heap of pasta on to her fork.
‘A month ago,’ says Tiff, fiddling with her large sapphire and diamond engagement ring and shiny platinum wedding band.
‘I can’t believe it’s already been a month!’ says Tim.
‘We got married back home in Colorado but we’re travelling through Europe for our honeymoon. Are either of you two married?’
Under the table Tilly’s thumb reaches instinctively for her ring finger, only to remember that she took her wedding ring off for the pasta making and forgot to put it on again after her siesta. When she glances up, Harper is looking at her, a strained expression on her face.
‘No, we’re not,’ Tilly says quickly. ‘Now, tell us more about your wedding.’
As Tiff and Tim launch into a detailed description of the floral arrangements and what everyone wore, Tilly nods along, trying her best to look interested. Harper nudges Tilly’s knee with her own beneath the table.
The rest of the evening passes smoothly, wine bottles passed back and forth and home-made raspberry and pistachio semifreddo carried out once the pasta plates have all been scraped clean.
Throughout the meal Tilly sneaks glances at her sister.
She chats animatedly with the others in the group, telling them about her job and the article she is writing about experiential holidays.
To anyone else she must appear her usual chatty self.
But Tilly isn’t just anyone; she’s her sister.
And now she knows to look for them, all the signs are clear that there’s something going on.