Chapter 5
That night, after making up the beds in the two other rooms upstairs, next to the small, basic bathroom, we sit outside at the table under the big fig tree.
I’ve found a candle, pushed it into a dusty old wine bottle from under the sink and light it to try to keep the mosquitoes away as we eat the delicious lasagne.
Layers of pasta and béchamel sauce, with a rich, tomatoey ragù .
But there’s far too much for the three of us.
‘Any more?’ I ask the children.
Luca accepts a second helping, but Aimee is full.
‘We have plenty left,’ I say.
‘We could eat it for breakfast,’ giggles Aimee, and makes Mr Fluffy’s head bounce up and down as if he’s agreeing.
‘Or save it for tomorrow evening,’ Luca says sensibly.
We put the remainder into a dish from the dresser and into the noisy fridge, which sounds like a small aircraft revving up to take off. I wash the dish it came in and wonder what to do with it.
‘We’ll dry up!’ says Aimee, making me smile. ‘We all have to help because Papa isn’t here. Mr Fluffy says so.’
I look at where I can imagine Marco, smiling at the children from a chair he’s pulled up to the table, sipping a glass of red wine.
Maybe being here for the summer wouldn’t be so bad after all. Marco’s here with me, or so it feels, and that’s all I need.
I head back into the garden where our friendly neighbour cat is lounging in the cooler evening air. I sit at the table in the overgrown garden with the view over the fields and hedges below.
‘Mum?’ Luca comes into the garden.
‘Yes, lovely?’
He’s carrying something. Something that looks a lot like a dish with a tea-towel over it. I frown in the dusky light. ‘What’s that?’
‘A woman just came to the door. I answered. She asked if Papa was here and gave me this.’
I peer at the dish he’s holding, then stand up and join him. ‘Who was it?’
‘Said her name was Lucia. She asked to speak to Papa.’
‘What did you say?’
He swallows. ‘That he wasn’t here.’ He lowers his head. ‘I thanked her for the dish, in Italian. Dad would have liked that.’
‘He would,’ I say softly. I take the dish from him and carry it inside to the kitchen table where I pull back the tea-towel to reveal golden-brown pasta with béchamel sauce. ‘It’s another,’ I say to the children, whose eyes widen. ‘Another lasagne!’
‘We can’t eat all this!’ squeaks Aimee.
‘We could try,’ says Luca, eyeing the lasagne warily.
‘Mr Fluffy has a full tummy too, but he’ll try.’
‘Let’s have a bit, just to be polite. The fridge is already fairly full and I don’t want them seeing it in our bin and thinking we’re ungrateful.’
We sit at the kitchen table, each grab a spoon and take a mouthful, chewing slowly.
‘Interesting. Different from the last,’ I say.
‘Meatier,’ says Luca.
‘Different kind of meat in the sauce, I think.’
‘Mr Fluffy’s full!’ Aimee sits back on her chair, holding her stomach.
‘That’s fine, lovely. We’ll put it in the fridge for tomorrow.’
‘With the rest of the other one,’ Luca says seriously, and grins.
‘Yes,’ I join in. ‘If only we had a freezer.’
‘Mr Fluffy is tired,’ says Aimee.
‘Well, in that case, he should go to bed. Why don’t you take him upstairs and show him the beds we made today in the other bedrooms, so you and Mr Fluffy can have your own room?’
‘Mr Fluffy would rather share with Luca. There’s two single beds in there.’
‘That’s fine too,’ I say. I don’t want to rush her. ‘Now off you go.’
I stand up and squeeze the dish into the now quite full fridge.
‘I’ll check on Aimee and Mr Fluffy,’ says Luca. ‘Read them a story.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m reminded that he’s taken on a more responsible role than other eleven-year-old boys.
I pour a glass of wine and stroll out to the garden.
I sit down, with a pen and my refillable notebook that Marco gave me when we had the restaurant idea, and begin to write a list. What to do?
Where to start? Just like I’ve always done when I’m at a crossroads, I make a priority list. I run my hand over the notebook that never left my side when I was running the restaurant, making orders for suppliers, lists of jobs to do, and in the pocket on the inside cover, the postcards Marco sent me from places he was visiting as a chef for touring bands and we hatched the plan for our own place, the dream.
In my mind, Marco has followed me into the garden and sat on the other side of the table I put there, gazing at the view. Just as he told me it would be: the two of us, either side of the table, in the candlelight. The evening is sultry and I can feel him, hear him.
‘Okay, let’s get this list sorted,’ I say to myself.
Clear out the rubbish. Find the dump. Clean. Paint. Get an estate agent to value it. Sell and move home before school starts again. Find a job.
I put down my pen, pick up my glass, take a sip of wine and stare at the sky, the slowly setting sun a huge ball of fire, streaking the horizon with orange and gold. I breathe in deeply.
‘Well, I think I know why you chose this place, Marco. This view … and the price, of course. It’s beautiful. I just wish you were really here to see it and enjoy it.’
A knock at the front door startles me, catapulting me out of my daydream. I stand up quickly, hoping Aimee hasn’t woken if she was asleep. I hurry in through the back door and run through the kitchen, past the clean lasagne dish on the table.
‘Let’s hope it’s not another!’ I say aloud, and laugh. Then, cautiously, I open the heavy front door.