Chapter 13
Before
Kasie on holiday was the opposite of Kasie at home. On holiday she stopped being high-functioning and practical and melted into something completely boneless and ineffectual.
‘I’m so relaxed right now,’ she’d say, while glacially trailing me through a packed airport. When we’d arrived on the other side, she’d put on her sunglasses and query, ‘Where are we staying?’ while I’d handle transfers, foreign currency, hotel check-ins.
We went to Tuscany, slightly off season, two years in a row.
The trips were predictable and perfect. We lounged by the pool, both too precious about our hair to do anything other than dangle our legs in the water, and went on walks through small towns, taking turns posing in front of buildings for photos.
We stayed up late laughing about things neither of us could remember in the morning and made increasingly ridiculous excuses to visit reception because we both liked the guy who worked behind the desk.
I’d use the Chat app intensely for weeks before we’d go and once we were there it was easier to pick up nuances, slang and strange turns of phrase from locals.
Like the boys who had pouted when we didn’t want to drink with them; ‘Una guastafesta,’ they’d grumbled at us.
For the rest of that day, I’d shouted ‘Una guastafesta’ at Kasie when she put a hand over the top of her wineglass, when she didn’t want to play rummy with me, when she wanted to visit yet another church.
‘Tuscany has over two hundred and fifty churches,’ I told her as we walked through a small town on the shady side of the street.
Kasie threaded her arm through mine and squeezed. ‘Which means you’re never far away from talking to God.’
There was a lot of talking to God on those trips, Kasie sitting in a pew with her eyes closed, only opening them to fire dirty looks at tourists who would noisily clatter about, taking photographs.
I’d mostly stand at the back, pretending to be interested in Romanesque architecture, though sometimes I’d sit in a pew and observe her.
I knew each of her micro-expressions and when she was in church, her face would soften, and her mouth would marginally turn up.
We never spoke about her relationship with religion, because it was a fundamental part of her I could never understand.
On our final night we got a cab forty minutes away to a traditional restaurant the receptionist had suggested.
When we arrived, it was all red checked tablecloths, rustic copper pots on the walls and garlic garlands dangling from the ceiling.
‘This is a tourist trap,’ Kasie grumbled, knocking her head against my shoulder.
‘I kind of love it.’
‘I thought it was going to be authentic.’
‘It’s cute. And look –’ I pointed over to where two women in long red skirts were setting up a band – ‘they’re going to dance the tarantella.’ Kasie raised her hands in wonder. ‘How do you know that’s what it’s called?’
‘Are we going to dance?’
‘I ain’t dancing.’
Kasie hated dancing in public. In public she was all unbobbed head and stiff shoulders, while at home she blasted everything from Cardi B to Barbra Streisand and danced in a way that was infectious.
‘Una guas—’
She raised a palm in warning. ‘If you call me a spoilsport one more time, I’ll make you come to church with me in the morning.’
Surprisingly the food was amazing, and we both agreed the lasagne was the best we’d ever had. Kasie interrogated one of the waiters about how they made it and was given a hint about the ragu being made with sautéed asparagus.
Una guastafesta became something we took home with us, something that outlasted the biscotti we decided didn’t taste as nice once back home and the bottle of limoncello, which Kasie gradually used up in lemon meringue pies.
And Una guastafesta was what she said when making her asparagus ragu for lasagne.
‘You’re not using that term in the right context anymore,’ I told her.
She growled at the large pot of red sauce. ‘Why can’t I get it right?’
‘Your ragu?’ I moved next to her at the hob as if I could help. ‘Smells nice.’
‘It’s too thick.’ She gave it a stir. ‘Why am I not Italian? I was born the wrong nationality.’
‘Let me taste it.’
‘No. It’s terrible. Tastes like Dolmio.’
I swiped a finger to try some. ‘This is good, what are you talking about?’
Her face fell. ‘It’s nothing like what we had in the restaurant that night.’
‘It doesn’t have to taste the same. I like this better.’
She glanced down at her pink notepad where she scribbled her recipes in what looked like another language but was actually just her terrible handwriting. ‘This has already taken me two hours,’ she whined, ‘so enjoy, because I’m never making it again.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said, spooning the sauce into a pitta. ‘Because I’d happily have this sauce with bread for dinner.’
Kasie watched me and simpered. ‘I can’t believe I went to all this effort to make you yet another sandwich.’
‘Oh my God,’ I laughed. ‘This is why I love you; you’ve just invented my dream meal.’