Chapter Ten
To give Rosamund her due, the restaurant was lovely.
It was nestled on a tiny street just around the corner from the hotel and the walls were the sort of gorgeous deep slate-blue I’d like to paint my home one day.
Once Nick and I moved out of the apartment he’d bought for himself when he split up with Sophia, that was.
It was a pretty apartment in one of those mansion blocks St John’s Wood was famous for, and it was definitely bigger than the studio flat I had been living in.
But still, it felt like his, not ours. And all the walls were white.
We hung our coats on a stand and followed a waiter to our table.
The lighting was low (just how I liked it) and the vibe was young, trendy and casual.
Rosamund had on three strings of huge, shiny (presumably real) pearls which she’d placed conspicuously over a black silk blouse.
The look was finished off by diamond earrings that looked so heavy I was concerned for the welfare of her lobes.
As usual, I felt like the bargain-basement member of the family.
Even Daisy had let me down this time in her chic and flowy boho dress, most likely from Anthropologie – another shop I was perennially walking into and promptly walking out of when I saw the price tags.
We were already two drinks in when our mains came.
I’d found this menu much more user-friendly than the one in the hotel restaurant – for a start there was an English translation for each dish.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated languages and when I travelled, I liked to get to know the basics: hello, goodbye, thank you, please, where is the bathroom?
That sort of thing. But you couldn’t know every item on a menu, could you?
And there was always the possibility – in Italy, but elsewhere in the world, too – that I could end up eating something I’d rather not.
I knew they were big on rabbit here, for example, and had purposely looked the word up so that I could avoid it: coniglia (feminine) and coniglio (masculine).
Which one you used when it came to a menu, I had no idea, and since I had no intention of eating a meal that used to be a living, breathing fluffy bunny, it really didn’t matter.
A waiter put my margherita pizza on the table in front of me, followed by the melanzane alla parmigiana that Nick and I were planning to share. It looked out of this world, all sizzling cheese and crispy edges; I was practically salivating.
‘This looks amazing,’ I said enthusiastically, inhaling the aroma of basil and tomato.
Rosamund, of course, had managed to find the most pretentious-sounding thing on essentially a quite non-pretentious menu.
‘Anyone else go for the beef carpaccio with Tuscan sheep’s cheese and black truffle?’ she asked, as though ordering this weird-sounding dish made her the envy of every single person in the restaurant.
I had a quick glance around and noticed that most people, like me, had gone for pizza.
‘I did, Rosamund,’ said Sophia, who was seated opposite me. ‘Oooh, here’s mine. Yum.’
The waiter laid her plate down in front of her. Personally, I thought mine looked about a hundred times more appetising.
I began slicing up my pizza, not able to wait to dig in.
‘So Maddie was introduced to the delights of David, today,’ announced Nick, throwing his arm casually around my shoulders.
‘Isn’t he magnificent!’ gushed Sophia theatrically.
‘He is,’ I agreed, annoyingly imagining David with Aidan standing next to him.
I removed the thought from my mind immediately.
‘We’ll have you fully cultured by the end of this trip, Maddie, don’t you worry,’ said Rosamund.
I’d be interested to hear Rosamund’s definition of ‘fully cultured’.
‘Mummy,’ warned Nick. ‘Maddie is a seasoned traveller. She doesn’t need lessons in culture from us.’
‘Oh I know, darling, but there’s always room to learn more. Right, Maddie?’
I happened to have a mouthful of (delicious) pizza right at that very moment and there were an agonising ten seconds or so where I chewed manically while everyone stared at me. I swallowed, washing it down with a glug of water.
‘Absolutely. That’s part of travelling, I think. Immersing yourself in the lifestyle,’ I said, deciding it was best to overlook Rosamund’s patronising tone on this occasion.
Who was I kidding? I found people patronising all the time and never pulled them up on it.
Tim was the worst offender. But Rosamund was scarier than everyone at work put together, so I was hardly going to use this as an opportunity to suddenly start standing up for myself.
And yet, for some reason, it felt more difficult to keep it inside.
Tim might be less than complimentary about my work, but I could take that, it wasn’t personal.
Plus he was an arsehole to everybody. But it was like Rosamund knew exactly how to push my buttons – I was sure it was unintentional, but for some reason didn’t make it any easier.
‘Remind us, Maddie. Where is it you’re from?’ asked Rosamund, poking about in her weird mound of sheep’s cheese.
Oh no. Not this. Not now.
I took a sip of wine, hoping she’d give up and move on to another topic if I paused long enough, but they were all looking at me again, waiting with bated breath for my answer.
‘Kent,’ I said, keeping it light.
I would give them the benefit of the doubt that this was what they meant.
‘Yes, but where are you from? Originally?’
I’d had the same question time and time again over the years and it never got any easier. I think it was the utter disbelief that got to me, the self-righteousness of thinking I wouldn’t know where I was from and had clearly made some sort of mistake.
‘I’m not sure what you mean, Rosamund?’ I said, feigning confusion.
‘Well. I mean. Where are your …’
She was floundering. Good.
‘… family from?’ she finally concluded.
‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ I said, still feeling like playing devil’s advocate. ‘My mum’s from Kent, too,’ I replied, smiling at her.
Rosamund nodded, clearly undeterred. ‘And your dad?’
‘St Lucia.’
‘Ah!’ she said, all triumphant, like she’d finally got it out of me. ‘That’s what I meant!’
Yep. Course it was.
I took another mouthful of pizza, trying to enjoy it as much as I had been before, but the relaxed feeling I’d had a few moments before was gone now.
‘What time’s the tour tomorrow, Rosamund?’ piped up Sophia, completely oblivious to the fact that I felt as though I’d just had the life sucked out of me.
‘Mum, do I have to go on this wine-tasting thing?’ asked Daisy. ‘Can’t I stay at the hotel and watch YouTube in our room?’
‘No you cannot,’ snapped Sophia. ‘You can watch YouTube back in London. It’s beautiful out in the Tuscan countryside. Why don’t you bring a sketch pad, or something? Or take some photos?’
‘What, while you lot chug wine all day? Hardly seems fair,’ argued Daisy.
I thought she had a good point, actually.
Why would she want to come on a wine-tasting tour when she was too young to actually taste any of it?
I was tempted to say I’d stay behind and take her to a gallery or something, but I knew this was the highlight of the trip for Rosamund. I ought to show willing.
‘The concierge said to be in the foyer at 8.30,’ said Rosamund, ignoring Daisy.
‘A.M.?’ I said, to clarify.
‘Too early for you, Maddie?’ asked Peter.
‘She’s an early riser, Dad, so hardly,’ said Nick.
Rosamund called over the waiter to order another large glass of red wine for her and Peter. Everyone else had barely touched theirs. I supposed it was their anniversary, they were clearly celebrating. But her eyes were already looking quite glassy.
‘Can I at least have some wine then? If I have to go?’ said Daisy, not giving up.
‘You can have a sip or two,’ replied Nick. ‘The laws out here are much more relaxed.’
Sophia glared at him. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Nick? You know what she’s like, she’ll get a taste for it. Next thing, she’ll be swigging cider out of paper bags on park benches.’
‘She won’t, Sophia. Give her some credit,’ said Nick.
I squeezed his knee. I loved it when he stood up for Daisy. God, the poor girl needed somebody on her side.
‘I’m glad one of my parents doesn’t think I’m a complete fuck-up,’ said Daisy.
‘Now, now,’ said Rosamund. ‘We don’t use that sort of language.’
I could have sworn Rosamund was slurring her words. We’d met them in the hotel bar, so it was anyone’s guess how much they’d had to drink before Nick and I had arrived.
‘I just don’t see why I have to go!’ said Daisy. ‘Who takes a fourteen-year-old on a wine-tasting tour?’
‘Daisy, that’s enough!’ snapped Sophia. ‘It is your grandmother and grandfather’s wedding anniversary and you will do whatever they ask you to do.’
My strained relationship with my own parents seemed quite manageable in comparison to this.
Mind you, that was probably because I rarely argued back and I admired Daisy, actually, for having a go.
There were some advantages, I supposed, to having had my mum and dad split up and have new families when I was very young.
For a start, they were generally so preoccupied with their new lives that neither of them cared much what I was doing.
It made sneaking out to parties and smoking in the park so much easier to get away with.
On the other hand, it also made you feel kind of alone and pretty much invisible, which wasn’t exactly the best thing, either.
That feeling of constantly falling under the radar, of never really making an impact, was a difficult one to shake.
‘Daisy,’ crooned Nick, ‘calm down. It’s just for a few hours.’
‘Six. Six hours, Grandma said!’
‘OK, then, it’s just six hours. Shall we do something nice before we go? Have a bit of a walk? We could have an early breakfast together in San Spirito. I think you’d like it there.’