Chapter Twenty-Two
Stephen
The food was good. I had stone-oven-baked eggs with ratatouille, and Elle went for ricotta hotcakes with raspberries that made the pale pink of her lips darker.
We followed Elle’s plan and the waitress fetched the manager afterwards who also happened to be the owner.
He was a small man, balding, with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose.
He dabbed frequently at his forehead with a spotted handkerchief but was very pleased to hear the compliments on the food.
‘How long have you owned this place, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Elle was on her second glass of wine, legs crossed, leaning forward, all eager interest. If he was getting the view down her cleavage that I couldn’t help imagining, it was no wonder he was overheating.
‘I bought it from my wife’s brother. Twenty five years ago.’
‘Was that how you met your wife?’
He shook his head. ‘We both worked here before that. As youngsters. I cooked. She served. Her brother wasn’t keen on us dating but…’ He gave an expansive shrug. ‘Love is love.’ He smiled between Elle and I, as though he thought we were a couple.
‘So true. Nothing can stop it.’ Elle gave me the kind of smile smitten people usually send their partner’s way and reached out for my hand, acting up to it.
Her fingers were cool from the wine glass, slender but sure as they curled around mine.
A swooping sensation cascaded through my chest the same way it had at the bar when she’d clung to me.
I’d dismissed it then as relief but this time I didn’t have such a convenient excuse and I was torn between the impulse to clasp her hand tighter and retreat rapidly.
‘Your story sounds so romantic.’ She turned her attention back to the owner.
No, it didn’t. It sounded like the normal start to a relationship and awkward for his brother-in-law. If it went wrong, he would’ve had to sack his chef. Or kill him – depending on how wrong it went.
‘So, did you buy the place to woo her?’
‘Not entirely.’ He pulled up a chair from the empty table next to us.
Elle had worked her magic and drawn him in to telling us his story.
‘My brother-in-law’s wife wanted to move back to Italy.
She didn’t like it here. He wanted to make her happy but didn’t want to sell to someone who might lay off all the staff – my wife included.
I borrowed some money and he sold it to me. Then I asked my Isabella to marry me.’
‘That’s wonderful. Does your wife still work here now?’
‘No. She helps me with the accounts, but she has her own business. One of these internet things.’
‘What an entrepreneurial family!’
‘It’s the American way.’
‘Have you ever had anyone English work here? We’re looking for someone and heard he worked at a restaurant in Little Italy, probably around the time you took over? As a delivery driver.’
‘That’s a long time ago.’ He wiped his forehead again. I wanted to borrow his handkerchief and mop my own brow. Elle still hadn’t let go of my hand and I was beginning to feel like there was only one area of my body with nerve endings. ‘Why are you looking for him?’
‘He was a friend of my mother’s. She left some money to him in her will,’ I jumped in with the explanation to attempt to focus my mind on something else.
‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry to hear your mother has passed on.’ He gave me the kind, sad smile I was familiar with. ‘My dear mama left us only a couple of years ago.’ He sighed and sent a kiss up to heaven. ‘What was his name?’
‘Trevor Moorcroft. I have a photo, too.’
He released a heavy breath. ‘You know, my wife would be able to help more. I have a terrible memory for names and faces, whereas she never forgets a thing. Wonderful for situations like this – not so much when we are arguing.’ He laughed and Elle joined in, her smile lighting her up.
‘May we speak to her?’
‘Let me call up. See if she’s free. Just a moment.’
As soon as he went through the door into the restaurant, I pulled my hand from hers.
She frowned at me. ‘OK, OK, I don’t have cooties.’
‘Was the hand-holding really necessary?’
‘I was just trying to make us more relatable – less like we come from a government department.’
‘Don’t worry - I gathered there was an ulterior motive,’ I responded dryly. She straightened her back like she was getting ready to respond but the restaurant owner hurried out of the door again.
‘She said, yes. Of course. She’s upstairs, fiddling with her website.
Come.’ He led us through the restaurant, all the way out the back where there was an alleyway for dumpsters and deliveries.
We followed him up a fire escape, our footsteps clanging on the metal.
I kept my eyes on Elle’s bottom swaying enticingly as she walked before me, until I could see their front door.
There were worse ways to distract myself from heights.
All the windows were open inside their large apartment, net curtains restless in the breeze.
An older woman with dark hair, one streak of steel running through it, sat at a small kitchen table, concentrating on a MacBook.
She had a pot of coffee next to her and when her husband introduced us, she motioned to the wooden chairs opposite and poured us each a mug.
Her husband went to sit down but she shooed him away.
‘You’re busy, Luca – go back to the restaurant.
You know you don’t remember anything further back than last week.
’ He obediently agreed and we thanked him before he went.
‘Now, Trevor Moorcroft, you say?’ She took the photo from me and smiled.
‘Oh yes. I do remember him. He didn’t stay with us too long, a year or so.
Broke a couple of the waitresses’ hearts and then he moved on. ’
I didn’t know if I should feel any better that his “love ’em and leave ’em” attitude was not unique to Mum. I took the photo back silently.
‘Any idea where?’ Elle was still a bright, inquisitive influence.
‘As it happens. He went to work with my husband’s cousin, over at Coney Island.’
‘That sounds a strange career move.’
Jack of all trades and master of none. At least I was different from him in that respect.
‘A little,’ Isabella agreed. ‘He was good with his hands; mechanical, you know? He always fixed the van for us and our cars if they broke down. He went to help maintain the rides. I think it was better money, but also, I got the impression he liked to move around. I don’t think we’d have an address for him.
Not here anyway – records that old would be archived at our storage unit by now, but I can go find a number for Luca’s cousin, if you have time to wait? ’
‘As long as it’s no trouble for you,’ I said automatically.
‘No. Of course not.’ She disappeared off into another room.
‘What did I tell you?’ Elle said in a light sing-songy voice, her grey eyes sparkling at me as she lifted her coffee to take a sip. ‘New Yorkers love a story.’
‘I’d reserve your smugness for when we find him.’
‘I don’t need to reserve my smugness. I have an inexhaustible supply.
Plenty more for later.’ She pressed her tongue between her teeth, and it drew a grudging smile from me.
Despite my snapping at her downstairs about the hand-holding she was still helping me out.
I was letting this search get to me and taking it out on her.
I didn’t really want to do that – I wanted to keep her and the prospect of finding my father at arm’s length, so I could remain my usual collected self.
‘Is that why you love it here?’ I asked. ‘The stories around every corner?’
‘One of many reasons.’ She put her mug down and considered it, twirling that loose strand of hair around her finger. ‘I love the variety. The life. Everything is at your fingertips, y’know? You want a taste of something, you can find it. It’s perfect for someone like me.’
‘Other cities are like that, too.’
‘Of course! But this is my city. I know it well. And my family is here. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it? If they weren’t, maybe I wouldn’t be so attached to it.’
I nodded despite the way my body suddenly became heavy.
‘I can understand that. I always thought London would be the only place I’d feel truly at home.
I love it – probably the same way you love New York.
But since losing Mum, and Nick moving to the sticks to be near Beth, and Nan moving in with her friend in Surrey, there’s only me left there.
If it wasn’t for work, I’m not sure I’d care enough to stay anymore. ’
She frowned and rested her hand on my forearm. ‘I’m sorry. That was an insensitive thing for me to say.’
‘I asked a question and you answered it.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’
Her eyes narrowed at me for a moment, like she was trying to figure out whether to believe me or not. I did mean it. Reminders hurt but life didn’t stop; people loved their families and obviously they would talk about it. That was a good thing.
‘So, you love your work? Buy, sell, high, low.’ The corner of her mouth lifted with a hint of her usual humour and I appreciated it. That she took me at my word and wasn’t acting like I was going to break into pieces. ‘It’s not just a nine-to-five to pay the bills?’
‘It’s rarely a nine-to-five but yes, I do enjoy it. I have to admit, the main appeal was the money initially, however I love the pace and challenge of it, too.’
‘How did it come to be on your radar as an option? It’s a rare kid that says “investment banker” when they’re asked what they want to be.
’ She wrinkled her nose and my faint smile widened at the way she was never just satisfied with the simple answer.
She had to dig deeper. Considering I wanted to keep some things private from her, I probably shouldn’t have found it as endearing as I did.
‘Originally, I wanted to be a footballer, like ninety percent of the other boys I went to school with. But there was this man who lived down the street from us; always decked out in suits, owned an Audi GT. I’d wash it for him every weekend to earn some pocket money before he went to visit his mum.
He was a stock-broker. He told me he’d bought his mum a bungalow somewhere green — I can’t remember where — but I knew I wanted to be able to do that someday. ’
‘Did you manage it?’
‘She didn’t want to move out of London; the house had a lot of memories, and Nick was still living there too…but I convinced her to at least let me pay off the mortgage for her.’ Eventually.
‘That’s a pretty awesome thing to do,’ she said, softly.
My words came out a little rough: ‘She deserved not to have to struggle anymore.’
Elle squeezed my forearm. It felt like I’d only just survived that gentle hand-holding of hers but I couldn’t bring myself to move away and our eyes caught. There was something there – a moment of calm at the centre of our usual argumentative storm. My heart rate kicked up and my mouth went dry.
‘Here it is.’ Isabella bustled back into the room with an old diary. Elle and I sprung apart and she paused in the doorway and smiled at us. She scribbled the details down on some notebook paper and pushed it over. ‘Now, can I get you some cannoli to go with that coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘No, thank you.’
We spoke simultaneously and she laughed. ‘You two; I see how it is. Just like the song, you know it?’
We glanced at each other and Elle cocked her head. ‘How does it go?’
‘You know? The potayto, potartoe one? Lala-la-lala.’ She danced with her index fingers and turned around to grab two cannoli from the white box on the counter. ‘Here, one each, because the woman is always right.’
Elle laughed gleefully, dipping a finger into the cream stuffed into the pastry and licking it off her finger. ‘You know what this means, Stephen?’
‘That I’m going to go back to England needing to have my suits re-tailored?’
‘No. We might need to make a trip to Coney Island. You’ll love it.’