Chapter 41
quarantuno
Wednesday night, three days after Francesca’s win, they were still enjoying the hum of her success.
But around midnight, after Francesca’s third consecutive yawn as she lay wrapped in Alessio’s arms on the lounger on the terrazzo, not even the dreamy prospect of sleeping under the stars could coax her to stay.
‘I’ll go get some blankets,’ he suggested, getting to his feet.
But she sat upright and pressed a hand to his chest. ‘No.’ Another yawn. ‘Sono distrutta. It’s time for bed.’
Alessio signalled her to stop, trying to hold his nerves in check. ‘Just wait. Please. I just need a sec.’
She scrutinised him with tired eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just what needs to be done.’ He darted to the kitchen workbench and collected a small white envelope that he had hidden behind a chopping board. ‘Here,’ he said, passing it to her.
‘What is it?’
He pressed it more firmly into her hands. ‘Open it.’
Francesca swallowed and gave him a wry smile before her fingers dipped behind the paper flap, peeling it open. She withdrew the printed page and Alessio watched as her eyes scanned the text. ‘Ale . . .’ Her fingers began to tremble. ‘It’s impossible . . .’
‘No. I don’t want to hear that word come out of your mouth. You’ve already proven to everyone in this damn town that YOU ARE possible.’
She turned the page around. ‘But . . . a plane ticket to London?’
‘Yes, you’re going to finish your course. It’s all sorted. I’ve arranged it all with Giostro’s school.’ Alessio knew she would try to retreat, so he reached for her wrists before she had the chance to pull away.
‘Alessio, this is madness!’
‘The only madness I see in this scenario is watching you walk away from finishing something that I know you hold so dear to your heart. Like your father. Like your nonna. Like the pasta, and the boards, and that crazy pasta cup. Like all those notebooks you have stashed in your cupboards, and the annotated cookbooks and journals. And your lacy apron. And this restaurant. And Sophia. And this town. And yes, your mother. Please, just listen to me.’ He took a deep breath in and out to calm himself.
‘Don’t fight me on this, Francesca. I’m on your team.
I always have been. I . . . I . . .’ He faltered, watching as her eyes softened behind building tears. ‘I always will be.’
As the first tear trickled delicately down her cheek, she returned her attention to the ticket and studied the information. ‘For this Friday. Just three days aw—’
‘Shh! I don’t want to hear it. You have just over a week there.
All booked for you. I would have told you sooner, but I was waiting on confirmation of this.
And it only came through today . . .’ Alessio reached into his back pocket and withdrew another sheet of paper.
He unfolded it and pressed it into her hand.
‘A studio apartment with full kitchen right by London Bridge tube station. A five-minute walk to Giostro’s school near the Borough Market. Paid for in your name.’
Now she pushed it all back into his chest, shaking her head firmly. ‘No, I can’t do it. è troppo, Alessio. Troppo!’
He let the papers fall to their feet and caught her as she flopped against him, the tears falling freely now.
Alessio pulled her tighter, closer. ‘You owe this to your father, Francesca. He helped you get to London in the first place. Now, you need to go back and finish what he set up for you. But you know, most of all, you owe this to yourself.’
It took a few moments of stillness, of quiet, before Alessio could sense Francesca concede. Her shoulders loosened against his chest and her arms finally came to wrap around his torso, returning his embrace. ‘But you’re leaving on Friday,’ she said.
‘We both have morning flights out of Bari. I booked yours so I can take you to the airport. Mine to Rome is an hour later.’
She sniffed and nodded, holding him closer. ‘But how will we—?’
‘I’ve booked the treno regionale from Foggia to Bari airport. Carlo will drive us to the station. Everything has been taken care of.’
Francesca pulled back a little and they locked eyes. ‘Grazie,’ she whispered.
Alessio moved a few damp curls away from her face and caressed the underside of her chin. ‘So, you’ll go? You’ll finish the course?’
She nodded into his palm. ‘For Papà. And for you. I’ll do it. There’s just one thing . . .’
Noting how she tensed, he said, ‘Your mamma?’
‘Because she was so happy the last time I told her the truth about London. Cazzo . . .’
He saw her cheeks flush pink. ‘Would you like me to be with you when you tell her?’
‘Sì.’
He caught hold of her shoulders and gave them an encouraging rub. ‘I’ll gladly be there for you. Tomorrow morning.’
‘Domani?’
‘Of course. You need to sleep now. And this all ends on Friday. Three days away.’
‘I feel like Cenerentola.’
‘Who?’
‘Cinderella.’ She sighed. ‘The clock is about to strike midnight.’
Francesca’s feet felt heavy on the steps as she and Alessio made their way into the back of the trattoria.
She could hear Maria humming to herself and suddenly thought that perhaps the gods had smiled upon her, and Elena would be preoccupied elsewhere.
Does that mean I can get out of doing this?
‘Oh, there you are.’ Elena appeared through the saloon doors wearing her favourite black pencil skirt and a green floral blouse, and caught the pair on their approach. She looked irritated. ‘I was about to send up a search party for you. It’s almost nine.’
Francesca was thankful for the guiding press of Alessio’s hand on her lower back.
History had taught her to predict tension, anger and a side order of resentment with most encounters she had with Elena.
She hadn’t realised how badly she wanted the newer, softer connection between them of late to be a permanent fixture. Would Elena set her free?
‘Allora?’ Elena’s expression was quizzical. ‘Are you here to help for the lunch service, or not?’ Her eyes darted between the pair, and it was clear she sensed the change in their usual jovial energy. ‘Ok, what’s going on?’
At that moment Maria pushed through the saloon doors, joining them in the dining space.
‘O!’ She stopped short, squinting at the trio.
‘What have you done?’ She raised a hand in warning.
‘Wait . . .’ Then she waddled back into the kitchen, only to re-emerge with her little Virgin Mary–shaped plastic bottle of holy water.
She flicked off the stopper and squirted both Alessio and Francesca square in the face.
‘Nonna! What are you doing?!’ Francesca wiped water from her eyes, while Alessio couldn’t help but grimace.
‘Should have seen that coming a mile away.’ He pulled the hem of his t-shirt to his brow and gave it a dab.
‘There’s a strange something in the air . . .’ Maria scanned Francesca and Alessio intently.
‘Oddio! Cesca, you’re pregnant?!’ Elena snapped a palm over her mouth.
‘No!’ cried Francesca. ‘Dio . . .’ She heard Alessio stifle a laugh at her side. ‘Nothing like that!’
Maria, who clearly did not buy this, withdrew the wooden spoon from her front pocket and allowed its head to slap her palm as if warming up for a duel.
‘Jesus. This is going nowhere.’ Alessio, who had understood enough to get the gist, exhaled and stepped forward.
‘Ok, ladies. Nonna, Elena, please just take a seat.’ He gestured to one of the tables and they all sat down.
‘Francesca has something she would like to share with you. Something exciting.’
Maria and Elena pivoted in unison.
‘Cesca? What is it?’
‘Erm . . .’ Although she had done nothing but prove herself capable and worthy of this experience, and not just over the past three months but literally across the years of her life, the act of having to put her plans into words rattled her.
Alessio’s hand came to rest over hers on the table, and its warmth settled her anxious heart.
‘Mamma, I know you weren’t happy about me lying to you about London and the Giostro school last year.
And how Papà and I went behind your back. ’
‘No. I wasn’t. At all.’ She shifted in her seat, her two casts held awkwardly in front of her. ‘But we have moved past that now.’
Francesca’s throat threatened to close over, but she focused on her breath and continued. ‘I’m . . . I’m going to London. On Friday. Just for a week.’
Elena’s eyes narrowed. ‘For a holiday? Then why all this drama?’ She waggled her right plaster-casted arm across the table. ‘This seems very childish.’
‘No. Not a holiday. I’m going to finish the course and take my final exam at Giostro’s school. In Papà’s honour.’
Elena remained stony-faced for a moment. ‘But how? Is that even possible? It was so long ag—’
Alessio leaned forward. ‘I have put things in place to support Francesca. I know people in London. They know people in London. Her accommodation is sorted. Her flight is booked.’
Elena’s eyebrows rose, but without their usual scorn. ‘Bravo, Alessio. You are always looking after Francesca. I . . . I appreciate it.’ Elena’s lips formed the gentlest, most perfect smile Francesca had ever witnessed on her mother. ‘It seems you are ready to go, then.’
‘That’s it?’ Francesca had prepared for a battle. For their truce to simply peel away and for Elena to revert to form. But no. A tiny bloom of warmth and hope sprang up in her chest. ‘You’ll let me go?’
As if it were the most preposterous question to ask, Elena laughed.
‘You don’t need my permission, Cesca. You’re thirty-three years old.
You’re a woman! You can do as you please!
We can slow down here for the week. My casts are due to come off on Monday.
And besides, a week off might be what we all need. It’s been a long summer.’
Close? A week off?
These were suggestions never even contemplated before Elena’s accident. In breaking her arms, had something else broken, too? Her rigidity? Her desire to control everything and save face above all? Her inability to let things go?
‘Then . . . can I please have your blessing?’ Her chest rose behind the sweetheart neckline of her dress.
‘Because, even if you don’t believe it, your support is the one thing I’ve sought most of my life.
’ Her voice trembled at this admission, vulnerable as she now felt after years of feeling less than supported and valued.
Alessio’s hand squeezed hers under the table.
‘You have my blessing, Cesca. In fact . . .’ Elena’s eyes came to rest on the place where Francesca’s arm met Alessio’s before descending under the table. ‘You both do.’