11. Chapter Six Georgia Philips
Chapter Six: Georgia Philips
A few days after our first date, I found myself with George Devereaux in an Italian supermarket. Abigail and I had gone to all the tourist hotspots and done enough shopping to fill an entire suitcase, and then she was meeting up with her boyfriend, Prince Emani, tonight.
“You’ve been living in Rome for months and you haven’t made your own pasta yet?” I chided George. “That seems like an outrage if you ask me.”
He chuckled, unfazed by my dramatics as we pushed our cart down the grocery store aisle. “It’s pasta-making. One of the most difficult arts there is, right after rocket science.”
“Rocket science is a science, not an art. It’s right there in the name—” I stopped when I realized he was trying to rile me up.
“You’re cute when you’re angry.”
I’d been called a lot of things in my lifetime in regard to my appearance. Beautiful was one of them, or gorgeous, or even sexy. But cute had never been a go-to descriptor, at least not since I was six. “Cute? ”
“Yeah. You put one hand on your hip like you’re trying to look intimidating. It’s cute.”
I realized I was in fact putting one hand on my hip and quickly dropped it with a blush. “I just can’t believe you haven’t made pasta before.”
“If you were living in a land where delicious pasta was plentiful, I don’t think you’d be rushing to make your own sad, pitiful version of baked ziti, either.”
I shook my head. At home, I enjoyed cooking and baking, ever since I’d started making most of the meals for me and my mom growing up. So the fact that George hadn’t even attempted to make his own pasta while living in Italy was foreign to me.
“I’m rushing right now.” I pushed the cart a little faster. “See? Rushing to make pasta.”
“Does that mean you’re trying to make fast-a ?” He laughed at his own bad pun.
I groaned, probably a little too loudly, as we passed through the dairy aisle. He grabbed eggs—they were unrefrigerated here, something I would never get used to—and heavy cream.
I checked the recipe I’d found on Pinterest that promised to be the easiest for beginners staying in Italy. Part of me felt guilty for not spending enough time with Abigail during our trip here, but I knew she would understand. Her boyfriend was in town, too, after all.
Not that George was or would ever be my boyfriend. I knew his type: charming, but not one for commitment. I didn’t want to break his heart or mine by insisting that we establish something permanent when I knew we could only be temporary. Besides, he lived in Rome, and I lived in New York.
“Georgia?” George nudged me. “Everything okay? ”
I blinked. “Yeah, everything’s great.” I read over the recipe one more time. “Where can we find semolina flour?”
He scanned the aisles for the flour. After we gathered all the ingredients for pasta-making, we also grabbed some stuff for making Italian hot chocolate, which I had always wanted to try. Then we pushed our cart toward the checkout stand, and I pulled out my wallet.
George was quicker, though, grabbing his and handing a wad of euros to the cashier.
“I’m the one who wanted to make pasta, shouldn’t I be the one buying the ingredients?” I piped up as he took his change from the cashier.
“Georgia, it’s bad enough that I’m letting you come to my apartment to cook for me. Must you also pay for our groceries?”
“Are you trying to be a gentleman? I wasn’t aware that we were dating.” I arched an eyebrow at him.
He ran a hand through his hair. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean it like that.”
My heart dropped in my chest, free-falling. What had I been expecting—for a guy I’d known barely a week to protest that we were in a long-term, committed relationship and he would never dare let me pay for a date? I’d already accepted the impermanence of our relationship. Why was I still getting my hopes up?
“Well, thanks, then.”
“You’re welcome.” He lifted the paper grocery bags into his arms easily, and I didn’t miss the way his biceps flexed under his tightly fitted t-shirt. “Now, let’s go on our pasta-making quest, shall we?”
I smiled and didn’t bother trying to take one of the grocery bags from him. I knew he’d only protest and insist that he could handle it. We walked a few blocks to the apartment he was renting and up three flights of stairs. His breathing only became slightly laboured as we finally made it to the top floor. George set down the bags and unlocked the door.
As I walked into his apartment, I was struck by two things.
First, the number of canvases and paint supplies covering almost every available surface.
Second, the collection of old jazz albums next to the vinyl record player.
“You like Bing Crosby?” I asked. George followed me with the bags. I took one of them from him and set it on the thankfully empty kitchen counter.
“I also like Dean Martin, but I thought playing That’s Amore might be a little too cliche,” he said, putting the other groceries on the counter after kicking off his boots.
“No, I mean…” Most guys my age liked country or hip hop songs. I knew my irritating cousin Alexander—whom I loved to annoy—liked rap, which I didn’t hate but didn’t love either. “Never mind.”
I unpacked the groceries and found a washcloth to wipe down the counter we would be using. Aside from the paint brushes and canvases everywhere, he was rather neat. His jackets were hung up neatly on a pegboard by the door. A keyring hung on the hook next to them, and his shoes were lined up neatly in a boot tray. Even his spice cabinet, though sparse, was alphabetically arranged in two rows.
He was a man of contradictions.
“No, I want to hear whatever thought you were going to have,” George said, coming up next to me and patting the counter dry with another cloth.
“I’m just surprised you like oldies.”
“Well, I am somewhat older than you. I think. Unless you have an age-defying skincare routine.”
“How old are you?” I hadn’t asked him that, telling myself that the less I knew about him the better, lest we fall madly in love. Well, I was sure his age wouldn’t be a factor in me falling madly in love with him, but still. The fewer attachments I formed with this man, the better. I certainly couldn’t kiss him.
“I’m twenty-five.” So four years older than me. “And you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What an insurmountable age gap. How fortunate that we’re not dating, then.”
He didn’t say anything more about it, making me regret my comment as he handed me an apron. “Here. I don’t want you to get your nice clothes dirty.”
I glanced down at my cutoff shorts and peasant blouse. They were hardly my fanciest clothes, but I appreciated the sentiment anyways. I looped the apron over my head and made quick work of the strings, tying them around my waist in a bow at the front.
He picked up the other apron, which was white and stained with what appeared to be splotches of paint. I realized that it wasn’t necessary for him to have two aprons, and the one I was wearing was much nicer and newer, with a cute pattern of lemons on a sky-blue background. It still had creases in it from being folded into a square, for Pete’s sake.
“George, did you buy this apron for me just for tonight?” I plucked at the cotton fabric.
He had pulled out a kitchen scale and was looking over at me with a guilty expression. “I plead the fifth.”
“You’re not even American.”
“I plead the Charter of Human Rights?” he tried again.
“You don’t have to sound like you committed a crime by buying me an apron, you know. ”
He sighed. “I didn’t want you to wear my ugly, dirty apron, so yes. I went out and bought you an apron that suits you, because I wanted you to feel comfortable in my kitchen. You know, in case the pasta turned out to be horrible and you never forgave me for my poor excuse for culinary skills.”
I burst out laughing. “It worked. I hereby preemptively forgive you for all future culinary mess-ups.”
“Then this is the perfect time for me to tell you I once burned a pot of boiling water.”
“Are you sure you’re not an arsonist? Because that sounds impossible. What did you do? Leave the stove on all night?”
His sheepish expression confirmed my worst suspicions.
“How about you just read the recipe instructions to me?” I passed him my phone.
“I can do that easily,” he reassured me. “Though first, we need some music.”
He strode over to the record player and put on Dean Martin’s That’s Amore , making me laugh.
I measured out flour using the digital kitchen scale and dumped it on the table. Then, as I formed a well in the centre for the egg to rest in, a homey, domestic feeling overtook me. Cooking with George reminded me of the nights I’d spent cooking for me and my mom growing up.
Whether it was the process of working with my hands to create something that would hopefully be delicious, or the cozy atmosphere George had created with the jazz music and scented candle he had lit, I wasn’t sure. Or perhaps it was George himself. Though I barely knew him, he felt deeply familiar and comfortable, like a fluffy throw blanket on a chilly autumn night .
As I worked the pasta into a dough, I was proud of my handiwork. It wasn’t the most beautiful culinary masterpiece anyone had ever made, but it would hopefully be edible.
“It smells delicious already,” George said.
I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t even made the sauce yet. I’m not sure what you’re smelling.”
While we waited for the dough to chill, George pulled out the hot chocolate ingredients. He prepped them for later, measuring out the different portions of chocolate and cornstarch and milk before setting them aside.
Then George took out the pasta-making machine we’d bought. I gently fed the sheet of dough through it, rolling it out into a thinner sheet before cutting it into tiny strips. Afterwards, I washed off my flour-dusted hands and put George to work chopping tomatoes.
As we made the marinara sauce together, I marvelled at how easy it felt to be working side by side with him. Was this just the rose-coloured glasses of being on vacation, causing me to feel things I wouldn’t normally feel at home? Maybe. Maybe that was all this was—a holiday fling.
But it didn’t feel that way. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me, for heaven’s sake.
After adding plenty of spices, herbs, salt, pepper, and sugar to the sauce, we gave it a good stir and then poured it over the cooked pasta.
George got out the enormous block of Parmesan cheese I’d insisted on buying when I saw it was on sale, as well as a cheese grater.
“Say when,” he warned ominously. I pictured him as an Olive Garden waiter and burst out laughing. “Or else I’ll grate this entire block of cheese.”
The block was the size of my head. “I might take you up on that. ”
“Please don’t, we’d never make our way out of the mountain of cheese.” He began grating.
“Oh no, being buried under a mountain of cheese. Please, spare me from such a horrible fate.”
“Don’t worry, fair maiden, ‘tis I, Sir George, here to slay the dragon of Parmesan by eating my way through it,” he said in a British accent as he held up the cheese grater and made what I thought were sword-fighting sound effects. When he was an eighth of the way through the block, I told him to stop grating.
We both were struggling to suppress our laughter as we started making the hot chocolate. I thought it was kind of weird to put cornstarch in hot chocolate, but who was I to question the dessert recipe I’d found online? We combined cornstarch, milk, dark chocolate, sugar, and cocoa powder in a saucepan. Once the hot chocolate was finished, we sipped some and then sat down to eat. I placed our mugs of hot chocolate next to two fancy pasta bowls—also purchased for the occasion—and two sets of flatware resting on white napkins.
After he took one bite of the pasta, George’s eyes widened. “Wow.”
“Is that a good or bad wow ? You can spit it out. I won’t be offended or anything. I mean, I will, but I’ll pretend I’m not until I can go home and cry.”
I wasn’t sure why I felt so uncharacteristically nervous about him trying my cooking. I’d made new recipes for my family and friends before. So why did attempting homemade tagliatelle make me break into a sweat just because George was the one tasting my food?
“Georgia, this is incredible. You’re an amazing cook.”
I shrugged. “It’s just a hobby.”
“Well, if your day job doesn’t work out for you, at least you’ll have cooking to fall back on.”
“You helped. ”
A twinge of guilt still thrummed through me at the thought that I hadn’t told him what my day job was—but I didn’t want to think about that right now. Modelling felt like a lifetime away, something another girl did for a living.
He snorted. “I’m helping to eat it. Give yourself some credit, Georgia. It’s delicious.”
As I twirled a forkful of noodles and took my first bite, I thought he might be onto something. “Wow. That is good.”
He pointed his fork at me. “See. You, Georgia, are a culinary genius.”
We spent the rest of the evening eating pasta, laughing, and talking like we’d known each other for years, not days.
By the end of the night, as he drove me home on his motorbike, I rested my hands against his torso and held on, realizing I never wanted to let go of George Devereaux.
But I knew I had no choice. I would have to leave Italy behind, along with a piece of my heart, soon enough.