by Jules Wake
Amongst the rest of the tourists in Rome, Lisa didn’t feel out of place, but here, suddenly, she was very conscious of being an intruder. There were so many what-ifs, she thought her head might explode with them.
If his family or he lived here, what would she say? What would she do?
It would almost be a relief if he wasn’t there. It would stop this wild-goose chase in its tracks. The unanswered questions would stay unanswered, but at least she would have tried.
She took in a shuddery breath, which sounded loud in the silent street. Will took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Fine but bloody terrified.’
He squeezed her hand again, rubbing his thumb over hers.
‘I’m glad you’re here. Thanks for coming with me.’
Will shrugged and tugged her closer to him, their forearms touching as they walked. She liked that now, when it came to it, he didn’t try to say anything clever or funny. His touch was enough of a reassurance.
‘It’s not exactly obvious what the house numbers are,’ he said, pausing in front of one of the dark doorways.
‘Maybe the postman knows everyone?’
‘No, look.’ Next to the door were tiny tiles with the numbers 16 on.
The address was thirty-two. They were half a street away.
Their footsteps tapped on the uneven cobbles.
At last they came to the house. Lisa took in a deep breath and stood looking up at the building. Like all of them along the street, it was impossible to tell if they were occupied or not.
She knocked on the door, the iron shutter across the door rattling slightly in its fixings. They waited, her fingers crossed behind her back. She glanced at Will and sighed.
She knocked again, harder and louder this time. There was every chance that no one was in. It was half past seven. People might not be back from work yet. After knocking for a fourth time, Lisa stepped back and looked up at the building.
‘I don’t think anyone’s home,’ she said.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘Damn.’ Ironically, having been slow to make up her mind to come, now she was here, she was reluctant to walk away or give up.
‘We could go and get a drink and come back in an hour. Or we could knock on the neighbour’s door. See if anyone is home and find out who does live here.’
Lisa looked around at the street. ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste. I feel like people are watching from the windows, but no one’s going to come out, like some creepy film.’
‘You’ve got far too much imagination. We heard children’s voices. There are probably plenty of Italian mamas behind the closed doors busy preparing tea for their children.’
They stepped back to look at the houses on either side. One had a tiny tricycle in the doorway and a coloured ribbon flycatcher.
‘That one looks as if there’ll be someone home.’
‘Just have to hope they speak English.’
The knock at the door was answered immediately by a solid solemn-looking boy of about four, who stood there looking at them, sucking his thumb.
‘How’s your Italian?’
‘Not up to this.’
‘Buon giorno,’ said Lisa and crouched down to his level. ‘Mama?’
The little boy peered quizzically at her for a minute, jammed his thumb harder into his mouth and then turned to walk away as a young woman came rushing along the dark hallway, scolding as she came. Lisa imagined he was getting told off for opening the door to strangers.
The woman scuttled the child behind her and came to the front door, suspicion written all over her face.
‘Ciao.’
‘Ciao, parli Inglese?’
‘No,’ she shook her head vigorously.
Erm … Signor Vettese?’ Lisa pointed to the house next door. ‘Ici?’
Why she thought speaking French would make her any more understood she didn’t know.
The woman’s forehead crumpled into a frown as she leaned slightly forward.
‘Signor Vettese?’ Lisa tried.
The woman nodded. ‘Si. Signor Vettese.’
‘He does live here?’
The woman let loose a stream of Italian, her hands gesticulating.
Lisa turned to Will. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Hard to say. He could have lived there and done a runner with her best friend, for all we know. He lived there and moved out? He’s at work? On holiday? Clearly she knows the name.’
‘Un momento.’ The woman held up her hand and began calling to the back of the house
‘One moment,’ translated Will.
‘I think I might have got that one.’
Lisa’s heart leapt about like a bucking bronco.
‘Just checking,’ said Will, with an irrepressible grin, and then he caught sight of her face.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, her chest suddenly so tight it was hard to breathe. She hadn’t expected him to be here and now there was the chance he might be, she felt rather peculiar. Light-headed. Jittery. Sick.
A slouchy teenage girl came to her mother’s call, her shoulder hugging the wall as if it were doubtful she had the energy to walk without its support.
She held a mobile phone, both ears wired for sound with a huge pair of white earphones. Lisa could hear the bass from the front door.
‘Greta, Greta.’ Her mother let loose a torrent of Italian.
With a surly scowl the girl pulled off her earphones. There was a quick exchange before the woman pushed the girl towards Will and Lisa.
‘Mi … I parl … speak English.’ Her almost unintelligible accent and hesitant delivery suggested her command might be sketchy, but at least it was better than nothing. Her mother beamed, nodding with as much pride as if the girl had snagged an Olympic medal.
‘We,’ Will gestured between himself and Lisa, giving the girl his super-kilo-watt smile ‘are looking for Signor Vettese.’
The sulky face on the young girl’s expression transformed. The ‘Will effect’ had struck again.
‘Si, si Signor Vettese.’ The girl nodded, clearly anxious to please the handsome Adonis in front of her, her now pretty, young face lighting up.
‘Does he live here?’ Will pointed to the house next door, his voice gentle and coaxing.
Lisa managed to refrain from nudging him.
The girl creased up her face, deep in thought. ‘Signor Vettese.’ She nodded again and then shook her head.
‘He lives here?’ asked Will, again with admirable patience and without resorting to that sort of sing-song voice that English people often reserved for the hard of hearing and foreigners.
‘Si.’
And then she shook her head again.
‘He has moved?’
She frowned again. ‘Signor Vettese?’ She nodded and pointed to the house.
‘I don’t think she understands,’ muttered Lisa, her emotions see-sawing up and down.
The girl shot her a filthy look, before bestowing Will with a sympathetic grimace.
Lisa smiled. She didn’t blame her at all; far more experienced women had succumbed to that charm, including herself.
The girl held up one finger. ‘Aspetta.’ Following the white wire of the headphones, she delved into the back pocket of the tightest jeans Lisa had ever seen. With considerable manoeuvring, no mean feat, the girl inched her phone out and with that lightning dexterity teenagers have with their phones, flashed her fingers over the screen before offering it to Will, giving Lisa the sort of look that said, bet you couldn’t do that.
Will beamed at her and then showed Lisa. ‘Brilliant. Clever girl. Translation App.’
As he spoke, words flowed on the screen, which brought a delighted smile to the girl’s face.
‘Does Signor Vettese live next door?
‘Si.’ She nodded firmly and took the phone from Will to tap the screen before speaking slowly and distinctly in Italian into the phone and handing it back.
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But he is away on a business trip for a few days.
She took the phone again. There was obviously some button you had to press to change the translation.
‘Do you know when he will be back?’
Lisa waited for the girl to respond and hand the phone back. It was a rather tortuous process, but that might have been because her nervous system had put itself on high alert.
She held her breath.
‘Non. Di solito tre o quattro giorni. A volte piu.’
Lisa read the translation. Usually three or four days. Sometimes more.
Sometimes more. Did it matter? Three or four days. It had been twenty years or more since she’d seen him.
They’d found him. He was here. That had to be good. Yes, that was good.
Inside it didn’t feel particularly good.
She didn’t dare look at Will. Instead she stood still, her feet rooted to the floor, her chin held high, swallowing hard.
Her flight home was in four days.
A tight band encircled her ribs. She couldn’t look at Will. Just couldn’t. It would unleash the tears threatening. Bloody, bloody sod’s law. To come this flipping far. And after everything, all her previous doubts dissolved. She did want to meet her father. And now she might not be able to. Like a light switch, now that the possibility had become a potential reality, she wanted it with a hunger she hadn’t realised she was capable of.
Will’s hand touched the centre of her back. He didn’t stroke or soothe her, as if knowing it would open the floodgates. Instead it was a firm touch, pressing her skin, letting her know he was there.
Her heart hitched.
His hand stayed there, warm and constant.
Something bloomed, sending a gentle rush of heat through her system. Will. Solid. Dependable. For all his playboy reputation, this was the real Will. The Will she remembered from their childhood.
Her hand crept behind her back and she touched his. His fingers lifted to encompass hers, linking them together as they stood shoulder to shoulder.
Suddenly finding her father, an insubstantial figure she didn’t even remember, seemed unimportant.
Will spoke and she raised a dazed head to him, his eyes gently smiling down at her.
‘What do you want to do?’
Unable to help herself, she drank in every feature, a pulse racing in her throat. A fierce blush raced over her skin as she realised she was staring at his mouth.
Will’s mouth twitched and, bloody devil that he was, he leaned into her ear and whispered, ‘Apart from that.’
The stern glare she shot him didn’t stop the devilment dancing in his eyes and his fingers locked with hers behind them, gave her hand a quick squeeze.
Even the young teenager was giving her strange looks now. She needed to pull herself together.
‘If I leave a note, would you give it to him when he gets back?’
Even before the translation app had done its work, Will delved into the pocket of what were obviously his smart Bermuda shorts and pulled out his pen and little notebook, tearing a sheet of paper out.
‘No, no.’ The mother darted forward, looking shocked. Throughout the exchange she’d been studying them and had obviously drawn her own conclusions. ‘Aspetta. Aspetta.’ She darted off and returned with a proper notelet and envelope, which she thrust at Will, patting him on the hand.
These Italian women did have it bad, but Lisa could hardly blame them.
He passed the notelet to her.
Lisa bit her lip, her hand shaking slightly as she took the pen.
What on earth was she going to write? Hi Dad. Dear Father. Signor Vettese. Hello I’m your long, lost daughter. Do you want to be found? If you do, here’s my number. No, that sounded far too melodramatic. He’d think she was a right drama queen.
The pen left several dots on the blank card where she’d chickened out each time.
‘This is hard.’
‘You can do it.’ Will’s low, firm voice and nudge against her back made her address the card again.
She screwed up her face, trying to think what to write. Keep it simple. She didn’t want to sound needy, or desperate to see him, and she didn’t want to frighten him off. She just wanted to let him know she was grown up, independent. It was difficult. She could have written a lot more, but in the end, she kept it bald, factual and boring.
Hi, I’m in Rome for the next few days, I would like to meet you if it’s convenient.
Lisa Vettese.
Will nudged her. ‘Telephone number?’
She slapped her hand over her mouth. What an idiot! She hastily scribbled it on the note, before folding it and slipping it into the envelope and scrawling his name on the front, Vittorio Vettese.
The mother, obvious tears threatening, stepped forward and took the envelope, pressing it fervently to her chest, talking nineteen to the dozen, but clearly promising to guard it with her life and make sure it was delivered.
Her daughter, teenage contempt written all over her face, shook her head before speaking into the phone one last time.
In halting English, she read out the translation, ‘You look like him.’
Chapter 18
‘I’ll have the bucatini amatriciana.’
‘And I’ll have the Pizza Margherita,’ said Lisa, closing her menu with a happy snap and handing it to the waiter.
‘Back to playing safe,’ teased Will.
‘Too right. I think after today, I deserve it. Besides, I’ve been looking forward to this since I landed at Rome airport, matey.’ She looked around the lively restaurant and took a sip of red wine, her face nearly disappearing into the huge balloon glass. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’
‘It is a good one.’ He sniffed at his glass appreciatively. ‘A local grape variety. Cesanese. One I wanted to try. As well as the bucatini.’
‘I’ve never even heard of it before. What is it?’
‘It’s like slightly thicker spaghetti, but with a hole running through the middle. It’s very common in Rome and I want to put this dish on the menu.’
‘When do you think you’ll open?’
‘I was hoping to open the weekend after Cam and Laurie’s wedding in the first week of September. I could do without the wedding, to be honest. Although after this week I should be able to finalise the menu. Tomorrow morning I’ve wangled an invitation to a tasting at a local wholesaler, Virginnies. I’m hoping they’ll supply all my condiments. I’d like to find a good olive oil and some balsamic vinegars like the ones we tried today. And later in the afternoon, I’m planning,’ he glanced at his phone, ‘if Charles gets back to me, to visit an estate that produces a wine from this grape variety.’
Lisa wilted slightly. Tomorrow. What was she going to do tomorrow? Time was going to drag while she was on tenterhooks waiting to see if her father called.
Will caught her expression. ‘You can come with me, if you like.’ He flashed her a grin. ‘Another lesson in your food education. I’ve been invited out to Charles and Dorothea’s place, old mates of Mum and Dad’s. I’m hoping to do a tasting at the vineyard next to their estate. That should take an hour, and it will be a drive out of Rome, but we could do a bit of exploring as I’ll have to hire a car. We could get away from the crowds for a while. See some scenery.’
‘That sounds good.’
When her pizza arrived, despite Will teasing her about her unadventurous choice, she enjoyed every last mouthful.
The wood-fired pizza, with its crisp base and tangy tomato topping, ticked every box on her list and was as delicious as it looked.
‘Oh,’ she moaned after the first mouthful, ‘That was worth waiting for. How’s yours?’
Will, with a mouthful of food, gave her a big thumb’s-up.
She eyed his dish.
‘Hmm, I think I might have food envy. What’s in it?’
‘Not telling you, you have to try it first.’ He pushed his dish towards her and laughed at her dismal attempt to fork up the pasta.
‘Here, like this.’ With some magical flair, he managed to swirl the pasta onto his fork and once again popped it into her mouth.
She sucked in a breath. ‘That’s spicy.’ She took a big glug of water as he smiled lazily at her fanning her face. ‘Now will you tell me what’s in it?’
‘You tell me.’
She leaned back. ‘Some kind of meat. Bacon?’
‘Pancetta, but close enough.’
‘Chillies and tomato.’
‘We’ll make a foodie of you yet.’
Conversation flowed easily between them over the small table as the restaurant around them buzzed with low-level chatter. It was amusing to watch Will keeping an interested eye on the dishes served up at the nearby tables, his neck craning like an overeager Labrador, although he managed to be an attentive dining companion, stealing bites of her pizza, offering her more pasta and keeping her glass topped up.
Lisa couldn’t remember when she’d last enjoyed a meal as much. It wasn’t just the food and the wine, but Will’s appreciation and determination that she enjoy every last mouthful.
‘Here, put a drop of balsamic on the mozzarella. Taste.’
He taught her to swirl the wine around her mouth, to get mouthfeel and examine the resultant burst of flavour.
He didn’t lecture or make her feel stupid, he simply couldn’t help his enthusiasm. She realised that normally he didn’t get to enjoy food in this relaxed and leisurely way. At the pub there were always 101 jobs to do – dealing with suppliers, ordering food, laundering the tablecloths, paying the staff. Will was constantly on the go.
She was laughing at an anecdote he was telling her about his chef, Al, who had a penchant for bizarre combinations, when her phone buzzed. She glanced down and frowned. Nan.
She rarely called and when she did she was always oblivious to the fact that Lisa might be in the middle of something. But she wouldn’t call her in Italy if it wasn’t important, would she?