Prosecco and Promises

by Prosecco

  ‘Maybe. There’s not much for me to do here. Businesses sort themselves out. It’s a community thing. The island lives by its own laws. Family disputes are dealt with in the family. No one is kicked out on the street. There’s no emancipation, no contesting of wills, no injury claims.’

  ‘How annoying for a lawyer, everyone getting along. What about criminal law? Or divorce?’

  Salvatore smiled gently, shaking his head. ‘Okay, I have an idea. Why don’t we go for some food, and you can continue planning my life for me?’

  ‘No need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘I’m not! I need the help. And you deserve dinner after all your hard work.’ He gestured to the front door. ‘Come on.’

  ‘You worked hard, too.’

  ‘Yes, which is why I’m not letting you pick the wine.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ I nudged him as I walked through the door. It felt daring, to be so forward, so friendly. Back home, I wouldn’t have thought twice nudging a guy and encouraging banter. I was safe in that zone, it was easy. But here, it was different. People were sensitive and passionate and what you said mattered, because you would see these people again, you would know their families and be talked about. It felt very much like what old-fashioned courtship would have been – tentative and formal. Never giving away too much.

  Ischia was quiet now, at the top of the hill, and we wandered down slowly, quietly, taking everything in. Occasionally someone would wish us a good evening. I would nod as Salvatore responded. The sun was setting, offering a pink sheen across the sky, warm and soft.

  ‘You never learnt Italian?’

  I shook my head. ‘I think that was the plan, at one point. I clearly remember my mum teaching me numbers, some words. She used to sing in Italian, as I fell asleep, stroking my hair, but I don’t remember the songs. After – after she died, I always wanted to learn, but when I told my dad, it seemed to make him really upset, so I didn’t ask again.’

  Salvatore nodded, staring into the distance as our feet tapped on the cobblestones. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Car accident. She was riding her bicycle home from work, and someone hit her.’ It felt strange to say – I never really talked about it. Dad and I didn’t talk about Mum, and especially after Marjorie: it was like he felt guilty mentioning her. When Dad first started dating Marjorie, I used to bring up Mum in any way I could – did he think she would have liked the meal we were eating; oh, we were having ice cream? Mum loved ice cream – to try and make him feel guilty, or to make Marjorie feel awkward. But, of course it backfired, because Marjorie asked loads of questions about my mother, sensing I wanted to talk about her, and then I felt angry and ashamed. Poor Marjorie.

  But we never talked about how she died. The only acknowledgement was me saying I didn’t want to ride my bike any more. Dad sold it the next day, and put the money in my piggy bank.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I said, focused on the horizon as the harbour came into view. ‘I feel bad for my dad. When we came back he must have felt so guilty. He took her away from this beautiful, safe place, and had ten years with her before she was gone. And he brought her ashes back to her family, because this had always been her real home.’

  ‘Car accidents happen in every country, every city and island. There’s no guarantee the same thing wouldn’t have happened here. At least they had ten years of absolute happiness. And you.’

  I suddenly felt bare, exposed, as if he knew too much about me; as if I would start talking about my father, Marjorie, my fear of being an orphan. I would sit across from him at the table, and break down, bursting into tears, weak. Salvatore was not a man who seemed able to tolerate weakness. He had been kind to me, but he was practical. He was the man who had come along to fix the business, find answers to things.

  The worst thing about crying in front of someone is when they’re desperate to fix it.

  ‘You know, I’m pretty tired…’ I paused at the bottom of the hill. ‘Maybe I should just…’

  Salvatore’s eyes softened as they met mine. ‘Mia, please. It is a relief to eat dinner with someone who I’m not directly related to, or who isn’t a set-up by my family. We don’t have to talk about anything serious if you don’t want to.’

  I felt exposed again: he’d seen right through me.

  ‘Please?’ he pleaded. ‘One night of normal conversation?’

  ‘Fine, but I expect to hear about all these eligible ladies they’re trying to set you up with.’

  He laughed, holding out the crook of his arm for me to slip my hand through. ‘Deal. But not until we’ve had a drink.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ I teased, walking at a leisurely pace beside him. This was nice, a promenade through the harbour, watching the tourists and the locals. They sat with aperitivos and snacks, olives and breads, chatting away, telling stories. I felt like part of a movie set as I slipped into a seat, Salvatore gesturing to the waiter as he sat down.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Aperol spritz, please.’ It was the first thing I thought of, with Dad’s words about the bar on the harbour. I suddenly realized that whilst I’d told stories about Dad from before, I hadn’t thought about him all day. I hadn’t imagined him in his bed, wondering if he was smoking, what Marjorie was saying to him, if he was weaker and weaker. I hadn’t thought about the next steps, the funeral and the arrangements and my life. Instead, I had done exactly what he wanted, and immersed myself in life here. Found a project. Dad never quite got my love of history, but he was happy to listen to me, and when I was a kid he had let me wander around museums for hours. We still visited the Science Museum in London together, once a year. It was our time together. He was a total space geek. Said if it was possible he’d like his ashes sent into space. I hoped he was joking.

  The waiter left and Salvatore frowned in concern, meeting my eyes. ‘Hey, where’d you go?’

  ‘Nowhere. It’s nothing. Just wondering how long I’m going to be here, I guess.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  I shrugged, shaking my head. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t know, either, I guess. When the time is right to move on, I’ll move on.’

  The drinks were delivered, his ice-cold beer and my Aperol. We clinked glasses, watching the sunset in silence, feeling the darkness surround us.

  ‘So, tell me about these set-ups. Lots of poor women trying to marry of their daughters to the oh-so-charming lawyer?’

  ‘Why do you think I was so grouchy when I first met you? I can’t go home without some young girl being seated at the table, having coffee with my mother, asking if I’m going to set up a law firm on the island, or if I’ve got a girlfriend in America, or how many kids I want.’

  I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. I failed. ‘Poor Salvatore, do all the pretty girls like you too much?’

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like! It’s harrowing! I’m scarred!’ His faux pout was hilarious, and it only lasted for a second before he burst out laughing himself, a deep, warm sound.

  I laughed, too. ‘And are there any answers to the questions they ask you?’

  Oh God, that sounded like I wanted to know. Crap.

  He didn’t blink, just sipped his beer and answered immediately. ‘No, I’m not setting up a law firm; no, I don’t have a girlfriend; and I think I’d like three kids.’

  ‘Three!’

  ‘What’s wrong with three?’

  ‘Um, the noise? The expense? The pain for the poor woman who’s got to push these big-headed babies out?’ I squawked, taking a sip of my drink.

  He studied me, head tilted to the side. ‘You don’t want kids?’

  ‘I honestly hadn’t thought about it.’

  He tried to fight a smile, and failed.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  His lips twitched as he met my eyes, ‘Just… good luck telling your aunt that. Bet she’ll be thrilled! “Haven’t even thought about it”!’

  He
made a face, as if it was the scandal of the century, and I shook my head, imagining Allegra’s face. I would tell her tomorrow and see what she said, see if Salvatore was right. I sipped my Aperol spritz, surprised by how delicious it was, refreshing and fruity and light. Why had I decided I hated them? I must have tried one in a terrible London bar once – I remembered thinking it tasted like Calpol and sherbet. This was not like that at all. Savvy would be thrilled to know I finally enjoyed them. She’d been telling me for years.

  ‘My life’s just… I’ve been busy with… other stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Family stuff, work, responsibilities. Just… stuff. I never met anyone who made me think about it. I haven’t had the time to think about the future.’

  Salvatore nodded, relaxing back in his chair, as if he was digesting this information. His dark eyes looked out on the horizon as the final glimpse of the sun disappeared. He had slightly more stubble than yesterday, giving him a softer look.

  ‘So, what about this girl in America that Antonio mentioned?’

  Again, I sounded interested. Dammit. Why wasn’t there any way to ask an attractive single male about his exes without seeming like you wanted to sleep with him? This is why I preferred history over people.

  Salvatore grinned widely, leaning in towards me, and I waited for the flirty comment, but it didn’t come.

  ‘Want to know a secret?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Complete secret though, no telling. Not even my grandfather.’

  ‘I promise.’

  He clenched his teeth together, making a face. ‘I made her up!’

  ‘You made up a girlfriend.’

  ‘An ex-girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend who screwed me over, leaving me heartbroken, and unable to even consider dating the mother-approved girls who keep arriving at my house.’

  ‘Genius.’ And yet… ‘But why didn’t you just create an existing girlfriend in America?’

  He nodded. ‘I thought about it, but it’s upkeep – my mother would be annoyed that I had returned and left a nice girl. With my luck she would have bought me a plane ticket to go and see the imaginary girlfriend. And there would be questions, and they’d want to see pictures and meet her and talk to her on the phone… my family is very involved.’ He winced slightly, sipping his beer.

  Interesting. And I couldn’t stop myself: ‘But then if you weren’t heartbroken, why were you such an arsehole when I first met you?’

  He didn’t even pause. Just shrugged. So at least he knew he was an arsehole.

  ‘Embarrassment, pride, the fact that I needed to lie at all? And… well, I didn’t have the best time in the States. I worked in immigration law. Things have been a bit… tricky lately. America is not what it used to be. Not for an immigrant.’

  ‘Even one who speaks English like you? One studying at university?’ It seemed ridiculous.

  ‘A tanned man with dark hair arrives alone at an American airport… the reason I stopped coming home for Christmas or Easter was because always being searched and questioned was starting to make me feel weary.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s a lot going on. A lot of fear. Half of Brooklyn was founded on Italian immigrants becoming Americans, but now, we’re all just foreigners, threatening their way of life.’

  He stared out into the water, brow furrowed, and then shook it away, a softness returning to his face.

  ‘Were you… were you hurt?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing I didn’t start. I just… look at this place. I came from a tiny fishing village on a small island. It’s beautiful and perfect and contained. And I went across to somewhere huge and scary and different. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have gone to London.’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe you should. London still welcomes people. Everyone talks about how it’s a cold, unfriendly city, where no one talks, but I don’t see that. I see men helping women with prams on the underground, and marches and sit-ins and singalongs. I have seen my city in mourning, and then rise up again in defiance. London is defiance, and that’s why I love it.’

  ‘Stubborn.’ He smirked at me. ‘Of course. But I thought you lived outside the city?’

  In that moment I realized he must have spoken to his grandfather about me.

  ‘I do. But I live twenty minutes away, so I consider myself an honorary Londoner. I get all the advantages without the rent.’

  ‘Well, that’s definitely the smart way to do it.’

  I smiled and said nothing, just enjoying the thrill that ran through me as he ordered our food in Italian, conversing easily with the waiter, his hands doing most of the talking. I tried not to think of home, of where I’d go after Dad… would I stay where I was, living in that house? Would I move into the city? I focused on Salvatore’s words instead, the way Italian seemed to loop and swirl as the words emerged.

  ‘Are you related to the waiter?’

  ‘Knew him from school. His sister was sitting at my kitchen table two nights ago. We were laughing about it. He’s going through the same thing.’

  It seemed unrealistic, almost beautifully simple. You find a nice person, you date, you get to know each other. You fall in love and make a life. Easy.

  ‘You don’t want to give one of them a chance? Not one of them was pretty or interesting enough?’ I gave him a look, as if he was being too picky. He raised an eyebrow. Oh God, I was sounding interested again.

  ‘They were all beautiful, and kind and lovely, and probably very interesting once you got to know them. But you know that saying, about not wanting a club that would accept my membership? That’s me. If one of those poor girls is silly enough to want me as a husband, we’re not a good match.’

  ‘So you’re only attracted to women who don’t want you?’ I laughed, taking a sip of my drink. ‘Puts you in a bit of a situation, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Only liking the ones who call me selfish and arrogant and pigheaded? Yes, yes it does.’

  The silence felt too heavy, his eyes on mine, and I was suddenly aware of how warm it was. There was no breeze, no air. I was usually very good at this sort of thing. It’s just that normally I was telling the men to go screw themselves. A respectful statement of interest put me on the back foot. How are you meant to respond to that? I was more used to receiving unrequested photos of genitalia, or having a guy in a bar compliment my boobs.

  Although, I suppose even this compliment translated as, ‘I like difficult women, and you’re a difficult woman.’ I quite liked that. A difficult woman.

  Our food arrived just then, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could focus on the food, and talk about that, instead of that warm air surrounding our conversation creating an atmosphere of expectation.

  There was a mixture of delicious food. Arancini with porcini mushroom, crispy and perfectly cooked, burning the mouth as you bit into them. The salad was simple and crisp, and the calamari were huge and golden. My seafood spaghetti was served in a woven bread basket, and I knew I would sleep well that evening, full and exhausted.

  Except for those nerves nibbling away at my stomach.

  ‘So, what will you do, then? Move to Naples and be an eligible bachelor, until eventually some girl from a different village snaps you up?’

  Salvatore paused, tapping his fingers on the table as he thought about it. ‘I would like to do something good. Travel, offer legal help to refugees? I’d like to do something that has value. A purpose. Not just filing paperwork for rich bastards to scare off small companies who are more creative than they were.’ He smiled at me, a little sad. ‘No one becomes a lawyer to be the bad guy. You think you want to save the world. And then you end up comparing how expensive your suit is to the guy next to you and picking the jobs that make you feel clever.’

  I tried to imagine him looking formal in a dark, smart suit, carrying a briefcase and standing on the subway. It was almost impossible to compare that with the man in front of me, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up, looking relaxed and wild. That
curl was hovering, ready to fall into his eyes as soon as he dipped his head.

  ‘Doesn’t sound fun.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ He smiled, ‘I really thought I’d have it all figured out by now, instead of just…’

  ‘Plodding?’

  ‘Plodding. Yes.’ He swirled the spaghetti around his fork expertly. I nibbled at my own, flicking pasta sauce around my mouth, dabbing with a napkin every few seconds. It was frustrating. I wanted to dive right in and eat huge, unladylike mouthfuls. Instead, I swirled my wine around my glass, sitting back from the generous plate of food that still sat before me.

  ‘Are you happy you’re home, though? Even with the girls at the kitchen counter, and the fact that it’s small. Aren’t you glad to be home?’

  Salvatore twitched his nose, but smiled. ‘There are some advantages. I just… I’m getting antsy, I want to do something.’

  ‘We have been, we’ve been fixing the shop. And there’s still more to do.’

  He suddenly grinned and slapped the table. ‘That’s it exactly! Research! Tomorrow we’ll go to Naples, and look at some of the antiques shops there, yes? So we know how it should be.’

  ‘Naples?’

  ‘I assume you flew into there – have you had a look around?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well then, it’s settled.’ He took a sip of his wine. ‘They also have a pretty excellent archaeological museum.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I’d tell you about the secret room, but it’s best you see for yourself. Really alters your perspective on humans and what matters to them.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a big promise,’ I said.

  He suddenly paused. ‘Sorry, you do want to go? I just… we’ve been working on this and I assumed… you might have plans?’

  I was about to shake my head, and then I winced. ‘Oh! I’m spending tomorrow with my aunt! She wanted to get to know me better, and…’

  ‘It’s fine, you don’t have to explain.’

  The silence was suddenly awkward, and I realized he thought I didn’t want to go. He had given me an out, and I’d taken it.