Prosecco and Promises

by Prosecco

  ‘Can we go the day after tomorrow, instead?’ I said, and something fluttered when he looked up at me and smiled. There was surprise in his eyes, and I couldn’t figure out why.

  ‘Sure… yes, okay. The day after.’

  There was silence again, but I felt comfortable enough to lean forward and start eating. It was delicious, and the nerves in my stomach had stopped fluttering.

  I waited until I stopped chewing before I spoke again. ‘I also think eventually I need to go to this karaoke bar my cousin works at. And I think I would like to see one of her proposals, seeing as they happen so frequently.’

  Salvatore laughed, leaning back. ‘Ah! Poor Enzo. Boy is love drunk. It’s sweet, though.’

  ‘Is it? It sounds a little sad to me. He keeps asking and she keeps saying no?’

  He topped up my wine glass. ‘No, it’s not about rejection. It’s a test. She doesn’t ever say, “No, Enzo, I don’t love you, I don’t want to marry you, I don’t want to be with you.” She just says, “You are an idiot, I love you, I’m not ready.” You cousin is a woman who needs a man to know her worth. She was never going to make it easy for him. A man who has had to fight for his wife will not forget her worth.’

  ‘I can’t work out if that’s beautiful and charming or irritating and anti-feminist.’

  Salvatore shrugged. ‘I can’t tell how I feel about most of the things on the island any more. It seems so slow and simple compared to where I’ve been, yet, it’s comforting. And believe me, everyone knows Nikki is in control of that relationship.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Love on the island is a dance. Your cousin is just keeping the steps moving, changing the music.’

  I think back to the other night, Antonio staring at me with such sadness.

  ‘Your grandfather thinks it’s a travesty that I’ve never been in love,’ I said suddenly, not really sure why I was saying it. Everyone here seemed to say things, share things, like it was important. I had done more talking in the couple of weeks I’d been here than I had in the months before.

  ‘It is a travesty. One you should rectify immediately.’ Salvatore grinned at me, topping up my wine glass.

  That fluttering was back again.

  ‘My grandfather is a romantic. And an old man. He is sitting, watching, waiting for things to happen. He likes to sit and judge.’

  ‘I’m getting that a lot here.’ I laughed. ‘Everyone I meet seems to have an opinion about everything.’

  ‘My grandfather tell you much about my grandmother?’

  ‘Just that she loved the shop, and that he misses her.’

  Salvatore nodded slowly. ‘They were a proper love story. She was from a small town just outside Naples. He’d gone for a drink one night, saying goodbye to a buddy who was joining the army, and he sees this girl singing in a bar. He said he fell in love with her voice before he ever saw her face. Spent the night talking, and the next morning he was sitting in her father’s kitchen, asking for her hand.’

  I shook my head. ‘If people did that now, we’d think they were idiots.’

  Salvatore snorted. ‘I’m pretty sure their parents said they were idiots. What did Maria know of island life? Would she expect him to move to the city? What did they really know about each other?’

  ‘But it worked?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s easy to look at older people who are happy and say their story was perfect. In fact they lost a child, and she left him for a long time to look after her sick mother. We had years where the vineyard had bad crops, and there wasn’t enough money… but they loved each other.’

  ‘I guess it seemed simpler then. No social media, or expectations. You just met someone and did your best to love them.’

  ‘Every morning, he got up to make her a cup of coffee to take her in bed.’ Salvatore smiled. ‘Every morning, no exception. She was a bit of an adventurer, my nonna. Always dragging him off across the country for a find. They travelled more once they opened the shop. She devoured books, had to know more about everything. And he just wanted to see her smile. And hear her sing. She would sing every night.’ Salvatore paused briefly, smiling again, remembering. ‘Used to be lullabies for us kids, but I used to watch them in the evenings, when I stopped by to bring them a sample of the wine. She would stroke his forehead and sing him to sleep. Every night.’

  ‘That’s beautiful.’

  ‘That’s what I think of when I think of love.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that, either. Not really.’

  He looked out to the dark water, the boats bobbing in the marina. Everything was calm, and gentle and perfect. And so, obviously, I had to destroy it.

  ‘I have this theory that having happy, loving role models fucks you up just as much as parents who hate each other.’

  I watched as he choked on his wine, and cleared his throat a few times. I hid my smile behind my own wine glass.

  ‘What a lovely thought. Maybe we just haven’t met the right people?’ Salvatore shrugged, making a face.

  ‘Maybe it’s a social construct created by movies with pretty actresses and books with pretty covers, and we make these relationships we see – your grandparents or my parents – into perfect stories. Maybe everyone just makes do as best they can, and hindsight makes it true love.’ I didn’t realize that I’d rambled on until I met Salvatore’s eyes. He blinked at the onslaught.

  ‘I can see why my grandfather thought it was sad that you’ve never been in love.’ He shook his head at me seriously, and then sat back in his chair. ‘All I know is I’ve never wanted to make anyone a cup of coffee every morning for the rest of my life.’

  ‘That’s it?’ I laughed. ‘So simple?’

  ‘I’m a simple man. Thinking too much is the problem. You find that person who makes you feel alive, and you love them as best you can. That’s all we’re here for.’

  ‘I think we’re here to live. And then die. And be remembered or not.’

  I downed the last of my wine, and looked around for the waiter awkwardly, suddenly ready to leave.

  Salvatore didn’t look ready to leave at all. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes crinkling as if he found me amusing. ‘You have a very bleak outlook on life. Anyone ever tell you that?’

  ‘Only every time I open my mouth.’

  ‘You think history is the only thing that matters?’

  I huffed, tired of everyone thinking that I’m broken, and dark and depressed. I was just practical. ‘I think the people we love die, and when we die, they are forgotten. Memories only survive two generations at most.’

  Salvatore seemed to consider this, nodding once before he asked. ‘Do you miss your mother?’

  ‘What I remember well enough, I miss. Maybe I’m lucky I don’t have many memories.’

  That was a lie, and I knew it the minute I said it. Playing the big, strong girl who doesn’t need anybody. The lone wolf. The orphan. I was going to be alone soon enough, so I had better start acting like I was okay with it. And yet I felt a little disjointed, a little guilty for giving a false impression.

  Thankfully, the conversation was brought to a close with the arrival of the bill. I argued valiantly, physically proffering cash, but Salvatore denied it with a wave of his hand.

  ‘You have helped my family business more than you know. The least I owe you is dinner.’

  He did this with such ease, it was hard to believe. The English awkwardness around money wasn’t there at all. A half-shrug and a wave of his hand, and it was done.

  ‘Thank you.’

  We walked back to his car, outside the shop, in relative silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but I kept trying to think of things to say, and failing. We had been having such a nice time, joined together in this one endeavour, this exciting new thing that used my skills, distracted me from thoughts of home. And now… after me, no one would remember my dad. If I ever got around to having kids, they wouldn’t know him. There would be photos, and stories,
and memories. But those didn’t make a person.

  It wasn’t until Salvatore opened the door of the car for me, and I jumped in, that I blurted out: ‘I’m sorry I’m shit.’

  Salvatore snorted in surprise, his eyebrows raised, but said nothing, closing the door firmly, and walking around to the other side of the car to get in. He started the engine, and drove slowly, carefully down the winding roads, an annoying little smile playing around his lips.

  ‘What?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Seriously, what?’

  ‘It’s going to sound weird.’ He shook his head, lips pressed together.

  ‘I’m okay with weird.’

  He paused. ‘The things you say don’t match how you look.’

  ‘What?!’

  He winced. ‘I didn’t… I told you it would sound weird. But… look at you. This gorgeous, smart woman turns up, and she’s ballsy and opinionated and if you ask her about romance she tells you she doesn’t believe in love because we’re all going to die anyway? Come on! It’s funny!’

  I tapped his arm. ‘Hey, I didn’t say I didn’t believe in love.’

  ‘You said it was a social construct made worse by movies and books. What part of that is believing in it?’

  I clenched my fists in frustration. I don’t like people laughing at me. I’m sure most people don’t, but I can’t stand it. It makes me feel like I’m at the centre of something I don’t understand, that people know something I don’t. Like I’m being purposefully misunderstood.

  ‘So how should I look to match my opinions, Mr Stereotyper?’

  ‘All dressed in black with a lot of eyeliner and purple lipstick?’ He chuckled to himself. ‘You’re like a sullen fourteen-year-old!’

  ‘Says the man creating imaginary ex-girlfriends so his mama will stop setting him up!’ I whinged, feeling like that 14-year-old well enough.

  ‘Good point.’

  We pulled up outside Allegra’s and Salvatore seemed to regain some of his composure, but that annoying little smile was still there.

  ‘You still wanna come to Naples with me? Or have I offended you?’

  I checked my nails, suddenly nonchalant. ‘I’ll still come.’

  ‘Good. Have fun tomorrow.’

  I went to get out of the car, my fingers on the door handle, and then I stopped. ‘I’m not… I’m not dark and twisted and broken, if that’s what you think. I don’t think the only thing that matters is history. I just think this concept of romantic love – it sells everything. It sells cinema tickets and novels, and chocolate and flowers and cake and booze. It sells hair removal machines and manicures and clothes, and weddings. And that’s all very nice whilst it lasts. But loving someone means deciding to let them hurt you when they leave. And that’s plain suicide.’

  Salvatore swivelled in his seat to face me. ‘And what if they don’t leave?’

  ‘People always leave, one way or another, whether they want to or not. That’s just the way it is.’

  I hopped out of the car and slammed the door behind me.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he called from the open car window, and I waved as I let myself into the house.

  As I tiptoed up the stairs, I wondered if I should soften myself, if I should try to be more ‘open’ like Marjorie was always saying. Be open to the universe, Mia, it has wonderful things in store for you. Great advice from a soon to be thirty-something widow. The universe does not have amazing things in store for me. The universe does not have an opinion.

  As I snuggled down in my bed, I was convinced, more than ever, that if an evening with an intelligent, gorgeous man who made me laugh couldn’t even make me all dreamy, then perhaps I had finally convinced myself, and I didn’t believe in love at all.

  Chapter Nine

  I was tired of hearing my phone ring. I was sitting having my coffee on the veranda, taking in the view of the sea, the houses sticking out like wobbly teeth in a toddler’s mouth. I felt the familiar tightening across my chest, and then I saw the number.

  ‘What the hell are you calling me for?’ I asked in surprise, my voice light.

  ‘Well, ta very much, darling. I thought you’d be pleased to hear from me. Am I interrupting your sunbathing sesh, or a holiday romance?’ I could almost hear Jacques rolling his eyes.

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear from you, darling,’ I said with an affected accent, trying to sound like him.

  He huffed, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded quieter, more serious. ‘How are you?’

  I twitched a smile, even though he couldn’t see it. Dad always said you could hear a smile over the phone. Made a good impression. I didn’t need to make an impression at all, but I was touched Jacques had called. I didn’t want to make him regret it.

  ‘I’m good. I’m… yeah, I’m okay. Keeping busy. How are you?’

  ‘Same old, darling. Bel’s got me working like a slave, and I’ve got no one to come with me to the new exhibition at the British Library.’ He sighed. ‘Life is a terrible chore.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ I said lightly.

  ‘I… I didn’t mean…’ He trailed off, sounding distinctly unlike himself. Damn. Shut up, Mia. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I missed having my geek buddy around, and… well, darling, if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here. Don’t know what bloody use I am, but… well…’

  I felt my throat close up, and I took a little breath. ‘Jacques, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so sincere.’

  ‘Well, I don’t enjoy it at all.’ He sounded like a petulant child.

  ‘I… I appreciate it.’

  The pause was comfortable this time, and was broken when he said, ‘Well, get your lovely bum back here ASAP, because I miss you and there’s no one at the bar to bug me and demand attention.’

  ‘I’ll be back soonish, I should think.’

  A sharp inhalation. ‘—I didn’t mean—’

  I knew I shouldn’t have said it. It was unfair. Here was my friend, being kind to me, and I threw it back in his face. It was just so tiring, being careful of people’s feelings. Always trying to find a way to let everyone know I was okay, without being too okay.

  I missed Dad – Dad got it. We could make jokes about death together, but it wasn’t right, not with anyone else.

  I was becoming a bitch.

  ‘I know, mate. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll be back soon. We’ll have a drink.’

  ‘I meant what I said – anything you need, you call me. I’ll be pissed off if you don’t.’

  His voice was younger now, without that affected hard edge he always put on. The thing he hid best was his kindness.

  ‘All right, lovely, I promise.’ My voice was different too – softer. A reminder that I didn’t have to be jagged all the time, either.

  ‘Speak soon, Mia.’

  ‘Speak soon.’

  * * *

  I felt lighter after that phone call. I sipped my coffee more slowly. I had people who cared, who knew me well enough to know I might need someone. That I wasn’t who I pretended to be. The girls at the make-up counter hadn’t known, bless them. It had been easier to go in every day and pretend to be interested in the latest BB cream and gossip about the boys in the menswear department. And I was interested, some days. It was so simple, to go in, do my job, listen to everyone’s problems and go home. It was easy to say scandalous things and give shy girls a bold red lip or an older woman a smoky eye, and watch how their eyes lit up, how they suddenly saw themselves as someone else. Somehow, time passed.

  Allegra arrived with a spring in her step, laden with shopping bags. I skipped through to the kitchen to help her.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Ingredients!’ She shook one of the bags.

  ‘How many cannoli are we making?!’

  Her grin was cheeky, and she focused on putting the shopping away. ‘Well, I thought if I’ve got you cooking, I may as well make the most of it.’
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br />   ‘That is… pretty accurate. I’m not great with flavours, patience or consistency.’ I laughed. ‘My best friend Savvy is training to be a professional chef. She’s… unbelievable. She just knows what flavours go together, she experiments and can taste what something needs to take it from delicious to phenomenal.’

  ‘Sounds like a good friend to have,’ Allegra said, making herself a coffee. ‘But the great thing about Italian cooking is that we already know what goes together, so there’s no need to experiment. The recipes are the same, for generations. It’s the little touches that make it yours, make it personal.’ She pointed above her, to signal upstairs. ‘My mama? She puts a pinch of sugar and cinnamon in her spaghetti sauce. Nikki uses crushed garlic and too much chilli. The same recipe, just different versions.’

  ‘What’s your version?’

  ‘I serve it with a large glass of wine, sometimes two!’ She nudged my hip and laughed.

  The sadness I had felt at the beginning, every time I laughed with my aunt, every time I connected with her, still twinged at times. There were endless questions about how my life might have been different. Would I have cooked regularly, if Mum was still alive? Would I have been like Savvy, able to conjure a dish out of whatever was left in the back of the fridge? Again, I wondered if my aunt and mother had been like this, laughing and teasing each other. Was my aunt reaching out for my mother, feeling disappointed that she only had me? Were we using each other as a way back to Isa, just like my nonna feared? And did it even matter if we were?

  I shook my head, to clear the thoughts. Too many ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ – we were having a nice time. That was enough.

  ‘Was my mum a great cook?’ I asked, as my aunt poured me another coffee.

  Allegra hid a smile. ‘She was… an enthusiastic cook.’

  I waited, assuming she would explain further.

  ‘She really loved to cook, but the main thing she made was a mess. Flour everywhere, three trays of burnt bread rolls… I mean, she even managed to burn soup! Who burns soup?’

  I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Oh, no! That’s sad!’