The Dish

by Stella Newman

  ‘So, what shall we do first?’ says Adam, buckling up in our hire car so cheap and plasticky it feels like we’re inside a kid’s toy. ‘Mum’s given me a long list.’

  ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘Assisi: huge church, very important frescoes, all about St Francis . . .’

  ‘Famous for preaching to the birds?’

  ‘Then there’s Todi: ancient Etruscan town, legend has it four thousand years ago an eagle dropped a tablecloth on it, home to one of Italy’s finest Renaissance churches?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Montefalco –’

  ‘Falcons?’

  ‘Bird bingo! Picture perfect Umbrian hilltop town with fifteenth-century frescoes?’

  ‘Church, frescoes, church, more old frescoes. Hmmm. You know what I think we should do?’

  He checks his watch – 11.00 a.m. – and nods.

  We’ve driven past so many stunning pink-stoned trattorias perched on hills overlooking the magnificent countryside that when Adam pulls off the winding road and into a dingy lodge that looks like a rundown version of Crossroads motel I suggest he might have misread the map.

  ‘Mum said the food’s amazing,’ he says, walking into the fusty reception and greeting the old lady behind the desk in fluent Italian. She leads us into a deserted, yellow-walled space that feels like a train station waiting room and is dominated by a 50-inch flatscreen TV booming out the rolling news.

  ‘Is it definitely the right restaurant?’ I ask, looking out of the window at a small swimming pool covered by a tatty tarpaulin weighed down with brown leaves and dirty water.

  ‘It’s not exactly LuxEris, but I reckon that’s a good thing, don’t you?’ He glances at the wine list. ‘Four euros a carafe!’ His face lights up. ‘See? You can’t even get a glass of water for that at mine,’ he says, taking my hand in his and resting them on the table.

  ‘So how long has your mum had her house?’

  ‘She bought it about ten years ago,’ he says. ‘But I haven’t made it out here once – just been working and working. Here, try one of these.’ He holds out a basket filled with rectangular orange slices of what look like cake, scattered with yellow nuggets. ‘Easter bread – it’s a local specialty.’

  I take a bite, then another. ‘Yum – it’s like a Cheesy Wotsit in bread form!’

  ‘Right – let’s get down to business. What are you having?’

  My eyes flick over the handwritten scrap of a menu. ‘I know it’s sacrilegious but I’m going to have pasta followed by pasta.’

  ‘Good, because I’m having truffles followed by truffles. Why are you pulling a face?’

  ‘Fergus, our old critic, used to foam at the mouth at the mere whiff of a truffle but I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Try mine, you’ll see.’

  ‘OK, I finally get it,’ I say. ‘But they don’t taste this delicious back home.’

  ‘That’s because they grow them ten minutes from here. I’m kind of jealous of yours,’ he says, poking his fork into my second bowl of pasta. ‘Squash and ginger fettuccine!’

  ‘Mellow and crazy but great, right? Like Bill Murray in a bowl.’

  ‘The Bill Murray of pastas? I think you might be the crazy one.’

  ‘The drunk one,’ I say, pouring the last of the carafe into my glass.

  ‘The Italians do know what they’re doing,’ he says, going back in for another bite.

  ‘Can you open an Italian restaurant in London please, preferably round the corner from my flat? And make sure there’s a dessert trolley?’

  ‘I’d love to. I can probably afford the trolley, but then there’s lease premiums, licences, kit, fit-out, salaries . . . Fancy lending me quarter of a million?’

  ‘I wish . . .’ I say, leaning my cheek against his bicep. ‘But couldn’t you do it cheaper? People are doing great stuff – less traditional – on smaller budgets nowadays. There’s this really cute café in Hackney they converted from an old public toilet. That can’t have cost quarter of a million.’

  ‘Laura – I’m not a snob. I wouldn’t want my place to be silver service, far from it – but I draw the line at urinals in the dining room.’

  ‘You should start with a food truck or a stall – nobody else is doing anything like your savoury pastries. Then you wouldn’t need mega-bucks and you could set it up much faster too.’

  ‘The thing I don’t like about being head chef is that so much of it is rotas, schedules, paperwork – it’s taking me away from what I love most: the cooking itself.’

  ‘Have you heard of Kitchenstarter? Sophie got some funding from them last year – they’re brilliant at supporting new creative businesses. You could use that cash to start something small with the pastries, but create a brand identity that feels fresh, have a website. You should look into it, you really should,’ I say, catching myself as I realise I’m starting to sound like Jess.

  ‘Here’s the plan! How about we jack in our jobs and drive around town on a bike serving London’s best breakfasts. You could be coffee guru, I’ll do the pastries,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Getting up at five a.m. every day? Sounds way too much like hard work. Besides, I like my job.’

  ‘We could have a fifty-inch telly on the handlebars, just like mamma used to . . .?’

  ‘Generator-powered by my pedalling, no doubt. And what will we call this magnificent new mobile dining concept?’

  ‘Tandem and Cash?’

  I let out a low groan. ‘Adam, if you ever have a go at me for making a bad pun – ever again – just remember this moment. You and me, sitting here – me, massively unimpressed; you, trying not to giggle at your own joke.’

  ‘Laura, I will remember this moment my whole life . . . not least because on the TV behind you there’s a busty blonde on a game show, currently stripping down to her kecks.’

  I turn to check the screen – the news is still playing. ‘Why Adam Bayley, for a minute there I almost believed you were telling me the truth.’

  He leans over to kiss me and our lips meet in well-fed contentment.

  ‘What time is it, anyway?’ he says, sitting back up again as the bill arrives. He holds it out, victoriously. ‘Less than thirty euros, including tip! You’d pay triple that in London.’

  ‘It’s two fifteen p.m. Fresco o’clock?’

  ‘I have a much better idea,’ he says, grinning.

  A shag?

  ‘Ice cream.’

  ‘This is the best day I’ve had since I can remember,’ says Adam, as we stop at a traffic light and he leans over the handbrake to kiss me.

  ‘Is that because of the hazelnut gelato or because I’ve spared you a tour of important medieval churches? We’ll have to do them tomorrow if not today – it’s sort of obligatory, when in Rome and all that. Green light!’

  ‘It’s the best day because I’ve never met a girl who can flit seamlessly between singing Whitesnake, the Backstreet Boys and the theme tune from Bugsy Malone without knowing the words to any of them.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never met a boy who could drive a hairpin bend while doing jazz hands. Not that I’m encouraging your behaviour. Besides, I’m pretty sure “Fog on the Tiber” is not the correct lyric either.’

  ‘And nor is “Here Comes the Red Snapper”! Being with you is like hanging out with a deranged jukebox,’ he says. ‘A very pretty deranged jukebox.’

  ‘How come you know all the lyrics to Backstreet?’

  He shrugs. ‘I make no apologies. Have I told you I’m a massive Brian Harvey fan?’

  ‘Er, Brian Harvey is not a Backstreet Boy.’

  ‘Er, like, I know that. I’m just saying I’m a fan.’ He laughs. ‘Ever since he ran himself over after eating too many jacket potatoes.’

  ‘Whitesnake. Why do you think they went for white? Not very scary for a snake, is it? Blacksnake – scary, Greysnake – good, gothic. White? Might as well be Lilacsnake.’

  ‘What did you want to be when you wer
e five, Laura?’

  ‘Hairdresser or air stewardess. You?’

  ‘Astronaut. What’s your favourite cheese?

  ‘All cheese.’

  ‘Silly answer.’

  ‘Silly question,’ I say. ‘What’s the meanest thing anyone’s ever said to you?’

  ‘Other than that I’m crap at map reading?’

  ‘You said I sound like a cat being garrotted when I sing Kate Bush!’

  ‘I meant it as a compliment! Some of my favourite blues singers sound like they’re undergoing bodily harm. OK, let me think. Urgh, OK . . . When I was thirteen Darren Burns said, “You’re kind of cool, but you look really ugly when you laugh . . .”’

  ‘Ouch! What a horrible thing to say! I bet he was jealous because the girls fancied you.’

  ‘I used to practise different laughs in front of the mirror,’ he says, shaking his head in shame. ‘Have you ever tried laughing with your mouth shut?’

  ‘Oh, you look handsome when you laugh, Adam Bayley, you really do.’

  ‘Well you make me laugh, Laura Parker – and not only when you sing.’

  ‘Church . . . hill . . . green field . . . yellow field . . . church . . . rolling hill . . . are you sure this is the right way?’

  ‘She said it’s in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Well, we’re there all right. Maybe give her a ring just to check?’

  He laughs. ‘And what landmark should I tell her?’

  ‘Trees, church spires and a lot more trees?’

  ‘Hold on, this might be it.’

  At a small blue sign for Monte Verdure we take a left, then bump along a gravel road which snakes slowly up a hill for five miles, then take a smaller red clay track, even bumpier and steeper, until finally we hit a grey, rocky track that leads to a wrought-iron gate at the top of a huge hill. We park the car in the shade of an umbrella pine and carry our bags up the final stretch of path till we reach a collection of ancient buildings that make up the dwelling.

  ‘This whole thing was a medieval borgo,’ says Adam, standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the view. ‘A stopping point en route for pilgrims to Assisi, sort of like a travel lodge.’

  ‘A bit nicer than a Travelodge,’ I say. ‘It’s more like a fortress!’

  The huge, grey stone exteriors are draped in lavender-blossomed wisteria, with narrow lookout windows dotted throughout. They form the best part of a square, surrounding a central courtyard garden, wild with sage and rosemary and a fig tree not yet in fruit. We take a tour round the outside of the buildings before Adam stops in front of a heavy studded double door set in one of the walls and raises his eyebrows in delight.

  ‘Check this out!’ he says, pushing his shoulder against the door. ‘We’ve even got our own on-site chapel – we can tick churches off the list after all!’

  We step inside the tiny chapel – sixteen chairs on each side, high vaulted ceilings, ancient wooden beams. It’s so simple; so quiet. Adam takes my hand and together we walk down the aisle towards the altar and stand silently breathing in the air. We kiss under cool stone arches and Adam runs his hands through my hair and pulls me closer. We kiss and kiss, then stop – aware this kiss is turning into a distinctly non-churchy kind of kiss.

  ‘Let’s dump our bags and work out a plan,’ he says, taking my hand and leading me out of the chapel and back across the courtyard to one of the houses set in the stone on the south-facing side. It has hanging terracotta window boxes by the door filled with tiny white flowers that smell of honey. He turns the key in the lock and I follow him through. On our left is a tiny kitchen, two electric hobs and a miniature fridge; in front of us the main living area – a small but cosy room with a brick-tiled floor and a fireplace against one wall, a sofa and an armchair filling the remaining space.

  ‘It’s pretty basic – there’s a bedroom and a bathroom upstairs,’ he says.

  ‘It’s lovely!’ I move closer to him and put my arms around his waist. ‘Adam, I’m sorry but I have a terrible confession to make . . .’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘I’m having a total double-pasta and ice-cream crash. I know I’m a granny but if I don’t have a tactical nap now, I’ll be zonked by six p.m.’

  ‘I’m struggling to keep my eyes open too. One hour’s sleep on the coach and a kip on the plane . . . Probably wasn’t the smartest idea of mine to come all this way just for one night, was it?’

  ‘I’m so glad we did.’

  ‘If I get us blankets, do you reckon it’s warm enough to doze in the garden?’

  ‘There’s a garden?’

  ‘Oh yes – she chose this place for the view.’

  Through the living area and out the back door is a huge grassy lawn covered in giant clover, dandelions and daisies, the tips of their petals scarlet as if quick-dipped in beetroot juice. We must be at the top of the highest hill in the area – you can see for miles and miles and miles – every shade of green from chartreuse to moss to midnight, greens like yellows, greens like blues. The grass under our feet is so vivid, it’s practically luminous – it almost hurts your eyes. Its colour makes the mass of scattered olive trees immediately below us look grey in comparison. Beyond the olive groves, a vast landscape spreads out – gently sloping hills covered in darker patches of woods and forest, fields of crops and scattered vineyards curving all the way to distant mountains.

  Adam sets up two deckchairs facing the horizon and grabs two picnic blankets. We kick off our shoes and hold hands under the blanket. The gentlest of clouds hang overhead, as static as if they’re painted on the sky. Wood smoke scents the air and the only noise is the echo of a dog’s bark and the sound of birds, of which there are many – at least six distinct bird songs in ear shot – one like a hinge, one like a buzzing bee. We must doze off listening to them because the next time I open my eyes it’s 7.10 p.m., the sun beginning its descent behind us, the sky turning rapidly from blue.

  Adam opens his eyes a moment later and smiles at me. ‘You know one thing that would make this moment even better?’

  The man’s a genius. We sit with a bottle of local red, watching the vast ever-changing sky like it’s a movie.

  ‘Everything good, Laura?’

  I nod. I nod because I don’t want to lie. Or rather I nod because I don’t want to tell the truth, which is this: I feel scared because I feel so happy. I feel the extreme happiness in my bones, which I’ve felt only rarely as an adult: delight, excitement, contentment, almost radiating through my body.

  The last time I felt this good was on honeymoon. Tom could only spare five days so we’d poured the money into posh Sicily, and while I’d baulked at the price per night, by the time I lay poolside in the baking heat, I’d managed to un-baulk. For five days we’d drifted along in a state of bliss, cosseted from the real world by an army of starched mind readers whose sole happiness depended on administering to our vital sensory pleasures.

  You’re a fraction too hot right now – open your eyes and you’ll see I’ve just placed a glass of iced water with cucumber and mint next to your lounger, and a fridge-cold flannel. Ooh, and now it’s six fifteen p.m. and you’re tired, a little dehydrated, your body’s craving giant green olives and a salty little deep-fried snack that will go perfectly with the fresh peach Bellini you didn’t even realise you wanted until you sat up – and yes, the pinky-orange hues do complement this sunset nicely, don’t they?

  I remember walking back to our room on the final evening, across a lawn cast with tiny pools of light, the throb of crickets surrounding us like a low fast pulse, and thinking: life is great, life is amazing, aren’t we lucky? I remember getting on the plane, cheeks burning from those last twenty minutes of sunshine grabbed at the airport. I remember landing smoothly and then the shock of Dad’s face at the airport – the terrible fear in his eyes he was trying so hard to hide. I remember that first sight of Mum, eyes shut, face wrinkle-free, looking entirely at peace – but for the tube down her throat – and I wish I could forget every
thing after that.

  Thirty-three days of staring at a monitor: four coloured lines: red, yellow, green, blue; thirty-three days of increasing blackness. Days of thinking, I understand what the blue line means now: oxygen saturation in the blood. That links to the metal clip on her finger, that number says ninety-two at this precise moment and ninety-two is much improved from eighty-four. And the green line, that’s heart rate. That’s not looking so good right this second but it was good this time yesterday. And that tube straight into her neck, that’s noradrenalin, and we love noradrenalin because it stabilises her. And because I understand these numbers on the screen, am doing my homework, am starting to make sense of this impenetrable world of medicine, now you, God, will make her better. That’s the deal, isn’t it? But that wasn’t the deal.

  So I don’t trust this level of happiness at all, which is a shame.

  But then I feel Adam’s hand in mine. I look up at this immense, shifting sky of blues and pinks and oranges and I think: this world is full of possibilities. Sometimes things do work out. Why shouldn’t I be one of the lucky ones? If I don’t believe I can be happy then of course I won’t be happy. Feeling scared won’t protect me from life. I just have to take a chance . . . And by the time I’ve run through half-a-dozen mantras, I can’t help but laugh because I’m beginning to sound like one of Amber’s self-help fridge magnets.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Laura?’ he says, gently squeezing my fingers.

  ‘How random life is. How quickly things change. How you never, ever know what’s around the corner.’

  He lets out a small, rueful laugh, opens his mouth as if to say something, then shakes his head again.

  ‘What is it, Adam?’

  ‘There’s a poem Mum put up, after my father left. I can’t remember the words, but it’s by Rumi, and it’s something about greeting all things – good and bad – with the same attitude. Because what looks like bad news sometimes turns out to be good – and vice versa. Does that make any sense?’

  I think back to Tom. How at the time it felt like my future was being torn from me, but now it feels like I dodged a bullet. I could have had kids with him – he’d still have been a liar and a cheat.