by Liz Fielding
‘That’s very different to the designs you showed me. Rather more sophisticated.’
‘You’re right. I see a space and I get carried away with my own ideas of how it should look.’
‘But?’
She shrugged. ‘This is a sophisticated venue. If I was doing this in a UK high street I’d be using bright colours to catch the eye. I’d want nineteen-fifties American cars, a vintage soda fountain and a jukebox with fifties-era records, but you have live music and Italy has a fabulous car industry,’ she said as she gathered her stuff and headed for the door.
‘Keep the jukebox. We can turn it off when there’s live music.’
‘Okay, but you need to think about who is actually going to use this space. Who do you want to attract? Young people looking for somewhere to hang out? I doubt ice cream and fifties pop is going to do it. Most of our sit-down customers in the UK are young teenage girls, families—birthday parties for kids do really well—and women meeting up for a chat over a treat.’
‘And the stand-up ones?’
‘That’s the takeaway trade.’
‘Of course.’
‘Having second thoughts?’
‘No... I can see a daytime and early evening market for this, but you’re right. It needs to fit in with what’s going on outside.’
‘You’d better give me some idea of your budget. Are you thinking Ferrari or Fiat 500?’
‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’
She grinned. ‘My ideal client.’
‘Show me what you’ve got and I’ll have a better idea of what it’s likely to cost,’ he said, heading back to the rear lobby where he’d left his bags.
‘The major capital expenses will be the freezer counter for the ices, jukebox and, depending on the look you want, furniture.’ She looked around, already seeing it on a summer evening with the doors thrown open, musicians on the stage. ‘There’ll undoubtedly be some rewiring needed, the floor will need sanding and refinishing and whatever wall treatment you decide on.’
‘I’m going to have to sell an awful lot of ice cream to pay for that.’
‘I’ll draw this up on my CAD program today and put together some ideas for you to look at.’
‘Great. Give me your pen.’
She gave it to him and he leaned in to jot something down on the corner of the pad she was holding. Too close—so close that she could see a single thread of silver in amongst the glossy dark hair.
‘This is my email address...’ He looked up, catching her staring. ‘Send me your ideas. It’ll be light relief from the politics. Is there anything else?’
Yes... ‘No.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll leave you in peace, then.’
About as much chance of that as a hen laying a square egg, she thought. He might have slept like a log but she’d tossed and turned all night. Getting up had been a relief.
‘You’ve got my number. Give me a call if you have any problems,’ he said as he shrugged into his heavy jacket, found his gloves in the pockets, continued searching... Swore softly under his breath. ‘I left my scarf at the vet’s office.’
The soft, very expensive scarlet cashmere scarf that he’d wrapped around the injured cat. The kind that usually came gift-wrapped, with love, at Christmas... Not this last Christmas, she suspected, but the one before.
As he turned up his collar she took off her own scarf and draped it around his neck. ‘Here. This will hold you.’
He opened his mouth as if to say something, clearly thought better of it and left it at, ‘Thanks.’ Then concentrated on tucking in the scarf and fastening the flap across his collar. ‘I’ll ring the vet later. To ask about the cat,’ he added.
‘I usually switch my phone off when I’m working, but you can leave a voicemail.’
‘Angel...’
‘Yes?’
‘You know how to set the alarm? The kitchen staff will turn it off when they arrive.’
‘Lisa took me through it. Matteo is in charge while she’s away. I start at seven for the morning shift,’ she added, ‘and work until everyone goes home when I’m on the evening shift.’
‘He’ll probably close up early. Once people get home they won’t come out in this.’
‘Very wise of them, if not great for business.’ He didn’t move. ‘Will you come in for breakfast?’
‘If I have time.’
‘How about if I suggest chef puts porridge on the menu as a cold weather special? With fruit, cream, a drizzle of honey and, to give it a little Italian panache, a dash of Marsala to keep you warm while you’re out doing your Zeffirelli thing.’
‘Hold that thought.’ He reached for the door handle and, still holding it, said, ‘Will you be in it? The film. It was your idea.’
‘It was?’
‘You said, “What would you show them?”’
‘So I did.’ She lifted her shoulders in an awkward little shrug. ‘If it will help. Do you want me in English or Italian?’
‘Either. Both. Whatever comes out. Nothing polished or rehearsed. Just you.’
She managed a wry smile. ‘I think I can guarantee that. You’ll need an editor to pull it together.’
‘I don’t want a slick tourist promo. I’m looking for something raw, something from the street.’
‘Why don’t you use a student? Does the university have a media school?’
‘Another great idea.’
‘I’m full of them,’ she said and, since he didn’t seem in any hurry, ‘for instance, do you have any contacts in local television?’ He seemed thrown by the question. ‘An historic part of the city struggling to retain its identity?’ she prompted. ‘It’s the sort of thing that would get airtime in the early evening magazine programmes at home.’
‘I suppose so.’ He did not sound enthusiastic and she didn’t press it.
‘Okay, what about the local press? And social media? Politicians use it to target supporters and make themselves look good, but it’s a two-way street. You can target them. Put your film on YouTube, post a link on their Facebook page and Twitter account and get everyone involved to share, leave comments, retweet.’ He was still looking at her as if she had two heads and she shrugged. ‘I did all the early promo for Rosie, our ice cream van, and I learned a lot. Mostly about how desperate the media are for stories that will fill airtime and the big empty spaces in their pages.’
‘I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I’ll give it some thought.’
For a moment neither of them said anything.
‘Angel...’
‘Dante...’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You should go. The goldfish will be getting lonely.’ Hungry... She meant hungry...
CHAPTER TEN
‘Forget science. Put your trust in ice cream.’
—from Rosie’s Little Book of Ice Cream
DANTE SLUNG HIS bag and laptop case on the passenger seat of his car. Then he undid the neck flap of his jacket and touched the scarf that Angelica had placed around his neck.
He had other scarves, and had been about to say so, but this one was warm from her body and as she’d draped it around his neck he’d caught that subtle scent that seemed to stay with him whenever he touched her. He stood in the cold garage, lifted it to his nose, breathed in, but it was nothing he could name—it was just Angelica.
And it made him smile.
* * *
Geli settled at her computer, called up the CAD program, put in the dimensions of the room then began to play with ideas, searching through her boxes for fabrics and colours to create mood boards.
Dante called and left a voicemail to let her know that Mamma Cat was recovering and that he’d pick her up first thing on Monday.
When she found herself picking up her phone and, like some needy teenager, listening to the message for the tenth time, she deleted it and drove herself crazy trying to find the right combination of words—in Italian—that would bring up freezer counters and jukeboxes. Something
her phrasebook was singularly useless at providing. It would be the perfect excuse to call Dante, but she told herself not to be feeble and eventually she got it and printed out photographs of the ones that inspired her schemes.
That night she tried her own remedy, listing all the good things that had happened that day and could only come up with one. Dante had touched her... And that wasn’t good. At all.
* * *
‘I’ll take over here,’ Matteo said as she began to make yet another espresso. ‘Dante’s taken the cat upstairs and he wants to know what to do with her.’
‘Oh, right. I won’t be long.’
She took off her apron and took the stairs two at a time. A cat carrier had been left in the kitchen but there was no sign of Dante. No doubt he was picking up something he needed from his room.
She took a breath, knelt down to look through the grille at the cat. ‘Oh, poor lovely. Shall I take you to see your babies?’
‘The vet sent antibiotics,’ Dante said. She looked up. He was wearing a dark suit, silk tie, a long elegant overcoat and looked, no doubt, like the man who’d been destined to run the family business. All it needed was a red cashmere scarf to complete the image. Instead, he had the black one, hand-knitted by her grandmother, draped around his neck. ‘One tablet in the morning until they’re gone. She’s had today’s dose.’
‘I’ll take care of her. You’re going to Rome now?’
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting. Will you take the carry basket back to the vet?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll need your scarf,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, her hand on his to stop him as he began to unwind it. ‘It’s freezing out there and I have others.’
‘If you’re sure. Thank you.’ He reached in his pocket, took out a key and placed it on the kitchen table. ‘Here’s the spare key to Lisa’s place. The lights are on a timer switch and I’ve set the heating to run continuously on low, but the goldfish will get lonely.’
‘I’ll take care of him. Go... Arrivederci! Buon viaggia!’
He smiled again, touched her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers. ‘Arrivederci, cara. Take care.’
Cara...
It meant nothing. Italians used it all the time. The market traders, the waiters, the customers all called her that.
It was only when she was watching Mamma Cat, purring as her babies rubbed against her, that she realised what he’d said.
The goldfish will get lonely...
* * *
There was no more snow but the temperature remained below freezing. While daytime business was brisk, with everyone looking for hot food and drinks to keep them going, Dante was right; once they were home nothing was going to tempt them out again.
Geli worked the early morning shift when there was a rush for espresso and pastry, but finished at nine, leaving the rest of the day to the regular staff, who were short of evening tips. The money would have been useful but she nagged the bank and, with no distractions, she got an awful lot done. She hardly had any time to think about Dante.
Okay, she thought about him when he surprised her with a text to let her know he’d arrived safely and a photograph of a frosty Coliseum to show her that Rome was freezing, too.
Obviously, she replied—it would be rude not to—and in return sent him a photograph of Mamma Cat, recovered enough to give her kittens a thorough wash.
She couldn’t help thinking of how brilliant he’d been about the cat when she dropped off the carry basket and paid the vet’s bill using her credit card, despite the receptionist’s insistence that she’d send a bill at the end of the month. It was wince-making but there was no way she was letting Dante pay it.
She thought of him later, too, when the vet’s nurse called at the café on her way home with a bag containing his scarf, stiff with blood and mud, and was disappointed to discover that she was not going to be able to hand it over in person.
Shame she didn’t bother to wash it, Geli thought sourly, but it had simply been an excuse to see Dante. The scarf was ruined.
She gave him the bad news the next day, when she emailed him photographs of the mood boards she’d prepared for three different schemes for his ice cream parlour and colour-wash impressions of what each of them would look like.
The first was a full-on US fifties-style diner, with booths and a jukebox and hot rods. In the second she replaced the booths and paid tribute to Milan with ultra-modern furniture and an artwork motif of sleek Italian cars. For the third she used her own vision of the room. Dark green walls, the mix-and-match furniture painted white and a sparkly red jukebox. She suggested shelf units for the walls, with bright jars of toppings and blown-up details of ice cream sundaes on the walls and, through the open French windows, a glimpse of planters overflowing with flowers. It was the simplest, least expensive and, in her opinion, would be the most adaptable.
He responded instantly.
You’re right. Let’s go with number three. D.
She smiled, and replied.
You have excellent taste. How are the meetings going? G.
It was only polite to ask.
Slowly. Important men make a point of keeping you waiting so that you’ll understand how generous they are in sparing you five minutes of their valuable time. D.
He didn’t mention the scarf.
They’re all too busy sending tweets and posting pictures of themselves doing good works on Facebook to waste time on real people. Social media is the way to go. G.
And she attached a picture of Lisa’s goldfish, peering at her out of the bowl, to which she added a speech bubble so that he appeared to be saying, ‘Tweet me!’
She went to the Tuesday market and bought more beads from Livia for a project and looked at some wonderfully soft cashmere yarn in the same clear bright scarlet as the scarf that had been ruined. She passed over it and picked up half a dozen balls in a dark crimson that exactly matched the colour of her nails.
Dante, clearly bored out of his skin hanging around waiting to talk to people, sent her a text asking how the cat was doing. She took a photograph of Mamma Cat looking particularly Frankensteinish and then she opened a new page on her Facebook account that she called A Kindle of Kittens.
She posted snippets of the story, pictures of the kittens and then the one of Mamma Cat. Then she added a speech bubble to the photograph of Mamma Cat, saying, ‘Like me on Facebook’ and sent it to Dante with the link.
He immediately ‘liked’ the page and left a comment.
I’ll keep the black one. D.
The black one? Was he making some kind of veiled reference to her? She shook her head and replied.
She’s all yours.
The icon on his post was for Café Rosa’s Facebook page and when she checked it out she discovered that it was simply a listing of the musicians who would be appearing and the artists who were exhibiting there with some of their work. Nothing personal.
Elle and Sorrel sent her identical texts.
Who is D?
She replied:
He’s my landlord and my boss. Why didn’t you warn me that it would be freezing here?
She sent Dante a text, asking him how he was sleeping.
I’ve been making a list, remembering the things I’ve done, thinking about what I’m going to do the next day. It’s not working. D.
That’s politics for you. Concentrate on the small pleasures. Every life needs ice cream. G.
And thinking about him was unavoidable when she curled up on the sofa in the evening with her headphones on as she worked on her Italian and knitted his scarf, her head against a cushion that smelled faintly of the shampoo he used.
Fortunately, there were distractions.
She had called in at a fashion co-operative where local designers displayed high quality one-off pieces, and designs that could be produced in small quantities for boutiques. She wasn’t sure if they would accept work from a non-Italian, but she was living and working in Isola and th
at, apparently, was enough. She’d worn her coat and had photographs of other pieces on her phone and she’d been invited to bring along a finished piece for consideration.
Of course, she’d had to tell Dante and he’d been thrilled for her.
Marco came in every day, still hoping that she’d change her mind about spending the evening with him. He was charming, good-looking and she knew she was mad not to get out for a few hours, try and get Dante out of her head, but he wasn’t the man to do it. She wasn’t sure if such a man existed.
* * *
Dante laughed at a video Angelica had posted on the kittens’ Facebook page of one of the kittens chasing a strand of wool and falling asleep mid-pounce. It earned him a stern look from the Minister’s secretary. She was right. It wasn’t funny.
He could hear Angelica saying, ‘Pull it, pull it...’ and the rumble of a man’s laughter in the background.
Who was pulling the wool? Marco, Nic, Gennaro...?
He told himself that he had no right to care. But he did. He cared a lot.
He’d been cooling his heels in a dozen offices since he’d arrived, been given a dozen empty promises and he’d scarcely noticed. The only thing he’d cared about were the texts from Angelica. The photographs she sent him.
A selfie of her with Livia, and a stack of beads she’d bought. A bowl of porridge lavishly embellished with fruit, honey and cream. Some balls of wool she was using to knit him a scarf to replace the one that had been ruined. He’d seen Nonnina knitting and he knew that every inch of the yarn would have been touched by her as it slid through her fingers...
She hadn’t said one word about the kitten-botherer.
He put the phone away and stood up. ‘Please give the Minister my apologies,’ he said, picking up his laptop bag and heading for the door.
‘You’re leaving?’ she asked, startled. ‘But you have an appointment with the Minister.’
‘I had an appointment with the Minister over an hour ago and now I have to be somewhere else.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll tweet him.’