by Jane Lambert
‘Now … Emma …’
‘Actually, it’s Emily.’
‘Let’s have you first. Stand on the white cross please, and when you’re given the nod, say your name and agent’s name to camera. Just leave your things on the floor. Okay?’
Dilemma: do I just give my details deadpan, or do I smile and say it with feeling, thereby conveying my warm, sincere personality and versatile acting talent? Never having been for a commercial casting, I don’t know the protocol.
‘When you’re ready please.’
I plump for a bit of both – not too serious, not too gushing.
Ninian opts for the cool, I-do-these-all-the-time approach.
‘Thank you,’ says Goatee, leaping up. ‘Now, just to recap – the scene is a small, intimate Italian restaurant. If you’d like to sit down here, please,’ he says, propelling us over to a metal table and chairs. ‘In front of you is a plate of pasta cooked in Pino Pinuccio sauce. I’m afraid it’s cold, but I assure you it was freshly cooked this morning. Now, I want a bit of improvised chit-chat to begin with, and then as you start to eat, you, Emma, go into wild raptures at the taste,’ he says, clicking his fingers whilst simultaneously stamping his foot, like he’s about to launch into a paso doble. ‘You, hubby, on the other hand, carry on eating, oblivious to the stares and sniggers from the other diners. Okay?’ He claps his hands, then leaps backwards onto the arm of the sofa, eyes boring into me, chin cupped in his hand.
‘Camera rolling … and … action!’
Looking around me at the stark, white walls, I say in a thin voice, ‘I’m so glad you brought us here for our anniversary, darling. What a lovely surprise.’ Ninian looks at me expressionless.
I poke the oily pasta with my fork.
‘Mmm, this pasta is really delicious,’ I say through a mouthful, resisting the urge to gag. Goatee jumps up, tugging at his beard, crucifix swinging wildly back and forth.
‘No, no, no! We want a bit of va-va-voom! Let us feel our mouths salivating, let us taste that pasta sauce, let us be swept along with the sheer enjoyment, the passion … think When Harry Met Sally, think … think … orgasmic!’
He flops back down, eyes twirling in annoyance. Ninian sighs and fires me a withering look. I’ve a good mind to chuck the bowl of pasta over his perfectly coiffed head. I know he isn’t supposed to say anything, but God almighty, it’s like sitting opposite a tailor’s dummy.
I wonder if he works much; perhaps MORTUARY CORPSE is his speciality, and he has a string of enviable TV credits to his name: Silent Witness, Law & Order, Casualty, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, Lewis; the possibilities are endless.
‘Now let’s try it again, please,’ hisses Goatee, chewing gum furiously as he glances at his watch. I glimpse the panel: a stony-faced woman with half-shaved hair yawns, a young guy sporting a man-bun and grungy jeans waggles his sneaker-clad foot, while the cool rock chick in denim skirt and cowboy boots plays with her iPhone.
Okay, you arty-farty advertisers, you want va-va-voom? I’ll give you va-va-voom!
Two and a half grand may be a drop in the ocean to Ninian Moncrieff, but to me it’s a fortune. And that cheque with my name on it is just within my grasp. All that stands between it and me is a few moments of humiliating myself in front of a bunch of strangers. That’s not so bad, is it?
I close my eyes, draw a deep intake of breath, and fling my head back, diving into a frenzied attack on the mound of pasta, stuffing it into my mouth with both hands, covering my face with Pino Pinuccio sauce, panting and moaning.
‘Mmm. More … more … Yes, yes, YESSSS!’
Ninian looks at me, open-mouthed, eyes wide.
‘Thank you!’ booms Goatee eventually, jumping to his feet, a faint smile hovering over his lips. ‘Well, what can I say? Meg Ryan, eat your heart out! We’ll be in touch.’
Ninian scarpers, doubtless terrified he may end up having to escort me back to the tube. I am left to pick up my bag, coat, and last morsel of dignity in stunned silence. I fumble in my pocket. Where’s a tissue when you need one? Head held high, I exit, leaving behind a blob of pasta sauce on the door handle.
I enter the crowded waiting area, woefully aware of the other candidates’ eyes boring through me as they pretend to read their casting briefs.
I clear my throat. ‘Where’s the loo?’ I ask the receptionist.
‘Second door on the left,’ she mumbles, without lifting her eyes from her Heat magazine.
Dammit, it’s engaged, so I about-turn and make a break for it, leaving behind a trail of bloody devastation.
* * *
I pedal up Richmond Hill that evening, shouting into the wind things like, ‘You can keep your two and a half grand and your disgusting sauce!’ and ‘“Like Mamma used to make”? Er, I don’t think so!’
By the time I reach Il Mulino I’m feeling much better, though after today, how can When Harry Met Sally still be my number one go-to film when I’m feeling blue?
On the plus side, Lionel considers me ‘a prospect’ (thank God he wasn’t witness to this afternoon’s performance) and has agreed to take me on his agency’s books. He may not be the crème de la crème of agents, but he has far more contacts than I do, and unrepresented actors are taken less seriously by casting directors. So despite another ego-bashing, something positive has come about to balance things out, and will be toasted in red wine at the end of the shift.
* * *
I wish I hadn’t decided to break in my new black heels tonight. With a full restaurant, I’m multitasking like a woman possessed: meeting and greeting, hanging up coats, taking multiple orders from large tables, uncorking wine, answering the phone, making reservations, clearing and laying tables.
Since that unfortunate mishap with the minestrone, I have now ditched my tentative Britishness when faced with large tables of vociferous, gesticulating customers, and have adopted Rosalba’s serving technique. It can best be described as a kind of simplified cha-cha-cha (minus her hip action) and goes like this: holding the dishes high, take to the floor, approach the table, step forward, step back, step forward, side-together-side, side-together-side, aaand place the plates on the table (carefully), turn, step forward, and return to the kitchen. Missione compiuta! Mission accomplished!
The bell rings angrily. Napoli lost to Manchester City in the Champions League earlier, and there’s been a lot of banging and crashing coming from the kitchen tonight, accompanied by ‘Vaffanculo!’ ‘Cazzo!’, ‘Che cavalo!’ which even Pavarotti at full pelt is unable to drown out.
Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my skirt, smooth my hair, and enter the lion’s den with a wide smile.
Sergio tuts and waves his hand at the two starters. ‘Vai! Go!’
This is all I need after the afternoon I’ve had. Thank God this is the last order.
‘Vai!’
I think I prefer Sergio the Sleazy to Sergio the Surly; in fact neither would be preferable. Things would be so much better were he not around.
Grabbing a knife from the wall, he starts furiously chopping up parsley.
‘Vaiii!’
Okay! I’m going, I’m going.
Blinking back hot tears, I pick up the starters and am just sailing through the doors, when he lets out a blood-curdling howl. My plates smash to the floor, sending tomatoes, mozzarella, avocado, and basil hurtling through the air. I spin round to see thick liquid, the colour of claret spurting from his hand, splashing the white-tiled walls. A waxy, grey hue floods his skin; his strangely wide eyes roll back as he drops to the floor like a stone.
‘Luigi!’ I scream. Oh God, oh God, what’s the first aid procedure? Something about elevation? Is that right? Grabbing two vegetable crates from under the sink, I remove his blood-splattered clogs and raise his legs.
‘Che cosa?’ says Luigi, appearing through the door. ‘Madonna mia!’ he exclaims, raising his hands, horror sweeping across his face.
‘Ambulanza! Pronto!’ I cry, a stab of panic piercing through me.
<
br /> Now what? Control the bleeding, yes, control the bleeding – but how? Nonna Maria appears at my side clutching a tea towel and kneels by Sergio, mumbling in Italian, tugging at her crucifix. I grab the towel and his slippy, blood-soaked hand. My stomach lurches as I see his lifeless, fleshy fingers dangling like broken twigs. I feel sick and giddy. Please God, this is not a good time for me to pass out. I bind them tightly with the towel and raise his arm above his head, pushing his hand hard against my chest. Blood trickles through my fingers, dripping onto my crisp, white shirt. I must keep my cool, practical head on until the ambulance arrives.
‘Maria, ice! Erm … gelato?’ (No, no, that’s ice cream.) ‘Glace!’ She looks at me, bewildered. No, that’s French. ‘Ghiaccio? Yes, ghiaccio!’
Sergio’s eyes flicker open and he twists his head sideways, moaning like a wounded animal. The sound chills me. I gently squeeze his other hand and we hold one another’s upside-down gaze. The pain in his expression slices through me. I want to tell him he’s going to be okay, but can’t think of the right words.
‘Ambulanza – here pronto. Tutto bene. Tutto bene.’
I look towards the door. Where are they?
‘Dio mio!’ cries Rosalba, appearing at my side, face blanched with shock.
‘Rosalba, we must keep him warm. Get his coat.’
Where the hell are they? Please hurry, please.
* * *
A siren screams, and like a scene from ER, two paramedics burst through the swing doors wheeling a stretcher.
‘We’ve got you, mate,’ says one of them, kneeling as he opens his medical bag. ‘I’m just going to give you some morphine to relieve the pain and steady that racing heart of yours, okay?’ I look away as the needle is produced. I feel Sergio’s body judder.
‘You can let go now,’ says his colleague, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘All right, Phil? One, two, three. There we go.’
I stagger to my feet and look down at Sergio’s face, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
‘Tutto bene,’ I whisper, as he is whisked out to the waiting ambulance. ‘Tutto bene.’
I just stand there, staring at my blood-drenched shirt and hands. There’s a swimming sensation in my head as my legs buckle beneath me and I slump down onto the floor.
* * *
I jog past the bins and piled-up garden furniture early next morning, entering the restaurant through the kitchen, where Nonna Maria is by the sink, chopping onions, humming and crying at the same time.
‘Ciao, Maria,’ I pant, removing my earphones and kissing her on both cheeks.
‘Any news from the hospital? Er … notizie da Sergio?’
These three little words unleash a torrent of Italian, of which ‘aeroporto’ and ‘ospedale’ are the only vocabulary I understand. I just do my customary nodding routine, interspersed with the odd ‘sì’ or ‘no’, then escape to the dining room with a ‘mi scusi’ the moment I’m able to get a word in edgeways. It’s empty and silent. I put on some Madame Butterfly to soothe my frayed nerves. Grabbing a stiffly starched tablecloth from the pile, I start laying up.
A retro flower power van mounts the pavement. A woman in dungarees jumps out.
‘Let me give you a hand,’ I say, propping the door open. Back and forth we go, until all the floral arrangements are inside.
‘Twenty individual centrepieces, three large,’ she says, handing me the consignment note and a pen. ‘Hope it all goes well.’
‘Wine order for Il Mulino,’ comes a voice behind me.
‘Ah, yes, that’s us,’ I reply, chewing on a fingernail as the delivery man negotiates his trolley around the obstacle course of rosemary, white freesias, and red roses.
‘Twelve cases of Valpolicella, Chianti, Lacryma Christi, Verdicchio, Pino Grigio, and Prosecco,’ he says, unloading. I begin to check the boxes off against his inventory, but with so much more to do, I abandon this task and just pray that nothing’s missing.
Help! Where is everyone? I can’t do this on my own. The evening hasn’t even begun and I have this horrible sense of foreboding. I feel panic rising inside me, mixed with guilt about Sergio’s accident; just moments before, hadn’t I wished him gone? Next minute, bam. He was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. My visualisation powers have taken on a telekinetic life of their own, like in some Stephen King horror film.
‘That’s your lot. Sign here please,’ says the deliveryman, thrusting his clipboard into my hand. ‘When’s the party?’
‘Tonight, believe it or not,’ I reply, rolling my eyes.
His eyebrows shoot up and he gives a low whistle. ‘I’d get the white in the chiller as soon as you can.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a hint of sarcasm, scooping up a handful of cutlery. Now, will that be before I’ve laid up twenty tables, folded eighty napkins into birds of paradise, put fresh towels in the loos, sliced up the lemons, polished the wine glasses and cutlery, and filled the butter dishes?
‘Good luck!’ he says cheerily, shutting the door behind him.
I flop into a chair, surveying the war zone: boxes of wine, flowers, glasses, tablecloths, bread baskets, bunting, cutlery everywhere. I feel exhausted and emotionally drained, and have absolutely no idea how I’m going to get through the day, let alone the opening night. With the local press, not to mention Michelin and Egon Ronay representatives invited, the future of Il Mulino is riding on the success of this one night. It’s going to take an Oscar-worthy performance to pull this off. I haul myself to my feet, turn up the volume of the CD player, and resume laying up.
* * *
Only three more tables to go. This is my favourite bit of Madame Butterfly: the finale, where Cio-Cio San reads the inscription on her father’s knife: ‘Who Cannot Live with Honour Must Die with Honour.’ She stabs herself just as that two-timing, naval love rat Pinkerton is heard calling out her name.
Cutlery in hand, I allow my eyes to close for a moment and breathe deeply. That feels so good. The notes flow through me, as I surrender to the flood of heart-rending, dramatic, sorrowful emotion …
‘“Con onor muore, chi non puo serbar vita, con onor amore, addio, addio! Piccolo amor! Va, gioca, giocaaaaaah!”’
‘Emileeee!’
‘Aaaah!’
‘This is my nephew, Francesco Rossi,’ says Luigi, switching off the music. ‘He will be in charge of the kitchen until Sergio returns.’
‘Zio Luigi, you tell me in the car she is British, but she can sing like an Italian,’ says the dark stranger, brimming with amusement.
‘Piacere,’ I say, flushing to the roots of my unwashed hair as we shake hands.
‘You dropped this,’ he says, bending down and handing me a knife.
‘Grazie,’ I say in a low voice, averting my gaze, sorely tempted to do a Madame Butterfly and die with honour then and there.
CHAPTER SIX
Curtain Up!
AS THE CROWD STARTS TRICKLING IN, I take coats and serve drinks while Luigi mingles with the guests. Once they’ve settled in with appetisers and wine, he taps a glass with a knife and the lively chatter dies down, a sea of expectant faces turning to meet his.
‘Benvenuti, miei amici!’ Pointing to the sepia photograph of the windmill behind the bar, he recounts in halting English, how as a small boy, he had a fascination for mulini a vento; he would spend his summer holidays at his grandparents’ in Sicily, and play in the disused windmill next door. He believed its spinning blades were wings. He’d sit inside the tower and fly to far-off lands, encountering giants and mystical creatures along the way.
But as soon as the church clock struck six, he would race home in time to wash his hands, comb his hair, and lay the table for Nonna, for he knew if he were late, there would be no supper, and a day without Nonna’s cooking was like a day without play.
‘Allora, basta! Enough!’ he says, wiping his moist brow. A warm smile and a look of unmistakable pride spread across his face as he announces, ‘Now I go back to the kitchen, and I leave you wi
th my beautiful daughter, Rosalba, and my future son-in-law, Lucio Pavarotti!’
Spontaneous laughter and applause break out, swiftly followed by a series of oohs and aahs as Rosalba, in a sizzling red, floor-length, off-the-shoulder gown slinks down the stairs, through the tightly packed tables, followed by Luke, in a crisp, white, wing-collared shirt sans tie and dark waistcoat, his thick, golden hair (more beach boy than dentist) sleek and shiny.
The clapping dies down as he takes his place at the piano, opens the lid, straightens his back, and flexes his fingers. (Blimey, he can perform root canal on me any day of the week.) Rosalba’s diamante earrings sway gently back and forth, catching the light. He nods his head towards her, and with a toss of her tumbling ebony tresses, the words ‘“O Mio Babbino Caro …”’ spill from her sumptuous, painted mouth.
I haven’t a clue what the lyrics mean, but I assume it’s about yet another tragic, heartbroken heroine about to die either through murder or suicide. (Rosalba tells me later it’s about a spoiled brat of a daughter who wants a ring, and is threatening to throw her toys into the River Arno because her dad won’t give in to her.)
Throughout the night I zigzag in between the tables, topping up red and white wine, sneaking a little sip for myself when no one’s looking.
I know it’s mean of me, considering Sergio’s lying in hospital minus a finger, but with Francesco in charge, the kitchen is a different place. The interaction between us is easy and humorous, flirtatious even, and the food’s just as good – no, better. And the positive vibe flows out into the dining room.
You never know what mood Sergio is going to be in, and if you don’t understand him right away, he either mumbles something you just know is derogatory, or raises his voice and waves his arms about. (I have him to thank for my extensive knowledge of Italian expletives.) Next minute he’s teasing you, calling you his cucciolo.