Miss You (48 page)

In fact, my hands are grazed and stinging, but it’s only superficial. I stand straight up and walk on with as much dignity as my damaged pride and flip-flops will allow.

GUS

I can’t see her face properly because she has this big hat on, then she slides away.

I stand on tiptoe to see over the top of the vine, and she’s sitting on the dusty path, one terrace down. She leaps up quickly, all legs and elbows, and continues walking, unaware of the
big patch of clay-brown dust on the back of her white shorts.

The sun is high in the sky and blindingly bright. It’s almost midday and I should probably have a hat on myself because the heat’s playing tricks with my mind.

I return to the kitchen with the
ciliegini
and I’m washing them at the big stainless-steel sink by the window, when the hat walks past, holding her arm at the wrist, her palm turned
up, like a child who’s fallen in the playground.

‘Goos!’ the chef calls.

‘
Si?
’

‘
Facciamo la pasta?
’

Shall we make the pasta?

‘
Certo!
’

I bought a phrasebook at the airport this morning, with a CD that I played while driving my hire car to the
agriturismo
. It was a mistake to choose Italian on the satnav with only a
couple of hours’ knowledge of the language, but I found the place eventually.

There are only three of us on the cookery course helping the two chefs prepare lunch. One of my fellow students is a bear of a German with a gut bulging over the strings of his apron; the other
an American divorcee in her mid-forties who speaks a different culinary English to mine – eggplant, broil, skillet. Kurt is sweating over the
osso buco
; Nancy is in the final stages of
preparing the vegetarian dish of
melanzane farcite
; I, as the latecomer, have been put in charge of spaghetti
al pomodoro
, whose simple ingredients must be prepared and then added
just before serving, so I’m at a bit of a loose end, until Chef points at the fresh fruit and demonstrates how he wants it cut up.

The business of serving forty people spaghetti is hotter work than I imagined, especially in a white chef’s jacket, but it’s more satisfying too, and as I’m doling out the last
portions, I become aware of comments from the tables where people are eating.

‘So fresh!’

‘Pasta cooked just right!’

‘Do they sell this olive oil, do you think? I’ve got to take some home!’

‘What’s the green bits?’ says a voice that’s like an echo in my head.

I look up. It’s her. It
is
her! The butterfly woman!

She has taken off her hat, but sweat has flattened her short hair around the crown and the fine, damp curls look like a baby’s hair in the bath. She’s peering suspiciously at the
last strands of spaghetti.

‘Basil,’ I hear myself saying, through the muffling nervousness that has engulfed my brain.

‘Does it taste like spinach?’ The voice has that slight twang, not Essex, but not far off.

‘Not really.’

‘Go on then!’

My hand is shaking so much as I deposit a portion in the bowl she is proffering, I accidently splash her thumb with tomatoey olive oil.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I grab the tea towel that’s draped over my shoulder, but she’s already put her thumb to her mouth to lick it off and in doing so, tipped some of the
sauce down the front of her T-shirt.

‘Shit,’ she says. ‘That’s two today.’ She turns her hand over to show me a big plaster on her palm. ‘They say bad things come in threes, don’t
they?’ she says. ‘Not that anything could really be that bad in a place like this, could it?’

Her face breaks into that ridiculously familiar smile that makes me feel we’ve known each other for ever and sends my pulse rate soaring.

‘Goos!’ the chef is calling.

‘
Si, Chef. Vengo!
’

I’m coming. Is that right? Or does it have the same other meaning in Italian as it does in English?

‘
La frutta!
’ he says crossly.

There are strawberries to be hulled and doused with juice from oranges I still have to squeeze. And then there is the clearing-up.

By the time I emerge from the kitchen again, most of the guests have left the dining area to take their coffee in the small shaded bar at the other end of the site, but my heart leaps when I see
the hat still sitting there, alone, scribbling in her notebook.

Why can’t you ever just launch in?

Because it’s going to look weird, isn’t it? She obviously doesn’t recognize me and even though it is a complete coincidence, she’s never going to believe that, especially
after the flowers. She’ll probably think I’m stalking her.

She gets up, walks towards me, flip-flops slapping against the decking.

‘Very nice,’ she says, handing me her plate. ‘Being totally honest, I prefer it without the basil.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Did you make it?’

‘I’m doing the cookery course. I prepared the fruit as well.’

‘The fruit was brilliant,’ she says. ‘Especially the watermelon. Normally, it’s full of pips.’

‘There’s a certain way you cut it up.’

‘You’ll have to show me. Not that I’m ever likely to buy a whole watermelon in England, am I? You’d get sick of it after a few days, wouldn’t you? Doesn’t
taste the same in England anyway, does it? More like cucumber. I’m hopeless at cooking. Can’t even do a barbecue without burning everything!’

‘Everyone burns things on a barbecue.’

‘Honestly?’

I nod and am rewarded with the smile.

‘And you’re . . . ?’

‘Writing,’ she says. ‘Supposed to be, anyway. I should be getting back to it, otherwise I’ll be in trouble.’

I can’t think of a way of stopping her from leaving.

‘See you later, maybe?’ I say.

‘Bound to, aren’t we?’

TESS

Wish I didn’t gabble on when I’m nervous. He’s very polite, but there’s a limit, isn’t there? He’s got one of those faces that changes
completely depending on what he’s doing. When he’s listening, it’s serious and intense, but if you make him laugh, he’s like a boy, with nothing to hide. There’s a
kind of freckly look, like the actor who was Marius in
Les Mis
, that’s boyish, but still really sexy. He’s a bit like that. Except taller. He’s very tall.

Is he with someone here? Or alone? Escaping some traumatic event? His eyes are blue, but they’re kind of gold as well, flickering between fun and anxiety.

Way out of my league, obviously, with his public-school accent and everything. Anyway. That’s not what I’m here for.

The rubric at the top of the course timetable is the same as the website advert that attracted Doll. She was thinking Tuscany because I’d always said I wanted to go back, but she thought I
might be lonely on my own, seeing as she couldn’t come with me, what with Elsie and being seven months pregnant again.

We meet in the shaded area below the pool where I saw the yoga people this morning. There are only five of us, including Geraldine, the course leader. I calculate that yoga is
by far the most popular course because there are at least twenty of them, and before we’ve even started I’m wondering whether I should ask to swap, even though I’ve never fancied
yoga before.

I didn’t get the greatest first impression of two of my fellow students – a middle-aged husband-and-wife combo – on the flight out. It wasn’t the air steward’s
fault that the tortilla chips had run out, and, if you’re going on Ryanair, you’d be mad to count on a range of snacks. The third time they called him back, I almost turned round and
said, ‘You should’ve eaten at the airport, shouldn’t you?’

Just as well I didn’t, because it was them I found myself squashed up against in the minibus.

There’s a bit of a competitive vibe straight away. ‘How long’s your draft?’ type of thing. The middle-aged couple, Graeme and Sue, are both geography teachers. He’s
writing an action thriller set on a field trip; she’s writing a romcom about two teachers. She asks us to guess the title from her description. It’s obvious that none of us feels
comfortable doing so.

‘Why don’t you tell us?’ says Geraldine pleasantly.

‘
Staffroom Shenanigans!
’ says Sue triumphantly.

‘That’s so cool!’ says Erica, who’s a very large American woman.

She’s writing a vampire novel for teens, which, she assures us, is nothing like
Twilight
. I’d be happier if she’d said it was exactly like
Twilight
because I
really enjoyed the whole series.

Now they’re all looking at me. It’s hard to tell Erica’s age, but I think I’m probably the youngest in the group.

‘Mine’s not a novel,’ I begin.

‘Interesting,’ says Erica.

I notice Sue and Graeme exchanging knowing looks, as if I’m a naughty schoolgirl who hasn’t read the exam question carefully.

Geraldine, who I’m sure is a lovely woman, but looks quite like Leo’s wife, with her long hair streaked with grey and her kaftan-type of dress, gives me an encouraging smile.

‘It’s called
Living with Hope
, and it’s kind of about my mother and my sister, who has Asperger syndrome.’

‘So it’s an autobiography?’ says Sue, in a bit of a patronizing tone.

‘More of a memoir,’ I tell her.

Graeme laughs into his hand, as if I’m stupid. Maybe there isn’t a distinction? Maybe memoir just sounds better.

‘There’s a name for those kind of books, isn’t there?’ says Erica, squeezing her already piggy eyes in her effort to remember.

Geraldine steps in. ‘Let’s not get too bogged down with categorization.’

‘My sister’s called Hope, you see . . .’

‘That’s so cool,’ says Erica.

Geraldine lays out a few ground rules for the course, about how we have to respect each other and try to be positive, all stuff I already know from City Lit. Then she asks us to sit in silence
looking at the physical features of our surroundings, and listening to the sounds around us, and write what she calls a global description setting the scene, gradually zooming in on a group of
characters.

The peaceful moment of contemplation is broken by Graeme. ‘“The sun was setting over the Tuscan hills, and the crickets were singing . . .” Is that the sort of thing
you’re looking for?’

‘You’ve got the idea,’ says Geraldine.

‘Well, I’ve done mine then,’ says Graeme, as if there’s a prize for finishing first.

A slight breeze, charcoal-scented with pizza, rustles the canopy above us.

I can’t believe I’m hungry again.

‘If you complete the exercise in your own time, we’ll read them tomorrow. Then we’ll discuss some techniques to hone your critiquing skills,’ says Geraldine, bringing the
session to a close.

‘Misery memoir!’ Erica suddenly shrieks.

Everyone looks at her.

She points at me. ‘That’s the book you’re writing!’

‘No, it’s not,’ I say.

‘Yes, that’s what they’re called!’ she insists.

I’m about to say, ‘There’s nothing miserable about it.’ But I realize that I don’t want her, or any of these other people, knowing anything more. They’re not
like my class at City Lit and I don’t want my chapters to be pulled apart by them, however ‘constructively’ they do it. In fact, I’m not prepared to share it with them.

Back in my room I feel bad, because Doll’s paid so much money, and it was such a thoughtful idea, and I don’t want to let her down.

I’m still going to enjoy it, I tell her on the phone, because it’s a beautiful place and the infinity pool is great, and there are excursions in the minibus every day. Maybe
I’ll join the Culture class, or maybe I’ll just do the culture bit myself.

Doll says, ‘You do whatever you want! It’s supposed to be a holiday!’

So that’s a relief.

‘Any fit men?’

‘I haven’t been here a whole day yet!’

‘I seeeeee,’ she says.

He’s on duty at the wood-fired pizza oven, cutting up the huge discs with a pizza wheel.

There’s a savoury one with tomato sauce, dots of floppy mozzarella and a different herb, which he says is oregano, that gives the typical Italian taste. You get it dried in England, but
this is fresh from the villa’s garden. If you like you can have anchovies, or bits of
salsiccia
, which is a kind of sausage. They put the circles of raw dough on a huge flat shovel and
push them into the furnace for only a minute or so, because it’s that hot.

His face is really pink from standing next to the oven, or maybe from the sun because red-haired people burn easily. He’s friendly, but there’s a limit to how long we can chat with a
queue of hungry people behind me.

I avoid sitting with the writing group, but everyone else seems to have teamed up with their classmates and nobody looks very inclined to budge up and let me sit down with them. The stone
carvers who arrived back late are covered in a ghostly dusting of white powder; the yoga group stare aghast at the sausage on top of my pizza because they’re all vegetarians, so I perch at
the end of a table on my own, watching him serving. I don’t think he’s here with anyone because he keeps glancing over, and I keep having to pretend that I was just staring into space,
composing my book or something.

After we’ve all had a savoury pizza, we can go up again and get one with fresh fruit and sugar on top. I didn’t know pizza could be sweet.