One Summer in Rome: a deliciously uplifting summer romance!. Samantha TongeЧитать онлайн книгу.
with bursts of green foliage and flowers.
‘Attento!’ called a young man as he skateboarded past.
Mary lowered her gaze and, with a grin, stepped out of the way. She passed a tap dancer and a man performing card tricks. The piazza reminded her of a jammy dodger biscuit – reliably pleasing on the outside, but vibrant and colourful in the centre. Small children ran around, undeterred by the heat. Wishing she’d brought a sunhat, Mary finally reached the pizza parlour. She took a deep breath.
‘Hello, Pizzeria Dolce Vita,’ she whispered. ‘Good to meet you.’
She stopped. Bit her lip, annoyed at an unexpected urge to flee. What if she didn’t fit in? Hated the job? What if this new venture turned out to be transitory?
Mary flexed her hands, grabbed her case, and headed over to the southern Moor Fountain Giovanni had mentioned, right opposite the restaurant. She breathed in and out, in and out, and admired the rose-coloured marble. The fountain featured a large basin with a figure of a man standing in a conch shell, wrestling a dolphin. Surrounding it were four Tritons – or gods. The sound of running water steadied her nerves.
Mary dug into her handbag and gave the yellow citrine crystal of new beginnings a determined stroke, before heading towards the white canopy shielding outdoor diners from the sun. She caught the eye of Rocco, dressed as he had been in the photo, with his white shirt and black bow tie. He finished taking an order and then came over.
‘You must be the new English waitress,’ he said, in an uninterested voice, yet peered hard over the top of his glasses.
No red-carpet welcome here, but then she was nothing special – just another helping hand, not an affluent customer nor food reviewer.
‘Rocco?’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Ignoring the gesture he nodded. ‘Come. Alfonso is inside, preparing coffees.’
Pulling her case, Mary followed him towards the door and navigated her way along the narrow gap alleyway between seated customers. She pulled it up a mahogany step and stood for a moment, taking in the view ahead of her. In front were tables, with green gingham cloths and a vase – just like those outside. Then stretching ahead, along the left, was a mahogany bar and stools, with mirrors along the wall behind upside-down liquor bottles. She squinted. At the far end of it was a silver coffee machine. Further on, a wider dining room and right at the back a staircase marked Privato.
Alfonso lifted the bar hatch and came out from behind the counter. Rocco hurried back outside whilst solid, warm arms wrapped themselves around Mary. Noisy kisses landed on each of her cheeks and she felt the bristle of an impressive moustache. She pinked up and stood back.
‘Buongiorno,’ Mary stuttered.
‘Maria! So glad you made it. Giovanni picked you up on time?’
‘Yes. He gave me a lovely tour,’ she said and smiled. With his crinkly eyes and wide upturned mouth, it felt impossible not to mirror Alfonso’s warmth. ‘The restaurant is lovely,’ she said. ‘Really homely.’
He bowed. ‘Grazie. We work hard to make customers feel welcome, so that is the perfect compliment.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Now, scusa, but I have coffees and desserts to serve. Natale can take you upstairs. The pizza rush is over, so Dante is up there, preparing for your arrival. You must be hungry.’ Chunky fingers squeezed her arm. ‘You and I can chat later.’
‘Maria!’ sang a cheerful, soprano voice. Natale came over, wearing a pastel cotton dress and carrying a tea towel. Another hug. A kiss on either cheek. Mary wasn’t used to such affection. Only from Jill – and … and Jake. She didn’t have any siblings to visit, nor uncles or aunts. Only one foster couple had got remotely close to her heart but they’d now moved to France.
‘Ah! The great English reserve,’ said Alfonso and grinned. ‘Maria, you must get used to us Italians being hands-on.’
Natale laughed and pulled a face. ‘Give her a chance, Papà! And it is not all Italians. You just brought us up to be molto friendly.’
‘Of course! Otherwise what is the point?’ He shrugged, wiped his brow again and hurried off.
Natale slipped her arm through Mary’s and they headed towards the private stairs at the far end of the restaurant. Molto meant very. Hopefully Mary’s knowledge of Italian would return speedily. She looked sideways at Natale. It felt … good, linking arms.
‘Don’t worry.’ Natale smiled. ‘You will get used to us.’ She took the case, and Mary followed her up the stairs. ‘There is an entrance you can access from the back of the building – a more private staircase. Dante will show you around properly,’ she said, over her shoulder.
‘You speak such good English, Natale. Why does Alfonso want a waitress from England?’
She turned around on the stairs and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Lots of reasons. Once we were asked if we cooked toad-in-the-hole. Chef was horrified.’
Mary wondered what he’d think of bubble and squeak.
‘And we get lots of tourists from Manchester, Newcastle, Scotland … the accent is not so easy to understand. Also, visitors seem to feel more comfortable with someone from their country of origin and ask all sorts of advice, like where the local doctor is, the best time of day to visit the Coliseum, if there is a cheap supermarket nearby … and this often means they become regular diners here, during their stay. We are so grateful Sarah was able to suggest a lovely replacement. The other people we interviewed were not nearly as suitable.’
Mary’s pulse quickened. ‘I won’t know anything to start with.’ It could take months. What if she didn’t get up to speed?
Natale’s face softened. ‘No worry. By the time our busiest season starts, at the end of July, you will know this area like the back of your arm.’
‘Hand,’ she corrected and they both grinned.
After one flight of stairs they arrived in an open-plan lounge and kitchen area. What a contrast to the bustling restaurant. It was airy and bright. The colour scheme was white with colourful accessories. Purple cushions. A lush green rug. Vibrant paintings in old frames. Every object looked worn as if it hadn’t spent its life simply being a soulless decoration. A scratched glass coffee table stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a long sofa and two armchairs. The pine and silver kitchen stood on the left, separated from the living area by a long breakfast bar and a row of backed stools, plus a dining table towards the rear of the room.
‘It’s lovely,’ Mary said and gazed at the wall ahead, covered in a mosaic of family photos. Alfonso, with his arms around a woman his age. Perhaps that was his late wife. There was a smaller one of Natale and her little girl. No husband though? And … Dante in a police uniform. She’d thought he simply made pizza. Balancing two jobs must be difficult. She studied the photo. The sharp clothes made him look hot – but that was simply an observation. Jake had shattered her trust. She was here to get strong again and that meant men were off the menu.
‘No doubt you are thirsty,’ said Natale. ‘Let me put the coffee on. Do you take milk?’
‘Yes please. One sugar.’
‘Just like me,’ said Natale and that rosebud mouth curved upwards.
She smiled and wished British politeness would allow her to ask for a long, cold drink instead. Whilst Natale busied herself with some sort of aluminium percolator, that she filled with water and eventually placed on top of the stove, Mary headed over to the right-hand side and a huge window facing the square. She looked down on tourists and artists and fought an urge to rub her eyes. Was her new home for real? Back in Hackney her view had been an abandoned warehouse. Whereas this was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of people and sounds coming and going.
‘Dante!’ sang out Natale. Seconds later heavy footsteps approached. Mary cleared her throat and turned