One Night in Italy (10 page)

Catherine obediently told her. It took two whole biscuits to get the story out, with a brief pause for nose-blowing, eye-dabbing and a hug from Penny that was so tight and strong she could have had King Kong in a headlock.

‘Flaming hell,’ said Penny. ‘And here’s me thinking you had a dodgy tummy or were missing the children. I wasn’t expecting any of
that.
’

‘Nor was I,’ said Catherine, her voice wobbling.

‘Oh, love,’ said Penny, putting a hand on hers. ‘He must be having one of those mid-life crises. He’ll be back by the end of the week, I bet you, tail between his legs, begging your forgiveness.’

‘He said he’d never loved me, Penny, that I’d trapped him by getting pregnant. He said we should never have got married.’

Penny sucked in a breath. ‘That’s just nasty. Bloody men, they’ve got no idea, have they?’

‘It was probably my fault,’ Catherine ventured in a small voice.

‘Bollocks, was it,’ Penny told her. ‘Your fault that he’s been such a bastard? Don’t give me that shite.’

Nobody had ever called Mike a bastard in Catherine’s presence before. He was a doctor, a pillar of the community, her
husband
. ‘He’s not a . . .’ she began, automatically leaping to his defence.

Penny raised an eyebrow. ‘He shags another woman and tells you he’s never loved you? He totally is a bastard, love. I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but that’s pretty much as bastard as bastard gets.’

Catherine’s head was ringing with all this bastardliness. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Penny squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get over him,’ she said. ‘Good riddance. And you’ve got me to look after you in the meantime.’

‘I don’t think I need . . .’

‘You do. Trust me, you do. Now, I’m your friend, Cath, so I’m allowed to ask: when was the last time you ate a proper meal?’

It was hard to remember when she’d last done anything that felt ordinary. ‘Saturday?’ she guessed.

‘And no offence, love, but you don’t half pong. Have you actually washed recently? Be honest now.’

‘Not really.’

‘Yeah. As I thought. Go and have a shower while I make you something to eat. Go on!’

‘Penny, you don’t have to. I . . .’

‘And wash that hair, for crying out loud. It looks like there’s been a natural oil disaster on your head. Really, Cath. Now. Do it.’

Catherine opened her mouth to protest but Penny had her hands on her hips and a certain look in her eye. Penny had brought up three children and six bloody-minded dogs in her time and was definitely not a person to start arguing with unless you had the stamina of an Olympian. She was already rummaging through the larder in search of ingredients. As Catherine trudged upstairs, she heard the radio go on, then
Woman’s Hour
being retuned to a channel playing pop music. Seconds later there came the sound of singing and clattering pots.

Catherine stood in the shower and let the water cascade over her, feeling nothing but terror and dread about what lay in the future. Surely not even Penny could rescue her from this nightmare?

‘You know, you could see this as an opportunity,’ Penny told her twenty minutes later, running hot water into the bowl at the sink and adding a squirt of washing-up liquid.

Catherine was now fully dressed with clean, dry hair, and tucking hungrily into the cheese and ham omelette her friend had rustled up. God, she was famished. ‘An opportunity?’ she echoed, her mouth full of hot gooey cheddar.

‘Yes, an opportunity. A new start. A chance to do all those things you always wanted to but never had the nerve.’ Penny swished the foamy water around while she thought. ‘You could go and live abroad for a while. You could—’

‘I don’t want to live abroad.’

‘You could have a holiday, then. Escape Britain and catch some rays. Play your cards right and you might even catch something else, if you know what I mean.’

Catherine tucked a stray red tendril behind her ear and gave her friend a withering look. ‘Gonorrhea?’

‘No! Killjoy. I meant a holiday fling, a handsome Pedro or Jean-Paul. Just what you need to forget your cheating bastard husband.’

‘Penny!’

‘Just saying!’

‘Well, don’t. Anyway, I did that once before – the holiday fling, I mean – and look where it got me.’

‘Yeah, eighteen happy years and two lovely kids. My point exactly.’

Catherine forked another mouthful of omelette in, not bothering to argue. Penny had been divorced twice and was now having a fling with a thirty-year-old toyboy. She didn’t have a clue.

‘Or,’ Penny went on, sensing they’d hit a brick wall, ‘you could go back to college. You could go back to uni!’

‘To finish the twenty-one-year degree course? Surely that’d be a record.’

‘Get a job, then. A proper job. Never too late to have a career change, and you’re still young. Younger than me, you cow.’

‘How can I have a career change when I’ve never even had a career?’ Catherine pointed out. ‘Anyway, I’m too busy with all my other things.’

‘What, making tea for old ladies and selling musty clothes in the charity shop?’

‘There’s the dog rescue centre, too. And all that ironing I said I’d do for Mrs Archbold.’

‘Sounds to me like you need a break, Cath. Hey, best idea yet. How about a girls’ holiday, just us two? Get some winter sun . . . what do you say?’

Catherine sighed. She couldn’t decide anything. She’d had enough trouble deciding whether or not she wanted salad with her omelette. ‘I don’t know,’ she said faintly. ‘I’ve got to talk to Mike first.’

‘Sod Mike. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. And you certainly don’t need his permission for—’

‘No, I mean money-wise. If we split up . . .’ She broke off, suddenly losing her appetite again. ‘If we split up, I’m not going to have any money, am I? I can’t start flouncing off abroad on his savings.’

‘Sure you bloody can. It’s the least he can do, after the psychological scarring he’s inflicted on you, the unfaithful shitbag.’

The fight had gone out of Catherine as well as her appetite. She pushed the plate away feeling tired of this conversation. ‘I can’t think straight,’ she mumbled.

‘No worries. Sorry to go on at you. That’s all you need, right?’

Catherine’s bottom lip was wobbling again. She blew her nose quickly, not meeting Penny’s eye.

Penny finished washing up and dried her hands on the nearest tea towel before sitting down at the table. ‘Do you want to come and stay with us for a while? Just until you’ve got your head around this? I promise I won’t nag on at you all the time.’

Catherine managed a weak smile. Penny’s house was noisy and chaotic, with teenagers and dogs spilling out of every nook and cranny. Last time she’d popped round there had also been Toyboy Darren hunking about the place, with his buff bare chest and a towel round his waist. She wasn’t sure she had the energy to cope with that lot right now. ‘That’s really kind, but I just need to hibernate fora bit, if you know what I mean. Pull the duvet over my head and shut out the world.’

Penny wouldn’t know what she meant; Penny’s idea of getting over a man was to doll up in a short dress and heels, get lairy on tequila and go clubbing with anyone game enough to accompany her.

But she nodded and clasped Catherine’s hand all the same. ‘Whatever you want, Cath. Whatever it takes. But you know I’m here, right? And I’ll help you get through this, I swear I will.’

Chapter Eight

La Cucina
– Cooking

It was a cold, frost-glittering Saturday morning in December and Anna was on her way to Giovanni’s deli for her daylong Italian cookery course. She hoped she wasn’t about to disgrace her father’s people. Knowing her, she’d hack off a thumb amidst some ambitiously fast garlic chopping, or worse. Maybe that was why her father had abandoned her, she thought wildly, clutching the banister as she climbed the stairs to the class. Maybe he had seen in her eyes, even as a mewling baby, that she was not cut out to be a proper Italian daughter. Maybe he—

‘
Buongiorno
,’ Giovanni said, smiling warmly.

Anna blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘
Buongiorno
,’ she replied.

‘You are Anna, I am thinking? Welcome. Now everybody is here and we can begin.’

There were twelve of them in the class: a broad assortment of people, old and young, none of whom seemed particularly cheffy, much to Anna’s relief. After coffee and a round of introductions, they washed their hands, put on aprons and got stuck in. First they made their own egg-yellow pasta sheets (surprisingly simple), and used them for spinach and ricotta ravioli (amazing). Then they learned how to make focaccia (yum) and an authentic Italian minestrone (the key was a great chicken stock) before finishing with a creamy pannacotta served with berries. Best of all, when they had finished cooking, they sat down together and devoured the lot. Every single mouthful was scrumptious.

‘You like?’ Giovanni said, seeing Anna’s blissed-out expression as she scraped the last streaks of pannacotta from her bowl. He was tall and weather-beaten, threads of grey through his hair and dark, sparkly eyes.

‘I like,’ she replied with a grin. ‘Actually my Dad’s Italian, so . . .’

She broke off, cringing at how lame she sounded, but Giovanni seemed delighted. ‘Your papa? Ahh! Now you can cook some Italian treats for him, eh?’

His enthusiasm was infectious. ‘I’d love to,’ she replied truthfully.

The class was so interesting and fun that she spent the following afternoon baking another focaccia at home, this time with rosemary and garlic. Okay, so it wasn’t quite as perfect as the one kneaded and baked under Giovanni’s watchful eye, but it made her whole flat smell amazing, and she was so pleased with herself, she took half of it into work for her colleagues to sample on Monday.

‘This is bloody epic,’ Joe said, cramming two pieces in at once. He licked his fingers and grinned at her. ‘You seem more Italian already, you know.’

‘Oh, you
are
lucky,’ sighed Marla, who wrote restaurant reviews and occasional features. She was the office bombshell – all hair extensions and polished nails – and today was wearing a short candy-floss pink dress, sheer tights and vertiginous heels, despite it being minus two and snowy outside. ‘Being able to eat carbs, I mean. You can get away with it when you’ve got curves, but people with a slimmer build like me . . .’ She pouted down at her non-existent stomach. ‘I’d better say no.’

Anna flinched at the not-so-subtle insult, but Joe was already speaking. ‘Calling me fat? Cheeky cow,’ he said in mock-indignation, stuffing more bread into his mouth.

‘No, I . . .’ Marla said, flustered.
No, I didn’t mean you
,
I was having a dig at Anna
, she didn’t quite say.

‘Only I’m happy with my curves, thank you very much,’ he went on, putting a hand on his hip and batting his eyelashes.

Anna snorted as discreetly as she could. Joe didn’t have a spare ounce of fat on him; he was lean and wiry and knew damn well what Marla had been insinuating. The whole office knew what Marla had been insinuating.

Marla pressed her lips together and typed very fast, and Joe grinned at Anna. ‘Like I said, bloody delicious,’ he said loudly.

Even grouchy Colin pronounced her efforts a triumph. ‘Excellent work,’ he said. ‘Can we look forward to more of the same?’

‘Yeah, when’s the next cookery course?’ Joe asked. ‘Have you booked it yet? Maybe you could make us all dinner next time. Marla will be having a plate of raw vegetables, mind . . .’

‘I can
hear
, you know,’ Marla snapped.

‘. . . But we’d rather have plates of pasta. Or risotto. Do you like risotto, Col? Not vegetarian, are you, or denying yourself any major food groups?’

‘Love risotto,’ Colin replied. ‘Although I prefer a steak pie, to be honest.’

‘So that’s one risotto, one steak pie, a carrot for Marla and whatever you’re having.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Anna laughed, but she glowed with the praise nonetheless. She didn’t tell them that she’d already gone hunting online for another challenge and discovered a fantastic-sounding cookery school in Tuscany which offered week-long courses. Maybe when she could actually speak the language, she promised herself.

‘What’s all this? Somebody been baking?’

Anna’s expression froze as Imogen came click-clacking towards them. She was wearing a boxy lilac jacket and matching heels, which made her resemble a purposeful Parma Violet.

‘Just a bit of bread,’ Anna said lamely as Joe melted away. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Oh God, focaccia, my
bête noire
,’ Imogen exclaimed, reaching out for the smallest square. She was tall and elegant with coiffed silvery hair, and had a sixth sense when it came to a) journalists behaving badly and b) free food in the office. ‘Hell, it doesn’t count when you’re standing up, does it?’ she said.

‘Said the actress to the bishop,’ muttered Colin.

‘A moment on the lips and . . . Mmmm.’ Imogen’s eyes widened as she bit into the bread. ‘Ooh, I say. That’s excellent, Anna. Super. I didn’t have you down as the domestic type, if you don’t mind me saying.’