One Night in Italy (18 page)

It
was
the photos. Oh my goodness. Actual evidence of that Italian summer. She lowered herself onto the arm of the sofa and rifled through them shakily. One photo made her gasp out loud.

There was her mum in a bright red dress, posing with her arm around a man in a beachside restaurant. It was evening, her mum had lipstick and heels on, and looked young, pretty and extremely happy nestled against the man. He, meanwhile, was dark-haired, olive-skinned and smoulderingly handsome, with one hand resting possessively on Tracey’s waist.

Anna practically stopped breathing as she stared at him. He looked so like her she couldn’t drag her eyes away. It had to be her father. It just had to be.

‘
Buonasera
, Gino,’ she whispered, drinking in every detail of his face. She was almost afraid to blink in case the picture vanished while she wasn’t looking. ‘
Buonasera, Papa
.’

Chapter Fourteen

Che lavoro fai?
– What do you do for a living?

Catherine had really enjoyed her first Italian lesson. Well, apart from insulting poor George by saying he hadn’t used his brain recently, of course. Thankfully she managed not to put her foot in it for the remaining time, and her classmates were all still speaking to her by the end. Over the next few days, she practised her new vocabulary around the house, in the car, and while she was mulching the garden. She even surprised the postman with a bright ‘
Buongiorno!
’ when he knocked with a parcel.

By the time a week had gone by and she was on her way back to the college for lesson number two, she felt quite excited about learning more.

‘
Buonasera!
’ cried Sophie as Catherine walked into the classroom. ‘
Come estai
, Catherine?’

‘
Sto bene, grazie
,’ Catherine replied shyly.
I’m well, thanks.
‘How are you? I mean,
Come estai?
’

‘
Sto bene
,’ Sophie replied. ‘Have a seat while we wait for the others.’

Sophie looked very fragile, Catherine thought in concern. She’d noticed last week as well. There were dark rings under her eyes and her wrists were too thin, poking out of her jumper sleeves like knobbly twigs. She was just about to ask if everything really was
bene
when the rest of the class began arriving.

‘Evening, ladies,’ said Geraldine, coming in on a waft of Chanel. Geraldine had style, with her lovely cobalt-blue coat and heels, and a huge glossy black handbag, the sort that would knock out any would-be muggers with a single wallop. ‘Goodness, it’s chilly out there, isn’t it? Meant to snow tonight, according to the radio. I think we’ll have to get the extra duvet out later, Roy.’

‘I think you’re right, dear,’ he said, following in her wake. He winked at Catherine and Sophie. ‘I agree with everything she says, you know,’ he whispered loudly. ‘That’s how come we’re going to be celebrating our forty years this summer.’

‘That’s the secret, is it?’ Sophie laughed. ‘I’ll bear that in mind if I ever find myself a husband. As long as he knows he has to agree with everything I say, we’ll be laughing. Hello, Anna! Hi, George, come on in.’

Once everyone had arrived, exclaiming over the cold and taking off their coats and scarves, the second lesson began.

‘Tonight we’re going to learn a few more Italian words and sentences so that you can start having longer conversations,’ Sophie said. ‘And we’ll all find out a bit more about each other in the process.’ She turned to the board and chalked up some words. ‘
Che lavoro fai?
’ she said. ‘This means, what job do you do?’

Catherine’s stomach gave a lurch. What
job
? She didn’t have a job! What was she supposed to say?

‘So, Phoebe, let’s start with you.
Che lavoro fai?
What job do you do?’

Phoebe twiddled a long strand of hair around her finger. The pink streaks had gone, Catherine noticed, replaced by a striking dip-dye look, with red now colouring the lower six inches of her hair. “I’m a hairdresser,” she replied.

‘Ahh,
una parrucchiera
,’ Sophie told her, writing up the words. ‘I should have guessed. So you would reply “
Sono parrucchiera
” – that means “I am a hairdresser”. Who’s next?’

They went around the class with everyone telling Sophie their occupations. Of course, the other students had far more interesting lives than Catherine. Anna, as she already knew, was a
giornalista.
Nice George who she’d insulted was a gardener – a
giardiniere
. Nita and Freddie were students, Roy was a retired teacher, and Geraldine had been a nurse. ‘I’m doing a bit of am-dram now though, to keep myself busy,’ she told the class, eyes twinkling. ‘So tell me, Sophie, how do I say, “I am an actress”?’

As everyone spoke, Catherine felt herself grow hotter and hotter and was hardly able to concentrate on what they were saying. Help! What on earth was
she
going to reply? Oh, me? I’m a divorced housewife. Too stupid to get a job. Who’d employ me?

‘And finally, Catherine,’ Sophie said with a smile. ‘Tell us what you do for a living
. Che lavoro fai?
’

Catherine opened her mouth, wishing she could come out with something impressive. ‘I’m . . .’ A string of lies popped temptingly into her head.
I’m a trapeze artist. I’m a surgeon. I’m an astronaut.
But no. Her poker face was terrible. They’d all think she was mad if she started lying so blatantly. ‘I’m just a mum,’ she said in the end, with a little laugh. ‘I don’t really . . . I haven’t actually . . .’

Geraldine leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. ‘Hardest job in the world,’ she put in staunchly, rescuing her. ‘No “just a mum” about it.’

‘Too right,’ Sophie said. ‘My mum says the same. Especially having had a daughter like . . . Anyway.’ She stopped herself. ‘So you can say “
Sono madre
” – I am a mother. How many children do you have, Catherine?’

‘Two,’ Catherine mumbled, feeling a complete loser. Any minute now Sophie would ask how old they were and she’d have to say eighteen, nearly nineteen, they’ve left home actually, and everyone would know she wasn’t some nice stay-at-home mummy doing the school run and baking biscuits with her tots.

‘
Sono madre
,’ Sophie wrote on the board. ‘
Io ho due bambini
. Okay? I am a mother. I have two children.’

Catherine’s face flamed as she repeated the Italian words. She wished now she’d mentioned her voluntary work, instead of being so apologetic about her life. It was all about the manner, she reminded herself. Penny didn’t have a job – she looked after the house and kids and dogs, in between tennis, shopping trips and lunches. Would Penny have spoken like that, so self-effacing, so weak? No way. Penny would have made everyone laugh with her answer. Penny would probably have asked Sophie to translate ‘party animal’, or called herself a ‘domestic slave’ with a comical, long-suffering look. She wouldn’t have made excuses for her life.

After conversing about their jobs in small groups, Sophie moved the lesson on to something even more excruciating.

‘So, we’ve found out that Catherine has two children,’ she said, flashing her a smile. ‘What other questions can we ask each other?’

‘Are you married?’ Roy suggested, putting up his hand.

‘Where are you from?’ said Anna.

‘Are you single?’ said Nita.

‘All good questions that might come up in conversation,’ Sophie said. ‘Let’s start with marital status.
Sei sposata?
’ She wrote the words up on the board. ‘That means “Are you married?” To say “Yes, I’m married” is . . .’

Oh help. This was a nightmare! Was she really going to have to answer this?
No, I’m not married. My husband walked out on me. Never loved me, apparently. Yes, I might have a wedding ring on my finger but it turns out the whole thing was a sham!

Catherine stood up abruptly. She didn’t mean to but her legs suddenly pushed the chair back and she was on her feet. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ she lied, rushing towards the door.

‘Oh,’ Sophie said in surprise. ‘Well, we’ve got a coffee break coming up in ten minutes, so . . .’

Catherine didn’t stop. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she called over her shoulder, making her escape.

Out in the corridor she leaned against the cool wall and put her head in her hands. What would Penny do now? she wondered desperately. Her friend would probably brazen out the whole ‘Are you married?’ question in typical Penny style, she thought. ‘What’s the Italian for useless bastard?’ she’d quip, making everyone laugh with her withering eyes-to-heaven look. She might even flash her blingy new engagement ring around. ‘What’s the Italian for third time lucky?’ she’d say, wiggling her fourth finger.

Catherine couldn’t do that, though. Penny was Penny, and Catherine was Catherine, both cut from different cloth. She should just go back in there and face the music. She didn’t even have to tell the truth about this stupid ‘Are you married?’ question anyway. What did Sophie and the rest of them care? She could jolly well say, ‘Yes, I’m married,’ without having to go into the grisly details.

Just do it, she told herself fiercely, pushing the classroom door open again. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, taking her seat. ‘Needed to blow my nose.’

‘No problem. So, Catherine,
Sei sposata?
’

Catherine gripped her hands beneath the desk and did her best to look normal. ‘
Si
,’ she said through gritted teeth, reading the words on the board. ‘
Si, sono sposata
.’
Yes, I’m married.
If only they knew.

‘
Brava!
’ said Sophie. ‘Let’s take a quick break. Back in ten minutes, please.’

Chapter Fifteen

Il bar
– The bar

‘Thanks, everybody, you’re all doing brilliantly.’ Sophie stacked up her spare handouts at the end of the lesson and smiled around the room. Two weeks in and she was enjoying her Beginners’ Italian class very much, even if Catherine had gone a bit strange on her halfway through tonight. Had Sophie unwittingly put her foot in it somehow? ‘Don’t forget your homework for next Tuesday,’ she added. ‘I’ll see you again then.
Ciao!
’

After a rocky few weeks, Sophie’s life was cautiously returning to a more even keel. Her dad had spent a week in hospital, undergoing bypass surgery, but was back home now and gradually regaining his strength. Her parents had had to postpone their planned holiday to the Canaries, but it seemed a small price to pay.

The Cold War between Sophie and her mum had seen a recent thaw, beginning with a tentative defrosting during Christmas night and becoming a full torrent of melting ice in the following days. Both overwrought and exhausted while Jim’s health seesawed so terrifyingly, they leaned on each other in a way they had never done before, finding comfort in one another’s company. The trauma of Jim’s collapse and its aftermath had rebooted their relationship, taking them back to square one. A new start.

It was the strangest badge of honour, having saved her own dad’s life. Trish made a point of telling every friend and neighbour in full technicolour detail; it was the first part of the story she’d recount each time. ‘She was amazing,’ she’d marvel to whomever she had captive. ‘Like something you might see on
Casualty
. He’d be six feet under if it wasn’t for our Sophie, mark my words.’

If her mum was treating her like Florence Nightingale crossed with the Angel of Mercy, her dad was even worse. ‘I owe you one, girl,’ he said earnestly more than once, clutching her hand in his, moist-eyed. Mind you, if he was feeling less sentimental, he would ring the little brass bell by his bed and shout, ‘Nurse Frost! Nurse Frost!’ when he was after something.

‘I won’t bother resuscitating you next time,’ she’d grumble as she went to see what he wanted.

Smiling to herself as she thought of his grin – God, but it was good to see that grin again! – Sophie put her notes into her big black tote bag, dimly aware of Geraldine’s voice in the background. ‘Does anybody want a quick drink? Me and Roy have set
Holby
to tape tonight, so we were thinking of popping to The Bitter End if anyone wants to join us.’