One Summer in Rome: a deliciously uplifting summer romance!. Samantha Tonge

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      ‘How is your mother?’ asked Dante in soft tones. ‘Which ward is she on? I’ll visit her this week.’

      ‘You’re a good friend,’ said Gabriel and squeezed his arm. ‘The hospital said she was very lucky not to break something, tripping over like that. It is just bruising.’

      Mary looked away. Dante clearly had heart. Why was his tone so unfriendly with her? She caught sight of Gabriel’s easel. ‘Where is that?’ she said and pointed to an oil painting of the sweetest restaurant. ‘What an adorable building. I just love those window boxes filled with flowers and the painting of daisies on the walls.’

      Dante’s brow furrowed. ‘You’ve been painting Margherita Margherita? But why? And it’s half-an-hour away from here.’

      Gabriel lifted up a bottle of beer and took a swig. ‘The owner, Margherita, is a very persuasive woman. She passed by here a couple of weeks ago. I’m just putting the final touches to this. She wants to hang it in the restaurant and replicate miniature versions on postcards as well and—’

      ‘Che cavolo!’

      That was the first time Mary had heard Dante swear.

      ‘On Monday I visited her restaurant,’ said Dante. ‘She recognised me immediately and must have come to take a look at Pizzeria Dolce Vita.’

      Mary shrugged. ‘I guess it makes sense that she’d also check out the competition.’

      Dante scowled. ‘She could take away our Lombardi rating, if we aren’t careful.’ He spoke to Gabriel in Italian for a few moments, mentioning the fifteenth of August. He must have been talking about the important Top Ten list.

      ‘Ah …’ Gabriel stroked his beard. ‘Scusa, amico mio. I had no idea. I give her the money back. My friendship with you comes first.’

      ‘Grazie, my friend, grazie, but no. The last thing I want is for her to think we are worried. And I don’t want you to lose income. Sell her stupid drawings – no offence. It will make no difference to what customers think of her actual pizza.’

      Dante was still brooding as they returned to Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Everyone else was in bed. He sat on the sofa, head in hands.

      ‘Could that place really knock your family’s restaurant off the Lombardi List?’

      Dante looked up and grimaced. ‘You would think not – there is no tradition there. No love. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is based on the work of two generations of our family.’

      ‘Your grandparents owned it?’

      ‘Si. They have both passed on now. They devoted their youth to working hard to make the pizzeria a success, which meant they didn’t have my dad until their late thirties. It started out as a coffee bar, they just rented. Then they did pizzas for lunch. Business boomed, so they took on staff and waited tables. In the Seventies, when the British and other nationalities became more adventurous, and airfares became competitive, Nonna and Nonno never looked back as tourism grew. Eventually, they could afford to buy the whole building and move in.’ He snorted. ‘But Margherita Margherita – her concept is to create pizzas just like the ones in takeaway shops.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You cannot just order a pizza. There are about six different choices of crust. Stuffed with cheese or garlic sauce, and they offer crispy pizzas or deep pan. There is nothing authentic. No true Italian style.’ He caught her eye. ‘I know. Can’t help it. I am a pizza snob – and proud of it.’

      ‘Did it taste good?’

      He groaned. ‘Si. And I listened to a family at the table next to mine – the children loved all the different choices.’

      ‘How did this Margherita woman deal with the kids, if she was patronising to you?’

      He thought for a second. ‘Well, actually. I heard the family talking. She gave them colouring books and crayons. Another modern concept.’

      She yawned. ‘This heat makes me feel shattered. I must still be acclimatising. It’s off to bed for me.’

      He stared into the distance.

      She sat down beside him. Offhand person or not, she didn’t like seeing anyone upset. ‘We have several weeks to make sure this place knocks Margherita Margherita sideways.’

      ‘Perhaps you are right, Audrey. No point worrying about the what-ifs.’

      ‘Audrey?’

      ‘Gabriel. He told me you looked just like Audrey Hepburn. Is it true? He said classy and petite, with a very appealing gnome haircut.’

      ‘Gnome? I think you mean pixie,’ she muttered.

      ‘Same thing,’ he muttered back.

      Mary shuffled in her seat. ‘Right, I’m off—’

      ‘You don’t like compliments, do you?’ he said, in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘But Gabriel knows what he is talking about. He’s painted hundreds of women over the years and doesn’t give out flattery easily.’ Dante rubbed his forehead. ‘Funny. I imagined you with hair tied back in a ponytail. Guess my sixth sense still needs to be refined.’

      Mary’s hair used to be long. Until Jake left and she felt the need for a makeover. What a cliché. Cutting off the locks he’d so loved was supposed to free her from tortured thoughts about him. Yet it hadn’t for a long time.

      ‘It must take a while for you to get to know exactly how someone looks.’

      ‘True and in the beginning I really resented that. But I have learnt patience and almost prefer it now. I actually think the sighted are at a disadvantage in a few areas like …’ His voice quietened. ‘Like romance.’

      ‘Oh.’ Mary was taken aback. ‘How? I mean, if you can’t see, for a start you’ll never experience love at first sight.’

      ‘Ah, that is one of the many myths about being blind. Sighted people get led astray by appearance. They like someone in those first few seconds because of, I don’t know – their build, flirty eyes, or confident gait. Perhaps they think this is true love and only find out they were wrong when they are in too deep. But for a blind person, love at first sight – or meeting – that can still happen but derives from the voice, which reveals a person’s brain and personality: the things that really matter, long term.’ He smiled. ‘Take you. From the first words you spoke, I could tell you were a little shy but … I sensed an underlying determination.’

      ‘So don’t looks matter, to you? I mean, you clearly take care of yourself. Your clothes are in fashion and … well, you know …’ she squirmed ‘… you don’t look too bad.’

      ‘I know. Hot stuff, aren’t I, isn’t that what you English say?’

      Was that sarcasm in his voice?

      ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she replied.

      ‘But what I’m saying is …’ he continued, as if not having heard her, ‘yes, СКАЧАТЬ