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

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      ‘I’d be mad to turn down an opportunity like this,’ he’d said.

      ‘If anyone’s got attachment problems it’s you,’ a heartbroken Mary had muttered and she swore that her heart actually broke in two ragged halves that could never fit together again.

      Jake was just like the social workers who passed her case on. Just like the foster parents who got pregnant or moved abroad. Mary never felt like she truly belonged. Social Services didn’t encourage the use of the words “Mum” and “Dad” and that was hard for a little girl. Plus, looking back, Mary could see that the front she’d put on had probably fooled foster parents. The stories she’d heard, of other foster children, made her realise she must have appeared to be quite solid. Unaffected. Strong.

      ‘You’re lucky,’ said one social worker. ‘My last client is four and has never seen a piece of fruit.’

      ‘What a relief to look after a child who’s so well behaved,’ said one foster parent. ‘In the past we’ve opened our wallets to children but still they’ve stolen from shops. You’re a good girl.’

      And she was. Clean and tidy. She’d never committed a crime. Mary went to school. The records and diaries her carers had to keep were probably very short. And because of that, they’d never guessed that inside she was howling for attention.

      Perhaps she expected too much of grown-up life – to be someone’s Number One. And she tried to remind herself that there were always others who were worse off.

      Mary opened her eyes and sat up straighter in the aeroplane seat. She shook herself. Rome was about her future, not her past.

      ‘Get a grip and stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mary Smith,’ she murmured. She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. Sarah had given it to Jill who had passed it on, a couple of days ago. Apparently Alfonso had sent strict instructions for her to open it on the flight. Naturally, Mary had obeyed and waited until this moment. She slid her finger under the top flap, and pulled until it broke all the way along. She tugged out … a photo. Without studying it closely, Mary turned it over.

       We are all so excited to meet you, Maria! See you soon. Buon Viaggio!

      ‘Maria,’ she whispered and her face broke into a smile. Somehow her new life sounded better already. More exciting. Vibrant. She turned the photo back over and scrutinised every detail. A group of people stood in front of the ground floor of a building – the restaurant. A white canopy stretched forwards and underneath it stood eight tables, each covered with a pretty green gingham cover topped with a vase containing a rose. Clouds of cooling mist came out of jets, at the side of the restaurant. Above the canopy a scarlet sign read Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Dolce Vita. The good life? What was that exactly, Mary wondered?

      Perhaps it simply meant happiness, as the customers certainly appeared cheerful. As for the group standing in front, the middle-aged man was Alfonso. Portly. Hairless – apart from an impressive moustache. And chunky fingers giving a wide-fingered wave. His whole face shouted Welcome! – although his expression triggered a sense of sadness and she wasn’t quite sure why. In the end she decided it was because the smile only came from his mouth, not his eyes.

      She recognised him easily from her Skype interview. He wanted another English waitress, like Sarah. Apparently with her GCSE in Italian and experience in catering Mary had outshone the other candidates. He was effusive and friendly and immediately put her at ease.

      Alfonso’s arm was draped around the shoulders of a woman in her early twenties – that was bubbly Natale, who’d joined him during the interview to say hello. What a beautiful floral dress and long brunette waves that could have starred in any shampoo advert. She looked like Catherine Zeta Jones out of Jill’s favourite old show, The Darling Buds of May.

      Natale held hands with a little girl – no doubt the granddaughter, six-year-old Lucia, with her mop of black curls. A real Mediterranean Annie with a scampish grin, except she was no orphan; she was surrounded by family. Perhaps Mary should have felt a pang of envy, but she didn’t. Lucia looked around the age she was when Mary’s grandparents had handed her over to Social Services and she never saw her mum again.

      To the left stood a slim man, perhaps in his early thirties, with a high hairline and Harry Potter glasses. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and black bow tie. In his hand was a pen. He looked like someone with little time to spare. That had to be Rocco, the head waiter the family employed. Sarah didn’t get on with him – said he’d always been standoffish. Her stomach squeezed. Was it just bad luck that the camera had caught him frowning?

      Finally, her gaze settled upon …

      A tide of heat spread up her neck. A sensation she hadn’t experienced for months. To the right, next to Natale, that had to be Dante. Broad. Bronzed. Thick, burnt-caramel hair. She couldn’t determine his height as he crouched, one hand casually in his pocket. The other wrapped gently around the most adorable-looking dog. That’s what pulled Mary in most. Such tenderness, as if the pet was his most precious possession ever. Dante wore a wide smile – or was he simply squinting, in the sunlight? Mary wished he wasn’t wearing those trendy aviator sunglasses, but they matched what looked like expensive designer jeans that perfectly showed off his strong thighs.

      She’d wondered why he’d kept so quiet on Skype as Alfonso had encouraged Natale to ask questions and said it was a family interview. He’d simply sat in the background looking stern. Jill had mentioned something about a tragedy the whole family suffered a couple of years ago. Plus something about Dante facing his own problems. Looking for clues, she scrutinised his face. Did he have a drink problem? A physical illness? Depression? She looked at her watch. It wasn’t long before she’d find out.

Chapter Three

      At least her heart was still working, thought Mary, as she immediately fell in love with Rome. Giovanni, a friend of Alfonso’s, had met her at the airport. The Rossi family were busy with the lunchtime restaurant rush. Taxi driver Giovanni spoke excellent English and proceeded to give her a historical rundown of the Italian capital.

      ‘Rome has two hundred and eighty fountains and more than nine hundred churches …’

      So it was true – the Italian accent really was Viagra for the ears. It could make the most practical facts sound like the most wistful poetry. Her eyes widened as they passed the Coliseum and his deep, lilting tones explained how ancients used to fill it with water to stage mock sea battles. Majestic, with a kind of brutal beauty, it looked exactly like the images she’d seen in the movies. Same for the Vatican and the awe-inspiring domed outline of St Peter’s Basilica.

      A cosy glow infused her whole body as Giovanni turned into a network of small avenues, bustling with everyday Italian life. The prettiest ornate balconies complemented cream and yellow apartments. Sun-tanned locals gesticulated with their hands. The ground floor of buildings offered flower sellers and glitzy designer clothes shops. Stray cats darted across streets, inciting a cacophony of car horns. Executives, sipping espressos, tapped on laptops outside red-canopied cafés. Lovers strolled, hand in hand, perusing menus.

      Mary hugged her knees. It was as if architects had been asked to build the complete opposite to grey Hackney – as if she’d dined on nothing but the limpest white bread and suddenly been offered a plump focaccia, bursting with tomatoes, cheese, and olives.

      ‘Now we head to Piazza Navona, where Alfonso’s restaurant is. You like the city, no?’ Giovanni said, with a chuckle, and glanced СКАЧАТЬ