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

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СКАЧАТЬ For some reason she’d expected every Italian she met to sport tailored clothes and salon-glossy hair. But most just looked … normal. Short or tall. Untidy or groomed. It was kind of comforting. Having never left the British Isles before, Mary realised what preconceived ideas she’d harboured. Perhaps not all Frenchmen wore berets. Maybe some Spaniards hated paella. She wondered what foreigners expected of England. Scones with every cup of tea? Received pronunciation?

      ‘You like a little history of the piazza – the square – where you’re going to live?’

      ‘Per favore,’ she said, shyly trying out her Italian.

      ‘It is certainly romantic and was built about one hundred years before Christ. As a sports stadium. Picture animals fighting and gladiators …’

      A vision of Ben-Hur popped into her mind with chariots racing around a track.

      ‘It boasts some of the best baroque architecture in the whole city, with the magnifico St Agnes church and Pamphili Palace. There are three splendid fountains and …’

      The more Giovanni spoke, the more impatient Mary became and found herself leaning forward, to look out of the front windscreen. It sounded as if she’d be spending the next few months on a Hollywood film set. Finally the taxi pulled up outside a grocer’s and Giovanni pointed ahead.

      ‘Walk to the end of this avenue. You arrive at the piazza. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is the last building, down the end, on the left. I would drop you off, at the restaurant, but the traffic has been worse than I thought and my next fare awaits.’

      ‘No problem. Honestly. You have been so kind.’ Mary took out her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’

      Giovanni turned around and fiercely flapped his hand. ‘No! Prego, signorina. Now, go. Hurry and you will catch a slice of lunchtime pizza.’ His eyes twinkled.

      ‘Grazie mille,’ she said and took a deep breath. Mary climbed onto the pavement and hauled out her bag. She slammed the door shut, watched Giovanni do a three-point turn, and then returned his wave as he drove off. Feeling like Paddington bear abandoned in London, Mary stood for a moment, wishing she had a nametag around her neck. But that sense of not belonging was nothing unusual and she brushed it away.

      After Giovanni’s description, she was itching to see her new home. Apparently the buildings surrounding it used to seat thirty thousand people watching animals – and men – tear each other apart. Humming, she reached the end of the avenue, case jiggling up and down on the cobbled ground as she entered the piazza.

      She gasped. As her pulse quickened, Mary’s eyes roved the long, curving oval of buildings and the road going around. The huge expanse of ground, in the middle, boasted the three fountains, artists, and street entertainers. Laughter, music, and chat provided the soundtrack. Tomato and garlic the smell. This place was paradise for all the senses. Down from the blue lagoon sky, the sun beat on her face, which broke in two with sheer joy.

      Mary had done it. Travelled to Italy. Reached Rome all on her own. She faced the middle Fountain of Four Rivers and her eyebrows knitted together as she recalled Giovanni’s words. The figures and animals at each corner of the huge rock represented the four continents that, at the time it was built, were under papal power. For a moment she simply stood, in awe of the sculpture, until the sound of trickling water accentuated her thirst.

      She glanced around and in the distance, to the right, saw the northern end Fountain of Neptune. She turned left and proceeded to walk along, gazing up at ornate balconies, punctuated 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! СКАЧАТЬ