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

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СКАЧАТЬ a face. ‘Give her a chance, Papà! And it is not all Italians. You just brought us up to be molto friendly.’

      ‘Of course! Otherwise what is the point?’ He shrugged, wiped his brow again and hurried off.

      Natale slipped her arm through Mary’s and they headed towards the private stairs at the far end of the restaurant. Molto meant very. Hopefully Mary’s knowledge of Italian would return speedily. She looked sideways at Natale. It felt … good, linking arms.

      ‘Don’t worry.’ Natale smiled. ‘You will get used to us.’ She took the case, and Mary followed her up the stairs. ‘There is an entrance you can access from the back of the building – a more private staircase. Dante will show you around properly,’ she said, over her shoulder.

      ‘You speak such good English, Natale. Why does Alfonso want a waitress from England?’

      She turned around on the stairs and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Lots of reasons. Once we were asked if we cooked toad-in-the-hole. Chef was horrified.’

      Mary wondered what he’d think of bubble and squeak.

      ‘And we get lots of tourists from Manchester, Newcastle, Scotland … the accent is not so easy to understand. Also, visitors seem to feel more comfortable with someone from their country of origin and ask all sorts of advice, like where the local doctor is, the best time of day to visit the Coliseum, if there is a cheap supermarket nearby … and this often means they become regular diners here, during their stay. We are so grateful Sarah was able to suggest a lovely replacement. The other people we interviewed were not nearly as suitable.’

      Mary’s pulse quickened. ‘I won’t know anything to start with.’ It could take months. What if she didn’t get up to speed?

      Natale’s face softened. ‘No worry. By the time our busiest season starts, at the end of July, you will know this area like the back of your arm.’

      ‘Hand,’ she corrected and they both grinned.

      After one flight of stairs they arrived in an open-plan lounge and kitchen area. What a contrast to the bustling restaurant. It was airy and bright. The colour scheme was white with colourful accessories. Purple cushions. A lush green rug. Vibrant paintings in old frames. Every object looked worn as if it hadn’t spent its life simply being a soulless decoration. A scratched glass coffee table stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a long sofa and two armchairs. The pine and silver kitchen stood on the left, separated from the living area by a long breakfast bar and a row of backed stools, plus a dining table towards the rear of the room.

      ‘It’s lovely,’ Mary said and gazed at the wall ahead, covered in a mosaic of family photos. Alfonso, with his arms around a woman his age. Perhaps that was his late wife. There was a smaller one of Natale and her little girl. No husband though? And … Dante in a police uniform. She’d thought he simply made pizza. Balancing two jobs must be difficult. She studied the photo. The sharp clothes made him look hot – but that was simply an observation. Jake had shattered her trust. She was here to get strong again and that meant men were off the menu.

      ‘No doubt you are thirsty,’ said Natale. ‘Let me put the coffee on. Do you take milk?’

      ‘Yes please. One sugar.’

      ‘Just like me,’ said Natale and that rosebud mouth curved upwards.

      She smiled and wished British politeness would allow her to ask for a long, cold drink instead. Whilst Natale busied herself with some sort of aluminium percolator, that she filled with water and eventually placed on top of the stove, Mary headed over to the right-hand side and a huge window facing the square. She looked down on tourists and artists and fought an urge to rub her eyes. Was her new home for real? Back in Hackney her view had been an abandoned warehouse. Whereas this was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of people and sounds coming and going.

      ‘Dante!’ sang out Natale. Seconds later heavy footsteps approached. Mary cleared her throat and turned around.

      A plastic shopping bag in one hand, he stood with the adorable dog by his side, a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt showing off his bronzed skin and strong forearms. Those perfectly fitted jeans reminded Mary of that iconic Levi’s jeans ad where the man strips off in a launderette. She touched her mouth. Such thoughts felt so unfamiliar after months pining for Jake. For the first time since he’d left, her body ached with need and told Mary that Dante provided something it had missed. Yet her heart ached in a different way and the physical reaction soon passed.

      ‘Be friendly, dear brother,’ said Natale, before winking at Mary and disappearing back down the stairs. Dante still wore the trendy sunglasses and who could blame him. He’d clearly just got back from the shops and it was atomic bright outside. He ruffled the dog’s head. It gazed up at him. He was tall. And broad. Toned too. Perfect policeman material. She folded her arms, as if defending herself against any attraction.

      ‘Va bene – go and say hello, girl,’ he said to the dog, in a voice as creamy as hot chocolate. Dante looked up. ‘Nice to meet you.’

      ‘You too,’ said Mary and she knelt down as the dog padded over. ‘What’s she called?’

      ‘Oro.’ He walked around the breakfast bar, to the stove.

      Mary chatted to Oro about her beautiful brown eyes and smart furry coat and laughed at the strong tail, wagging like a windscreen wiper. Then Mary got to her feet and Oro wandered back to the kitchen. Dante turned to face her, inhaled, and shook his head.

      ‘I don’t know what my sister is thinking, making coffee. Folle!’

      ‘I’m sure she meant well.’

      ‘Si. There is not a mean bone in my sister’s body. But today is so warm. I need a long limonata. How about you? But scusa, first I need to know – is it Mary or Maria?’ he asked and tilted his head as if concentrating hard.

      ‘Oh. Um. Yes, lemonade please. And, Maria, I suppose.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘It’s a little more exotic but I don’t really mind.’

      ‘You think?’ He ran a hand through that thick, burnt-caramel hair. ‘I like Mare-eee … un bel nome. Sounds beautiful. Like a gentle sea breeze.’

      Her eyes widened at his poetic words. It had taken twenty-six years and an Italian policeman to entertain the idea that, perhaps, her name wasn’t so bad. She stared at him, wishing he’d take off those glasses. Perhaps his eyes would reveal a teasing nature, yet that hot-chocolate voice oozed sincerity. As if he’d read her mind, Dante took them off and rubbed a hand across his forehead. His hand eventually dropped, revealing a scar at the corner of one of his eyes.

      ‘Prego. Sit down on the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring over the drinks. Then I’ll show you around.’

      Mary collapsed into one of the armchairs that looked more comfortable. Should she get out the Tupperware box of homemade shortbread she’d brought? It was a small gift to represent a big thank you: an iconic British sweet treat and one of Mary’s favourite recipes. However, overcome by shyness, she decided to just leave them out in the kitchen, later.

      Shadowed by devoted Oro, Dante eventually headed over. He brushed his calves along the sofa’s edge. What was he doing, thought Mary? He frowned when he reached the end of the cushioned front, sat down, and placed the lemonades on the coffee table.

      ‘Mary?’ СКАЧАТЬ