‘Right.’ She spread her hands on the pristine white tablecloth. ‘Here’s the thing. You gotta stop thinking we’re going to find the exact answer you want straight away. Life isn’t that simple, and you’re right, it’s been a long time. But New York is the kind of city that is built on gossip. Millions of people came together with their different heritages, clinging to their stories, and using them as a foundation to judge everyone –whydid they trust each other andwhythey did hate each other? They needed to know and remember. The city rose up out of that.’
I nodded. I understood what she was getting at. ‘It’s like that in London too.’
‘Sure. The difference here is most Americansliketalking. They are just dying to impart their wisdom and God bless them for it. It’s a city of stories. It’s a goldmine.’ Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘Oh hang on there.’ She dived into her bag and grabbed a notepad scribbling a note down to herself. ‘Right, where was I? What I’m saying is, don’t despair, cynical Englishman. If this doesn’t work, we’ll find another angle and, in the meantime, we’ve had some lovely wine and a nice meal. Not too shabby.’
‘I haven’t got an endless amount of time to do this though.’
‘You’re here for another couple months, right?’
‘I go back home at the end of August but ideally, I’d like to get this done before Nick comes out in July.’
‘Yeah.’ She took another sip of wine and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Just so we can spend the time doing more interesting things,’ I said expansively. She nodded, like she wasn’t really convinced.
‘Okay. We’ll do our best. Pick what you’re gonna eat. We’ll enjoy it. Make a lot of positive compliments, pay, leave a massive tip for the waitress and then ask to see the owner. They’ll come out, eager to hear some good feedback – which we’ll obviously give. In fact, I’ll leave that to you Mr Silver Tongue. And then we just slide in there with some questions about how long they’ve owned it. Whether they knew someone who worked here, way back when, et cetera, et cetera. You can show them your photo. Where did you get that by the way? You never said.’ She stroked her fingers over the napkin, folded around the cutlery, trying her best to look only mildly interested. She wasn’t fooling anyone – her curiosity was sparked and the fact it would drive her mad was as much of a reason for me to keep it under wraps as for my privacy.
‘Mum’s best friend had it,’ I lied. ‘This still feels like it’s mainly about you getting a free meal. I’m sure we could’ve approached them more directly.’ I smirked to show her I was joking – for the most part.
She shrugged. ‘Hey, a girl’s gotta eat and I hear the food is good here.’
The foodwasgood. I had stone-oven-baked eggs with ratatouille, and Noelle went for ricotta hotcakes with raspberries that made the pale pink of her lips darker. We followed Noelle’s plan and the waitress fetched the manager afterwards who also happened to be the owner. He was a small man, balding, with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. He dabbed frequently at his forehead with a spotted handkerchief but was very pleased to hear the compliments on the food.
‘How long have you owned this place, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Noelle was on her second glass of wine, legs crossed, leaning forward, all eager interest. If he was getting the view down her cleavage that I couldn’t help imagining, it was no wonder he was getting overheated.
‘I bought it from my wife’s brother. Twenty years ago.’
‘Was that how you met your wife?’
He shook his head. ‘We both worked here before that. As youngsters. I cooked. She served. Her brother wasn’t keen on us dating but…’ He gave an expansive shrug. ‘Love is love.’ He smiled between Noelle and I as though he thought we were a couple.
‘So true. Nothing can stop it.’ Noelle gave me a soppy smile and reached out for my hand, acting up to it. Her fingers were cool from the wine glass, slender but sure as they curled around mine. I was torn between the impulse to clasp her hand tighter and retreat rapidly. ‘Your story sounds so romantic.’
No, it didn’t. It sounded like the normal start to a relationship and awkward for his brother-in-law. If it went wrong, he would’ve had to sack his chef. Or kill him – depending onhowwrong it went.
‘So, did you buy the place to woo her?’
‘Not entirely.’ He pulled up a chair from the empty table next to us. Noelle had worked her magic and drawn him in to telling us his story. ‘My brother-in-law’s wife wanted to move back to Italy. She didn’t like it here. He wanted to make her happy but didn’t want to sell to someone who might lay off all the staff – my wife included. I borrowed some money and he sold it to me. Then I asked my Isabella to marry me.’
‘That’s wonderful. Does your wife still work here now?’
‘No. She helps me with the accounts, but she has her own business. One of these internet things.’
‘What an entrepreneurial family!’
‘It’s the American way.’
‘Have you ever had anyone English work here? We’re looking for someone and heard he worked at a restaurant in Little Italy, probably around the time you took over? As a delivery driver.’
‘That’s a long time ago.’ He wiped his forehead again. I wanted to borrow his handkerchief and mop my own brow. Noelle still hadn’t let go of my hand and I was beginning to feel like there was only one area of my body with nerve endings anymore. ‘Why are you looking for him?’
‘He was a friend of my mother’s. She left some money to him in her will,’ I jumped in with the explanation to attempt to focus my mind on something else.
‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry to hear your mother has passed on.’ He gave me the kind, sad smile I was familiar with. ‘My dear mama left us only a couple of years ago.’ He sighed and sent a kiss up to heaven. ‘What was his name?’
‘Trevor Moorcroft. I have a photo too.’
He blew out a breath. ‘You know, my wife would be able to help more. I have a terrible memory for names and faces, whereas she never forgets a thing. Wonderful for situations like this – not so much when we are arguing.’ He laughed and Noelle joined in, her smile lighting her up.
