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‘Sorry, I just caught my fingernail,’ I lied.
‘It’s going to be a good day, Serafina. A proud day,’ she persuaded. I could hear the excitement in her voice. The delight of being accepted and the feeling of being useful once again.
‘It will,’ I agreed with added eagerness in my tone, just in time to hear Maria’s low heels connect with the ceramic tiles at the top of the stairs.
‘I need to go. I’ll come round sometime this week.’
‘Bye,’ my mum replied.
‘Bye.’
I replaced the heavy phone like I knew I would, without a doubt, drop a primed hand grenade.
How on earth was I going to navigate all of this with Salvatore, I had no idea.
‘Mrs De Luca?’ Maria’s slightly questioning tone had me instinctively stiffening. Turning myself around, I looked up at her and broke out into a broad if somewhat at first hesitant smile.
‘I was wondering if you had any preferences for your’s and Mr De Luca’s dinner this evening?’
That’s it!
It was exactly what I needed.
‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about our dinners. I’d like to cook for us occasionally, say… maybe two nights a week?’
‘Have I done something wrong?’ I could see the concern in her eyes and in her body language as she came down the stairs quickly towards me. In most other countries, I was sure a housekeeper would breathe a sigh of relief at having some of her duties cut back, but not here in Italy. In Italy, it seemed to be a middle-aged woman’s main prerogative in life to feed everyone; their family, friends, extended family, and even those who just happened to pass by.
‘No, No.’ I reached out to touch her arm in reassurance, as she reached me. ‘I would just like to cook for my husband.’ I shrugged at her and smiled again.
‘I understand.’ She threw her arms open wide. ‘Nutrire coloro che ami.’
‘Si,’ I replied.
I was happy that she thought I was just trying to “feed those that I loved” and hoped Salvatore, with his wife using her very basic culinary skills to feed him, wouldn’t smell a rat. It would make my life much easier if he saw it the same way and didn’t try to look any further into my possible duplicity.
I only hoped my sparse knowledge of Italian cuisine was enough to throw him off the scent that I was only doing it so I could get us alone to chat.
‘Well, the kitchen is always well stocked. Is there anything special you’ll need me to shop for?’ I watched her brow furrow as she questioned me.
‘Special?’
‘I always have plenty of fresh vegetables, meats, cheeses, flour and eggs for pasta… but I’m not sure I’ll have whatever you need for the English meals you love to cook.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. She definitely didn’t need to know I’d lived in London for years, consuming copious amounts of Starbucks and feeding myself toast, pot noodles and eating from take-away menus.
‘Oh, you needn’t concern yourself. Everything I cook will be traditional.’
The smile that erupted on her face would have melted an igloo. She grabbed at my empty hands and squeezed them fiercely with her own.
‘Bellezza! And if you need any help, I will be only too happy.’
‘Grazie mille, Maria.’
* * *
‘Serafina?’ Salvatore’s questioning voice found me, as he walked in through the vast stretch of bi-folding doors at the back of our villa.
Nearly thirty minutes before, my body, as always, had instinctively known he was nearby. Moving rooms, I had watched as the car he was travelling in had come speeding down the long winding drive that led to our villa. But as he often did, Salvatore had gone down to the beach, stripping off his clothes as he walked.
