One Night in Italy (17 page)

And your knickers, by the sound of it, Anna thought, filling the sink with hot, soapy water. ‘Sounds brilliant,’ she said casually. ‘I was thinking of going there for a holiday myself. I don’t suppose you’ve got any old photos to show me?’

‘Ooh, yes, probably.’ Marie popped a leftover mini sausage roll into her mouth as she thought. ‘Now where might those be? It’s probably all changed from our day, mind, but I did have some somewhere . . .’

‘You don’t need to find them today,’ Anna said. The last thing she wanted was for her mum to get wind of her mission. ‘Maybe you could post them to me if you do come across them?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Marie said. ‘I’ve been meaning to sort through my photo albums anyway. It’ll give me something to do, won’t it?’

‘Thanks,’ Anna said, trying to hide her glee. Who said private detective work was difficult? So far, everything was falling straight into her lap.

A few days later, Anna headed for Hurst College after work, her head still full of the yummy recipes she’d been researching that afternoon: slow-cooked lamb tagine, a spicy bean and orzo stew, bread and butter pudding with cinnamon custard . . . God, she was starving. Luckily she’d thought ahead and made herself a cheese sandwich that morning. It was now slightly squashed in the depths of her handbag, but she was so famished, she didn’t care.

Inside, the college was a bustle of students, old and young, checking lists of classes on a noticeboard. Anna’s spirits lifted. She was so glad she was here. Look at all these people on a cold, dark winter’s evening, gathering to learn, questing for knowledge! It was quite awe-inspiring. She might just find somewhere to sit and have that sandwich first, though.

A frizzy-haired woman with a large mole on her chin and a clipboard came over, two seconds after Anna had perched on the steps to unwrap her foil parcel. ‘Sorry, health and safety regulations, you’re not allowed to sit there,’ she said. ‘Are you here for a class?’

‘Yes,’ Anna said, standing up again. ‘Beginners’ Italian.’

‘You’re in C 301,’ the woman told her, consulting her clipboard. ‘Take the lift to the third floor, follow the signs to C block and it’s the first door on your left.’

‘Thanks,’ said Anna, too distracted by her hunger to pay much attention. What had she said? Third floor, then . . . something. She went to the lift and pressed the button marked 3, then peeled back the foil on her sandwich and took a sneaky bite. Yum. Sod it, she’d eat it in the lift if she had to.

A red-haired woman appeared beside her. ‘You’re not going up to Italian, are you, by any chance?’ she asked. She had pale, freckly skin and wide-spaced blue eyes that gave her a startled air. Late thirties at a guess.

Anna chewed hurriedly, aware that she had shed several bits of grated cheese around her boots. Not a great look. ‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Oh good. Have you got any idea where we’re meant to be going?’ The woman paused as if remembering her manners. ‘Hello, by the way. I’m Catherine.’ Then her forehead puckered. ‘Wait – do I know you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Anna said, then added, ‘I’m a journalist, so we might have met while I was covering a story near you, I guess.’

The lift doors pinged open and they stepped inside. Anna’s tummy rumbled. ‘Sorry,’ she said, waving the sandwich. ‘That was me. I’m starving. Excuse me.’ And she’d just stuffed another bite in her mouth when Catherine’s face cleared.

‘Ahh! Got it. You’re the chef, aren’t you? The cookery lady. I never forget a face.’

The chef! The cookery lady! Wow. Recognized in public – how cool was that? But how
un
cool to be recognized while scoffing a grated cheese white bread sandwich. Surely this never happened to Nigella? She swallowed her mouthful quickly and beamed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s me. Although I’m not a chef, I’m a total novice. But . . . you read the column?’

‘
Read
it? I love it. I’ve been clipping your recipes out and saving them because they’re always so good. I made your chestnut stuffing for our Christmas dinner. Not that I got to taste it, mind.’

‘Oh?’

‘And your mince pies were fantastic. Even better than Delia’s, and that’s the recipe I’ve been using for years.’

‘Thank you!’ Anna couldn’t help a dizzying rush of pleasure. Receiving emails and letters from readers was one thing, but to actually meet someone – a real person! – who had used her recipes was amazing. ‘Better than Delia, eh? Wow. I’m totally getting that carved into my headstone.’

Catherine smiled shyly. ‘Delia who? That’s what I say.’

Anna laughed. ‘Exactly! I might get a tattoo of that. Good one!’

Ping! ‘LEVEL THREE,’ droned the lift voice just then, and the doors jerked apart.

Anna threw the rest of her sandwich in the bin as they went into the corridor and looked up and down. ‘Aha. Beginners’ Italian that way,’ she said, pointing at a sign on the wall.

Catherine seemed hesitant now that they had stepped out of the confined space of the lift. ‘God. I feel a bit nervous about this,’ she confessed. ‘I’m so going to be the thick one at the back of the class.’

‘No way!’ Anna said. ‘Or rather, if you are, I’ll be with you. I haven’t got a clue. Pizza. Spaghetti. That’s about my limit.’

‘Prosecco,’ Catherine ventured.

‘Yeah, that too.’ Anna grinned. ‘Just listen to us, we’re practically fluent already.’

The classroom, when they found it, was already full of people. A slight blonde woman perched on a desk at the front – the teacher, Anna presumed. Sitting facing her were two young Asian women who just had to be sisters, one with pink streaks in her hair, the other with a rather sullen mouth. There was also an older lady with extremely glam scarlet cat-eye glasses, knitting something in sparkly pink wool, an older man next to her (husband and wife?), as well as two men – one young and mixed-race, who was playing some kind of game on his phone and not making eye contact with anyone, and another who was slightly older (thirty-something) with a scruffy mop of sandy-brown hair and an open, friendly face.

‘Is this the Italian class?’ Anna asked.

‘
Si
,’ said the lady at the front. Nervous energy crackled from her as she stood up. There was something elfin about her, with her pointy little chin, green eyes and blonde bob. ‘
Buonasera, mi chiamo
Sophie – my name is Sophie.’

Oh. She was English. Anna had assumed that the teacher would be Italian, but she actually sounded as if she was from Sheffield, rather than anywhere more exotic.

‘I’m Anna, and this is Catherine,’ Anna said hastily, hoping the disappointment didn’t show on her face.

‘Wonderful,’ Sophie said. ‘Have a seat. I think everyone’s here now. Let’s get cracking!’

The lesson began with a round of introductions, first from Sophie. ‘I might not seem very Italian to you,’ she said apologetically with a glance at Anna – damn, her dismay must have been obvious after all – ‘but let me assure you that I have been travelling and working in Italy for the last few years and love the language and culture almost as much as a real native. Perhaps we could start by going around the class with everyone saying their name and a little bit about why they’re here tonight.’

The elderly couple went first. ‘I’m Geraldine and this is Roy, my husband,’ the lady began, putting her knitting down and smiling at everyone. ‘We’re due to celebrate our ruby wedding anniversary this summer and have booked a package tour around Italy.’

‘We’ve always wanted to see the frescoes in Florence,’ Roy put in.

‘Pisa, Rome, Pompei, Naples . . . we’re doing the lot,’ Geraldine said. ‘It’s going to be our trip of a lifetime, isn’t it, Roy?’

His eyes shone adoringly at her through his thick spectacles. ‘It certainly is, love.’

‘Wonderful,’ Sophie said. ‘Well, welcome to the class, both of you! I’ll make sure you’re equipped with all the vocabulary you need before you go.’

‘As long as I know how to ask for a glass of port, I’ll be all set,’ Geraldine said, twinkling like a naughty schoolgirl.

Sophie grinned. ‘I think I should teach you how to order champagne if it’s your ruby wedding anniversary,’ she replied. ‘Who’s next?’

‘I’m George,’ said the guy with sandy hair. ‘And I’m here because of my New Year’s resolution – to use my brain a bit more. I don’t have any plans to go to Italy just now, but it would be great to order dinner in an Italian restaurant and understand what I was actually asking for.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Sophie told him. ‘Nice to have you here, George. How about you?’

She turned to Catherine who blushed scarlet. She had the sort of fair complexion in which colour rose very quickly. ‘I . . . I’ve got a bit more time on my hands now that . . . um . . . at the moment,’ she stammered. ‘And like George, I haven’t used my brain much recently.’

Everyone laughed, assuming she was joking, but Catherine clapped a hand to her mouth and looked mortified. ‘Oh gosh, I didn’t mean . . .’ she cried, as George pretended to look indignant. ‘I only meant . . . Oh, sorry.’ She gave a nervous giggle. ‘I’m sure you’re incredibly brainy, George. I’m the dunce around here. I can’t even speak English, let alone Italian, who am I trying to kid?’

‘Hey, I’ve been called worse,’ George replied easily. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to offend me.’

Catherine put her hands up to her red face. ‘You can tell I don’t get out much, can’t you? Hopeless!’

‘Not at all,’ Sophie told her kindly. ‘And it’s good to challenge yourself –
brava
! Who’s next . . . Ahh. Anna, is it? I recognize you from somewhere.’

Anna smiled. ‘I’m a journalist,’ she replied. ‘In my dreams I’m a
Newsnight
-standard political investigator, but in the real world I write the cookery column for the
Herald
.’

‘Of course! I knew there was something familiar about you. My mum loves your column,’ Sophie said. ‘And you’re here because . . .?’

‘Because I recently discovered I have some Italian ancestry,’ Anna said. ‘And I want to explore that; to look into the culture, learn the language. I’ve been trying my hand at Italian cookery too,’ she went on, feeling unusually shy as everyone gazed at her. ‘Working my way round to Prada and Versace,’ she joked. ‘Maybe via a Ferrari . . . I’ve got to embrace my inner Italian, right?’

Everyone laughed. ‘Too right,’ said the girl with pink hair, grinning.

‘Thanks, Anna,’ Sophie said. ‘Have you any plans to go out and meet your Italian family?’

Anna didn’t really want to get into the nitty-gritty of not exactly knowing her father yet, let alone any wider family. ‘Not at the moment,’ she said cagily.

‘Well, keep us posted,’ Sophie said, seeing her hesitation. ‘Who’s next? Freddie, is it?’

Freddie was the young dude, Mr Cool, sitting on his own at the back of the class. Very handsome in his black shirt, with the collars ironed into proper points, Anna noticed. Either he was still living with his mum or he was one of those rare guys who had high standards in personal grooming. Pete could do with a few hints there, she thought to herself. ‘I’m Freddie,’ he said in a husky drawl. ‘And I’m here because . . .’ He paused, suddenly looking shifty. ‘Um . . . Do I have to say? It’s kind of lame.’

Anna’s ears pricked up. Oy, oy. Mystery man, eh?

‘Of course you don’t,’ Sophie replied. ‘If you’d rather not tell us, that’s fine.’

Geraldine leaned over inquisitively. ‘Is it a girl?’ she asked.

Freddie’s coolness vanished in an instant and he shook his head, staring down at the desk. Anna exchanged a knowing smile with Catherine and Geraldine. It so
was
a girl, judging by the way Freddie pointedly refused to answer.

Sophie was frowning. ‘Freddie . . .’ she muttered thoughtfully. ‘Do I know you from somewhere? You’re not a famous journalist too, are you?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. Still a student,’ he said.

‘Do you live near Ranmoor?’ Sophie tried. ‘I’ve definitely seen you around . . .’ Her face cleared. ‘Ahh – could it have been in the Gladstone Arms?’

He grinned sheepishly. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘My parents live near there so I’ve been known to pop in.’

‘That must be it,’ Sophie said. ‘And snap – mine live round there too. Small world.’ She turned to the sisters. ‘And finally,’ she said. ‘Ladies?’

‘I’m Nita,’ said the rather sulky-faced girl, ‘and this is Phoebe, my sister. We’re here because . . .’ They exchanged a glance. ‘We think Italian is a beautiful language,’ Nita said unconvincingly.

Phoebe gave a snort. ‘Speak for yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m only here because
she
talked me into it. And she’s only here because she wants to meet sexy Italian men!’

It made everyone laugh, even Freddie, and any remaining ice was immediately broken. Sophie’s lips twitched. ‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she promised Nita, who was now giving her sister total evil-eyes. ‘Don’t worry – what happens in Italian class
stays
in Italian class.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Right – I’d better teach you how to say hello to your sexy Italian men, then, hadn’t I? Let’s not waste any more time. Good evening and welcome!’

Anna arrived home that night tired but exhilarated. She’d really enjoyed the class. Sophie had seemed nervous at first, but quickly got into her stride once she started teaching them some vocabulary. Soon everyone was practising short, halting conversations in small groups. They’d learned basic greetings and introductions, numbers, days of the week and months, before finishing off with the words for different members of the family.

Anna had relished telling the class, ‘
Mio padre si chiama
Gino.’ It felt liberating saying the words out loud when she’d had to be so cloak and dagger around her mum and aunt recently. ‘
Mia madre si chiama
Tracey.’

‘
Brava
,’ Sophie smiled. ‘Your father is called Gino, your mother is called Tracey. Geraldine? How about you?’

All the way home, Anna let the new, unfamiliar words singsong through her head.
Buongiorno. Come stai? Sto bene. Mi chiamo Anna. Come ti chiami?

As she let herself into the communal downstairs area of the building, she saw a small package addressed to her in the pile of post on the shelf. Her heart gave a jolt as she recognized her aunty Marie’s handwriting. Was it the photos from Rimini? She charged up the steps to her flat and let herself in before ripping through the carefully sellotaped packet.