The Dish (29 page)

‘I’ve just got to find this document quickly . . . one minute? No? OK . . .’ I say, pressing the off button. ‘The engine isn’t even on yet . . .’

‘Thank you,’ she says, with such venom I’m surprised her teeth don’t melt.

That would have been an ideal opportunity to show Adam: ‘a head chef totally on top of his game, a future star in the making’
.
How could he not be pleased with that?
‘
Vulgar
decor, even more vulgar pricing, an attitude problem worse than Lindsay Lohan’s.’ Well, he might not be delighted with that bit, but it’s fair – and it’s not like he’d disagree. I could download it when we get there I suppose, but the moment will have passed.

He can read it in situ in black and white on Tuesday morning. It’s only forty-eight hours now. It’ll be a nice welcome home present, soften
the blow of returning to work.

‘So, what shall we do first?’ says Adam, buckling up in our hire car so cheap and plasticky it feels like we’re inside a kid’s toy. ‘Mum’s given me a long list.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘Assisi: huge church, very important frescoes, all about St Francis . . .’

‘Famous for preaching to the birds?’

‘Then there’s Todi: ancient Etruscan town, legend has it four thousand
years ago an eagle dropped a tablecloth on it, home to one of Italy’s finest Renaissance churches?’

‘What else?’

‘Montefalco –’

‘Falcons?’

‘Bird bingo! Picture perfect Umbrian hilltop town with fifteenth-century frescoes?’

‘Church, frescoes, church, more old frescoes. Hmmm. You know what I think we should do?’

He checks his watch – 11.00 a.m. – and nods.

We’ve driven past so many stunning
pink-stoned trattorias perched on hills overlooking the magnificent countryside that when Adam pulls off the winding road and into a dingy lodge that looks like a rundown version of Crossroads motel I suggest he might have misread the map.

‘Mum said the food’s amazing,’ he says, walking into the fusty reception and greeting the old lady behind the desk in fluent Italian. She leads us into a deserted,
yellow-walled space that feels like a train station waiting room and is dominated by a 50-inch flatscreen TV booming out the rolling news.

‘Is it definitely the right restaurant?’ I ask, looking out of the window at a small swimming pool covered by a tatty tarpaulin weighed down with brown leaves and dirty water.

‘It’s not exactly LuxEris, but I reckon that’s a good thing, don’t you?’ He glances
at the wine list. ‘Four euros a carafe!’ His face lights up. ‘See? You can’t even get a glass of water for that at mine,’ he says, taking my hand in his and resting them on the table.

‘So how long has your mum had her house?’

‘She bought it about ten years ago,’ he says. ‘But I haven’t made it out here once – just been working and working. Here, try one of these.’ He holds out a basket filled
with rectangular orange slices of what look like cake, scattered with yellow nuggets. ‘Easter bread – it’s a local specialty.’

I take a bite, then another. ‘Yum – it’s like a Cheesy Wotsit in bread form!’

‘Right – let’s get down to business. What are you having?’

My eyes flick over the handwritten scrap of a menu. ‘I know it’s sacrilegious but I’m going to have pasta followed by pasta.’

‘Good,
because I’m having truffles followed by truffles. Why are you pulling a face?’

‘Fergus, our old critic, used to foam at the mouth at the mere whiff of a truffle but I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about.’

‘Try mine, you’ll see.’

‘OK, I finally get it,’ I say. ‘But they don’t taste this delicious back home.’

‘That’s because they grow them ten minutes from here. I’m kind of jealous
of yours,’ he says, poking his fork into my second bowl of pasta. ‘Squash and ginger fettuccine!’

‘Mellow and crazy but great, right? Like Bill Murray in a bowl.’

‘The Bill Murray of pastas? I think
you
might be the crazy one.’

‘The drunk one,’ I say, pouring the last of the carafe into my glass.

‘The Italians do know what they’re doing,’ he says, going back in for another bite.

‘Can you
open an Italian restaurant in London please, preferably round the corner from my flat? And make sure there’s a dessert trolley?’

‘I’d love to. I can probably afford the trolley, but then there’s lease premiums, licences, kit, fit-out, salaries . . . Fancy lending me quarter of a million?’

‘I wish . . .’ I say, leaning my cheek against his bicep. ‘But couldn’t you do it cheaper? People are doing
great stuff – less traditional – on smaller budgets nowadays. There’s this really cute café in Hackney they converted from an old public toilet. That can’t have cost quarter of a million.’

‘Laura – I’m not a snob. I wouldn’t want my place to be silver service, far from it – but I draw the line at urinals in the dining room.’

‘You should start with a food truck or a stall – nobody else is doing
anything like your savoury pastries. Then you wouldn’t need mega-bucks and you could set it up much faster too.’

‘The thing I don’t like about being head chef is that so much of it is rotas, schedules, paperwork – it’s taking me away from what I love most: the cooking itself.’

‘Have you heard of Kitchenstarter? Sophie got some funding from them last year – they’re brilliant at supporting new
creative businesses. You could use that cash to start something small with the pastries, but create a brand identity that feels fresh, have a website. You should look into it, you really should,’ I say, catching myself as I realise I’m starting to sound like Jess.

‘Here’s the plan! How about we jack in our jobs and drive around town on a bike serving London’s best breakfasts. You could be coffee
guru, I’ll do the pastries,’ he says, smiling.

‘Getting up at five a.m. every day? Sounds way too much like hard work. Besides, I like my job.’

‘We could have a fifty-inch telly on the handlebars, just like mamma used to . . .?’

‘Generator-powered by my pedalling, no doubt. And what will we call this magnificent new mobile dining concept?’

‘Tandem and Cash?’

I let out a low groan. ‘Adam,
if you
ever
have a go at me for making a bad pun – ever again – just remember this moment. You and me, sitting here – me, massively unimpressed; you, trying not to giggle at your own joke.’

‘Laura, I will remember this moment my whole life . . . not least because on the TV behind you there’s a busty blonde on a game show, currently stripping down to her kecks.’

I turn to check the screen – the
news is still playing. ‘Why Adam Bayley, for a minute there I almost believed you were telling me the truth.’

He leans over to kiss me and our lips meet in well-fed contentment.

‘What time is it, anyway?’ he says, sitting back up again as the bill arrives. He holds it out, victoriously. ‘Less than thirty euros, including tip! You’d pay triple that in London.’

‘It’s two fifteen p.m. Fresco o’clock?’

‘I have a much better idea,’ he says, grinning.

A shag?

‘Ice cream.’

‘This is the best day I’ve had since I can remember,’ says Adam, as we stop at a traffic light and he leans over the handbrake to kiss me.

‘Is that because of the hazelnut gelato or because I’ve spared you a tour of important medieval churches? We’ll have to do them tomorrow if not today – it’s sort of obligatory, when in
Rome and all that. Green light!’

‘It’s the best day because I’ve never met a girl who can flit seamlessly between singing Whitesnake, the Backstreet Boys and the theme tune from
Bugsy Malone
without knowing the words to any of them.’

‘Well, I’ve never met a boy who could drive a hairpin bend while doing jazz hands. Not that I’m encouraging your behaviour. Besides, I’m pretty sure “Fog on the
Tiber” is not the correct lyric either.’

‘And nor is “Here Comes the Red Snapper”! Being with you is like hanging out with a deranged jukebox,’ he says. ‘A very pretty deranged jukebox.’

‘How come
you
know all the lyrics to
Backstreet
?’

He shrugs. ‘I make no apologies. Have I told you I’m a massive Brian Harvey fan?’

‘Er, Brian Harvey is
not
a Backstreet Boy.’

‘Er, like, I know that. I’m
just saying I’m a fan.’ He laughs. ‘Ever since he ran himself over after eating too many jacket potatoes.’

‘Whitesnake. Why do you think they went for white? Not very scary for a snake, is it? Blacksnake – scary, Greysnake – good, gothic. White? Might as well be Lilacsnake.’

‘What did you want to be when you were five, Laura?’

‘Hairdresser or air stewardess. You?’

‘Astronaut. What’s your favourite
cheese?

‘All cheese.’

‘Silly answer.’

‘Silly question,’ I say. ‘What’s the meanest thing anyone’s ever said to you?’

‘Other than that I’m crap at map reading?’

‘You said I sound like a cat being garrotted when I sing Kate Bush!’

‘I meant it as a compliment! Some of my favourite blues singers sound like they’re undergoing bodily harm. OK, let me think. Urgh, OK . . . When I was thirteen Darren
Burns said, “You’re kind of cool, but you look really ugly when you laugh . . .”’

‘Ouch! What a horrible thing to say! I bet he was jealous because the girls fancied you.’

‘I used to practise different laughs in front of the mirror,’ he says, shaking his head in shame. ‘Have you ever tried laughing with your mouth shut?’

‘Oh, you look handsome when you laugh, Adam Bayley, you really do.’

‘Well you make me laugh, Laura Parker – and not only when you sing.’

‘Church . . . hill . . . green field . . . yellow field . . . church . . . rolling hill . . . are you sure this is the right way?’

‘She said it’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Well, we’re there all right. Maybe give her a ring just to check?’

He laughs. ‘And what landmark should I tell her?’

‘Trees, church spires and a lot
more trees?’

‘Hold on, this might be it.’

At a small blue sign for Monte Verdure we take a left, then bump along a gravel road which snakes slowly up a hill for five miles, then take a smaller red clay track, even bumpier and steeper, until finally we hit a grey, rocky track that leads to a wrought-iron gate at the top of a huge hill. We park the car in the shade of an umbrella pine and carry
our bags up the final stretch of path till we reach a collection of ancient buildings that make up the dwelling.

‘This whole thing was a medieval borgo,’ says Adam, standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the view. ‘A stopping point en route for pilgrims to Assisi, sort of like a travel lodge.’

‘A bit nicer than a Travelodge,’ I say. ‘It’s more like a fortress!’

The huge, grey stone
exteriors are draped in lavender-blossomed wisteria, with narrow lookout windows dotted throughout. They form the best part of a square, surrounding a central courtyard garden, wild with sage and rosemary and a fig tree not yet in fruit. We take a tour round the outside of the buildings before Adam stops in front of a heavy studded double door set in one of the walls and raises his eyebrows in delight.

‘Check this out!’ he says, pushing his shoulder against the door. ‘We’ve even got our own on-site chapel – we can tick churches off the list after all!’

We step inside the tiny chapel – sixteen chairs on each side, high vaulted ceilings, ancient wooden beams. It’s so simple; so quiet. Adam takes my hand and together we walk down the aisle towards the altar and stand silently breathing in the
air. We kiss under cool stone arches and Adam runs his hands through my hair and pulls me closer. We kiss and kiss, then stop – aware this kiss is turning into a distinctly non-churchy kind of kiss.

‘Let’s dump our bags and work out a plan,’ he says, taking my hand and leading me out of the chapel and back across the courtyard to one of the houses set in the stone on the south-facing side. It
has hanging terracotta window boxes by the door filled with tiny white flowers that smell of honey. He turns the key in the lock and I follow him through. On our left is a tiny kitchen, two electric hobs and a miniature fridge; in front of us the main living area – a small but cosy room with a brick-tiled floor and a fireplace against one wall, a sofa and an armchair filling the remaining space.

‘It’s pretty basic – there’s a bedroom and a bathroom upstairs,’ he says.

‘It’s lovely!’ I move closer to him and put my arms around his waist. ‘Adam, I’m sorry but I have a terrible confession to make . . .’

‘Go on?’

‘I’m having a total double-pasta and ice-cream crash. I know I’m a granny but if I don’t have a tactical nap now, I’ll be zonked by six p.m.’

‘I’m struggling to keep my eyes
open too. One hour’s sleep on the coach and a kip on the plane . . . Probably wasn’t the smartest idea of mine to come all this way just for one night, was it?’

‘I’m so glad we did.’

‘If I get us blankets, do you reckon it’s warm enough to doze in the garden?’

‘There’s a garden?’

‘Oh yes – she chose this place for the view.’

Through the living area and out the back door is a huge grassy lawn
covered in giant clover, dandelions and daisies, the tips of their petals scarlet as if quick-dipped in beetroot juice. We must be at the top of the highest hill in the area – you can see for miles and miles and miles – every shade of green from chartreuse to moss to midnight, greens like yellows, greens like blues. The grass under our feet is so vivid, it’s practically luminous – it almost hurts
your eyes. Its colour makes the mass of scattered olive trees immediately below us look grey in comparison. Beyond the olive groves, a vast landscape spreads out – gently sloping hills covered in darker patches of woods and forest, fields of crops and scattered vineyards curving all the way to distant mountains.

Adam sets up two deckchairs facing the horizon and grabs two picnic blankets. We
kick off our shoes and hold hands under the blanket. The gentlest of clouds hang overhead, as static as if they’re painted on the sky. Wood smoke scents the air and the only noise is the echo of a dog’s bark and the sound of birds, of which there are many – at least six distinct bird songs in ear shot – one like a hinge, one like a buzzing bee. We must doze off listening to them because the next time
I open my eyes it’s 7.10 p.m., the sun beginning its descent behind us, the sky turning rapidly from blue.