Marco’s is such a big part of my life that I can’t smell garlic cooking or freshly ground coffee without being transported to this little place on the corner of our road, with its gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. All the money in the world wouldn’t make me choose a fancy restaurant over this.
Marco di Palma greets me with the same white-toothed grin he has greeted me with since I was a child. In over twenty years he has hardly changed at all, except for a little grey hair at his temples. He runs his restaurant with the same passion and enthusiasm.
‘Bella Julia!’ he exclaims again as I approach, grabbing my face and planting three over the top kisses on my cheeks. ‘And where is your beautiful mama tonight? And Signor Johnny? Will they be joining you?’
‘Not tonight,’ I reply, marvelling at Marco’s endless optimism that one day the Philadelphia Simmonds will eat in his restaurant. ‘Mum’s in New York.’
‘Your favourite table then?’ he asks pointing me in the direction of the table I always sit at in the summer on the patio.
‘Could I have somewhere a little more private tonight, Marco? I’m meeting someone.’
‘Is Dr Alec visiting us tonight?’ he exclaims to the entire restaurant. ‘We always love to see Dr Alec!’
Marco makes this pronouncement as though he and Alec are the greatest of friends when in fact, on the few occasions I’d brought Alec here, he had been nothing but disparaging of the whole experience. Alec will always put fancy restaurants above little Italian places with gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. To herald Alec’s potential arrival with such reverence is almost as optimistic as thinking my mother will ever eat here.
I break the news quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid. ‘Alec and I have split up I’m afraid.’ I pause for the dramatic effect I know Marco loves. ‘Alec is moving to America without me.’
‘Ah the bastard!’ Marco screeches, making all the tables in the restaurant jump a little. ‘If I ever see him…’ He shakes his fist at me rather alarmingly. Then suddenly his face changes as though he is trying to work something out. ‘So, who are you dining with tonight, Bella?’ he asks with a wink. ‘A new man?’
‘My mother’s lawyer,’ I say firmly. I don’t want Marco getting any ideas or bringing roses and champagne over for no reason. He is known for getting carried away. Another reason why his restaurant is always full.
Marco winks at me again and tells me he understands, when clearly he doesn’t understand at all. But then neither do I so I just tell him that Edwin and I do have some legal stuff to go through and need some peace and quiet.
Marco finds me a corner table with benches on either side, flourishing his tea towel. ‘Is everything all right, Bella?’ he asks in a serious tone I have never heard him adopt before.
‘Yes,’ I lie brightly, astounded at how easily I lie about how fine I am these days. ‘Why?’
‘Well, meeting lawyers, no man, your mama in New York?’ He throws his hands up into the air.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘We’re just going through some financial stuff that Mum has handed over to me.’ Not quite a lie I suppose.
He seems satisfied by this and taps his nose at me before wandering back out into the street, flicking a tea towel in his wake.
Edwin texted me over the weekend. He wanted to know if I was OK, worried about how upset I’d been when he gave me the letters. I assured him it was just a shock and he asked me if he could take me for dinner. It seemed a little out of character, but if someone as handsome as Edwin Jones wants to take me out for dinner, who am I to argue?
Pen and I analysed this in detail on the phone.
‘You’re a fast mover,’ she said, when I told her about the dinner invitation. ‘Is it allowed?’
‘Is what allowed?’
‘Dating your lawyer?’ she asked, clearly delighted at the prospect.
‘He’s not my lawyer, he’s my mother’s lawyer. And we’re not dating.’
‘Like hell you’re not. Sounds like a date to me.’
I heard her tapping something into her iPad.
‘Oh, very nice,’ she said.
‘What is?’
‘Edwin Jones, of course. I’ve just googled him.’
‘Of course you have.’
‘How tall is he?’ she asked. She’s only 5’1”. Graeme calls us Little and Large, but she knows I have a bit of a complex about dating men who are shorter than me.
‘About six four,’ I replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the butterflies in my stomach.
‘Then he’s clearly perfect for you. You know what they say, the best way of getting over someone is getting…’
‘Yes, thank you, Pen,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not a date.’ I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince Pen or the butterflies.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just…’ She trailed off with a sigh.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Oh, nothing really. I’m just bored I think. You’ve left, Alec’s leaving and now Graeme’s going to be leaving too.’
‘What? Graeme’s leaving?’
‘He’s finally found the café of his dreams,’ Pen replied. For as long as either of us has known him Graeme has wanted to run a coffee shop. It was an idea he came up with when he was travelling in Australia. He wanted to run a place that roasted and ground its own coffee beans, a place that sold organic cake and homemade sourdough bread. It sounded delicious but in all these years he’s never found a premises that he could afford the rent on. Not in Cambridge anyway.
‘Wow,’ I said, trying to take it in. ‘Where?’ We’d always imagined this café would be in Cambridge, despite the astronomic rents. The thought of it, and Graeme, not being there is almost as alien as the thought of Alec not being at Trinity College any more.
‘York,’ she replied. ‘A friend of his told him about this old greasy spoon that was up for sale. It needs refurbishing, but it’s going for a song and he just about managed to borrow enough money to buy it. And now he’s moving away.’
‘When?’
‘End of the summer I think.’
‘Oh, Pen, I’m so sorry. I know how close the two of you are.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘But you know, I’m not leaving.’
‘Yes you are,’ she replied firmly. ‘The universe is giving you an opportunity to turn your life around, and you know nothing can change the universe’s mind.’
I sighed audibly.
‘Now,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What are you going to wear for your date with Edwin Jones?’
*
So here I am in Marco’s waiting for Edwin. I’m not sure what prompted his invitation for dinner. I think he felt responsible for the latest curveball life had thrown at me in the form of the letters. Anyway, I wanted the low-down about what was going to happen in another meeting with tax lawyers tomorrow. I managed to convince him to come to Marco’s even though he sounded almost as snobbish about it as Alec.
He arrives not long after me, still wearing his suit trousers, white shirtsleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. He looks hot and slightly dishevelled, smelling a little too strongly of expensive aftershave, and has clearly come straight from work. He smiles as he bends down to kiss my cheek.