the most arrogant, annoying…’ She sucked in a breath, as if she’d said too much.
I bit my lip. ‘I am so, so sorry. It’s my fault you’re in this position and having to work with the man.’
‘Bullshit. It’s not your fault he’s an arse.’
‘What did he do? Try to feel you up in the break room?’
‘Worse. He asked me to make his coffee. As if I’m some twenty-year-old Girl Friday!’
‘And did you?’
‘Well, yes, but that’s beside the point. Even if I survive the week working with this man, I think I might need to join you on “garden leave”.’
‘Great idea. You can help unblock the drains.’
‘On second thoughts, maybe I’ll hang in here a little longer. But if I get arrested for murdering him, would you put up bail for me?’
‘Of course. And I promise I’ll find you a very sexy lawyer.’
At last Cleo laughed. Job done.
Chi ha la sua casa, poco gli manca
(He who owns his own house, lacks for nothing)
I was up early the next morning, though not as early as Tommaso. His car was already gone from the yard when I wandered into the kitchen and switched on the kettle for tea.
The driver who’d collected the bread loaves and desserts yesterday had brought a box of goodies from Beatrice, including a glass bottle of milk with a layer of cream floating on top. I surveyed the ingredients I’d spread across the kitchen table, feeling like a contestant in a cooking show. A jar of raspberry jam with the Rossi farm logo, which would take care of the ‘locally sourced’ requirement, almonds, creamed cheese, and precious, blessed yeast…
I heaved out a breath. Baking in a big old kitchen a half hour drive from the nearest store required a whole lot more creativity than baking in my high-tech kitchen in Wanstead with a Tesco’s in walking distance.
What could I make with what I had?
Et voilà! Okay, wrong language, but right sentiment – I would make mini raspberry bakewell tarts, with a sweetened cream cheese filling. Mary Berry, eat your heart out!
With a smile worthy of any on-air contestant about to annihilate the competition, I washed my hands, and set about creating the tart dough, sifting flour, sugar and salt together, digging my fingers in to rub in the butter until the mix formed a pastry of fine crumbs. Then I added eggs and milk to create a firm but soft dough, careful to ensure the dough became neither too warm nor too sticky. Wrapping the dough in cling film, I set it aside in the pantry to chill, and took a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast out to the terrace.
The sun had risen to its zenith, filling the valley with warm, bright light. The trellis that covered the paved terrace sagged beneath the weight of a massive wisteria, its vivid purple blossoms turning towards the sun. It was the largest wisteria I’d ever seen, easily triple the size it had been when I was last here.
I sat on the wooden bench, which was set at the optimum angle to take in the view, and propped my feet up on the sun-warmed balustrade, breathing in the fresh air. A tractor hummed in the distance, birds sang, and cicadas buzzed loudly in the still, heavy air.
For the first time since I’d woken, I thought of the office, wondering how Cleo was coping with The Arse. It was probably raining in London. I lifted my face to the sun. A little sunshine could fix almost anything. Maybe Cleo should come out for a few days before the summer was over.
I breathed in deeply, tasted the rosemary, lavender, and dark earth.
How long had it been since I’d done nothing but sit idly in a patch of sun? When last had a day stretched out before me, with no To Do list, a day where I didn’t have to be responsible to anyone? Not since I was a teen, for sure. Maybe I really did need this holiday.
My eyes fluttered closed, and I let out a long sigh. The sun’s glare battered against my eyelids.
The distant tractor sound choked and cut off, and I frowned at the rude interruption of my reverie, reminding me this wasn’t a holiday, and that I was still here, in a decrepit castello in need of some serious TLC. But at least I had dough rising in the kitchen. As long as there is dough, there is hope, Nonna used to say.
Back in the warm kitchen, the dough had risen faster than it would have in the cooler English climate. I rolled it out, lined Nonna’s sturdy muffin pan with it, then added baking paper and baking beans, before setting the pan in the oven to bake.
While the pastry cases baked, I whisked up the creamed cheese, adding butter and caster sugar, and beat the mix until it was light and fluffy. Then I added yet more eggs (I’d need to buy a whole lot more of those soon), ground the almonds and folded them into the mix, and finally added a touch of lemon zest – also locally sourced, right off the lemon tree in the back yard. I’d never baked with ingredients I’d actually picked myself before.
The kitchen filled with the warm, satisfying aroma of baking pastry, and I hummed as I worked. When the pastry cases were done, I removed the beans and paper from the tart pans, spread a thick layer of raspberry jam over the pastry crusts, spooned in the sweet filling, then slid the tarts back into the oven.
I was raiding the overflowing patch in the herb garden for fresh strawberries to use as garnish, when a car turned into the castello’s long drive. I shielded my eyes against the sun, and my heart did a silly little skip as I recognised the silver sports car.
Luca wasn’t alone, though. He’d brought the real estate agent to value the house.
The realtor was a woman – a curvy woman with lustrous dark hair swept up in a loose tumble of curls, and wearing a figure-hugging dress in fire engine red, and heels I wouldn’t be able to walk in.
Beside the realtor, with floury hands stained pink with sticky strawberry juice, and dressed in the ridiculous floral apron I’d found in an upstairs closet, I felt woefully plain.
The estate agent wandered from room to room, tut-tutting, and making copious notes on her clipboard. I trailed after them but, since they spoke mostly in Italian, I was only able to understand every other word. And Luca was no fun today. He was all business – no sidelong smiles, no casual touches, no flirting. I was pleased when the mobile in my apron pocket buzzed to warn me the tarts were done, giving me an excuse to escape back to the kitchen.
Alone, I admitted my disappointment. What the hell are you thinking? No holiday romances, remember? This is for the best.
Except it didn’t feel like it was for the best. This was why I hated dating. That up and down, ‘Does he like me? Doesn’t he like me?’ nonsense. My friends might have thought Kevin was dull, but at least I’d never had any doubt about his interest in me. Right up until I realised I wasn’t the only one he’d been interested in.
Half
