beautiful one.’
It was very tempting. ‘I could look into flights.’ They’d probably be far too expensive.
Will’s footsteps echoed in the empty room, dust rising in small puffs from the wooden floorboards. He wheeled around suddenly, tipping his head to one side. Yes, the pizza oven would go in that corner, with a curved serving area in front of it, open to the restaurant, allowing customers to see the flames as the pizzas were slid in and out of the oven on a big wooden paddle. Not that it was going to be all pizza. There would be a mix of authentic Italian food.
With a nod to himself, he paced to the opposite wall and reached out to touch the old crumbling plaster, the only clues to its history the darker squares where pictures once hung. As his fingers touched the wall, a cascade of rubble tumbled down. He winced. Shit, this place was going to need some serious work.
Was he mad? Taking this on when the pub was doing so well. This was a new challenge and, once it took off, perhaps his father would at last accept that Will might not be in banking or insurance but he was a successful businessman in his own right.
Ignoring the trickle of plaster dust, he pointed. ‘This wall will be shelved, floor to ceiling, and filled with recipe books.’ The ideas had been in his head for so long, it was easy to picture them. ‘I’ve already got Siena scouring second-hand bookshops and charity shops for Italian recipe books.’ And it would be somewhere to offload his own collection, which numbered in the hundreds.
‘Right,’ said Giovanni, squinting at the bare wall and nodding. ‘There will be much work.’
Will ignored the comment. Like he didn’t know that. And how much it would cost. Most of the time these days he dreamed in spreadsheets and project plans.
‘And here,’ he pointed, ‘there will be curved booths and tables for groups of six to eight. At the back we’ll build a conservatory area and have smaller, more intimate, tables for couples.’
‘It’s going to be great,’ said Giovanni, nodding enthusiastically. Will sighed, almost feeling envious at the younger man’s naivety. He bloody hoped it would be, otherwise his father really would have something to crow about. Just once, he’d like his dad to say, Well done rather than, Why leave a proper job to be arsing about behind a bar? or When are you going to give up playing at being landlord?
Giovanni had no idea what was resting on this. He was far too naïve and unworldly. He came from a privileged background where everything had been hard-fought.
For Will, opening a second restaurant was a gamble. A question of speculating to accumulate, when he could easily have kept on with the pub without overstretching himself.
It was a bonus that Giovanni wasn’t that astute. Will had the vision and plans, whereas Giovanni provided a healthy dose of passion and authenticity as well as his consummate customer-service skills. Initially Will took him on as a favour to his father, who knew Giovanni’s father, who was desperate for a placement for his son to learn better English.
It turned out the arrangement suited everyone as Giovanni, rather less spoilt than Will had supposed, was keen to do anything that gave him a reprieve from the family’s watchful gaze. He turned out to be a surprisingly good worker.
‘This is going to be a real Italian trattoria, with everything sourced from authentic suppliers. I’ve got a contact at the Italian Trade Delegation, who I’ve been talking to about some suppliers and importers. It would be great if I could go over there. He could set me up with a few meetings.’ Will paused. ‘I may have a few in Rome. Don’t suppose I could bum a bed?’
Giovanni’s face fell as a range of emotions crossed his face.
‘Problem?’ Will felt the sweat pooling on his palms at his outrageous fibs.
‘No, no.’ Giovanni swallowed, a brave tilt to his chin as he said, manfully, ‘No problem, boss.’
Will nodded, not feeling the least bit guilty. Okay, he might have overheard Giovanni telling Siena that Lisa was coming to stay and which flights Lisa had booked. It just so happened that those flights suited him too. But that didn’t mean anything. She’d booked the cheapest flights. So had he.
‘Don’t worry.’ Will gave him a perfunctory smile. ‘I’m not about to rain on your parade.’
Giovanni looked uncertain, but he clearly understood enough as his brow darkened with a touch of petulant schoolboy about his expression. ‘Lisa and I are friends. I am helping her.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Will had seen Giovanni watching her at the pub. Definitely a case of puppy love. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance. A lifetime of living with Nan’s strident views on the opposite sex was bound to put anyone off. Lisa was as into commitment as Will was.
Once he thought he knew her better than anyone. They’d virtually grown up together until he’d gone away to uni and work. When he came back he realised something was different. For months, they’d skirted around each other, keeping their distance, until that one stupid night. Now she hated him and that suited him just fine.
‘I’ll stay out of your way.’ Well out of the way. He didn’t want his face slapped. ‘All I want is a bed for a couple of nights. I’ll be out with suppliers all the time. That’s why I’m asking. Every cent I save on not paying for hotels can be invested in here.’ He pointed to the sagging electrical cables hanging from a hole in the ceiling. ‘The sofa will do. You won’t even know I’m there. I promise you.’
Will held his nerve, trying to ignore the disappointment on the other man’s face. Okay, he was being a prize shit. Taking advantage of being the boss. Lisa would be furious. But needs must. To make this place a success it needed every last drop of capital he could lay his hands on, every penny he saved elsewhere could be spent here.
It was one hell of a surprise when he’d heard that she was going to stay with the Italian. He couldn’t care less who Lisa went out with, but he didn’t think Giovanni was … good enough was perhaps a bit strong. Giovanni seemed a bit of a mama’s boy or was that a convenient stereotype? Lisa needed someone with a bit more oomph.
‘I’ve found a place outside Rome that produces guanciale. It will make the perfect amatriciana. Then there’s a couple of farming co-operatives producing olive oil and pecorino I want to check out. And of course, pasta. I want bucatini and paccheri instead of your bog-standard spaghetti and penne.’
‘Si, si,’ nodded Giovanni. ‘English people think they know pasta. They don’t.’ His hands waved enthusiastically. ‘Yes. You can come stay.’
They locked up the derelict building and piled into Will’s Golf to take the short drive back to the pub, which was closing as he parked, and said goodnight to Giovanni.
The courtyard behind the pub had fallen silent, the last few punters gently persuaded on their way home. He liked this time of night. Running a pub meant that you couldn’t be too picky about the company you kept, but when everyone had left, he relished the solitude and the privacy of his flat, away from the staff quarters above the pub. As he unlocked his front door, he couldn’t throw off the slight twinge of guilt remembering Giovanni’s earlier chagrined expression. He quashed any incipient sense of remorse
