gutter.
Giovanni swung by her, chatting in cheerful Italian, and she raised a hand and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Do you know her?’ asked Lisa, thinking that the gesture was so Italian; even in the big city people knew each other, had a sense of community.
‘No.’ Giovanni grinned. ‘I told her she’d better get a move on or she’d miss the game.’
He looked at his watch and picked up his pace. They turned into another street, with a few shop fronts. ‘Nearly there.’
Lisa bit back the slight sense of disappointment as he ushered them through the doorway of small fairly insignificant-looking bar. Not quite what she’d imagined on her first night in Rome. She looked about her but, then, it was probably one of those places only known to the locals, which had an amazing atmosphere and fantastic food.
It certainly didn’t match the image she’d had in her head since she’d set off this morning, which included eating outside on pavement tables as she watched the world go by. This was not that restaurant.
‘Giovanni!’ called the barman as soon as they walked in, unleashing a torrent of teasing Italian and coming forward to slap Giovanni on the back as he grinned with an approving nod at Lisa. She might not have understood the words but she could get the gist of it. It was a fairly unsubtle thumbs-up and impossible not to smile back.
‘They love blondes in Italy,’ muttered Will in her ear. Trust him to take the shine out of the moment.
‘Lisa, this is Alberto.’
‘Ciao,’ he nodded, with an immediate flirtatious smile. ‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you, it’s lovely to be here.’
She didn’t think she’d ever seen quite so many bottles crammed into such a small space. Tall, slender glass bottles containing liqueurs in a variety of startling colours and shapes alongside shorter, fatter bottles with dark glass masking their contents. Most were coated with a fuzzy layer of dust, which suggested they might have been there since the days of Ancient Rome. Campari, Galliano, Sambuca, Limoncello, Strega, Grappa, Aperol, Fernet Branca. Half of them she’d never even heard of, let alone tasted.
Unfortunately, no such riches awaited on the food front. The glass-fronted fridge offered an extremely sad selection. She scanned the few pathetic-looking slices of pizza, topped with rubbery-looking mozzarella, alongside a couple of limp sandwiches, pale, drooping lettuce escaping from the sides and a solitary indeterminate pastry, which had left translucent patches of grease on the paper around it.
Alberto caught her eye and shrugged. ‘We’re closed tomorrow, but we have plenty to drink.’ With a proud flick of the wrist he waved behind him.
‘You certainly do,’ said Lisa, wondering if she should be brave and try something local, except she wouldn’t know where to start. Nan had brought her up on plain, sensible fare and she wasn’t much of a drinker. The recent conversion to gin was down to Siena’s influence.
Will stepped forward. ‘I’ll have a Peroni. Lisa, what would you like? Giovanni?’
‘The same,’ she said, relieved, not having a clue what Peroni might be. Leaving Will to sort out the drinks, Giovanni ushered her on to the back of the narrow bar, where their progress was halted by loud shouts.
‘Gio!’
‘Ciao!’
In the crossfire of Italian, she had no idea what was being said, but it was clear everyone was happy to see Giovanni. There was also a definite festive atmosphere, but she didn’t think it was triggered by the return of the prodigal son. Although lots of the insistent young men wanted to be introduced to Lisa, shaking her hand and making teasing comments to Giovanni, their attention was only half on the job of flirting with the blonde newcomer.
She followed as Giovani wove his way through the tight formation of Formica tables. A locals’ place, it held all the glamour of a school cafeteria and pretty much the same atmosphere, with its noisy chatter from the predominantly male clientele in the room, all of whom were transfixed by the large TV screen that dominated the corner and the group of excitable on-screen pundits holding court.
Giovanni’s head swung towards the screen and he managed to navigate to a table, pull out a chair and sit down.
‘It’s Derby della Capitale, Roma v Lazio.’ His eyes gleamed with amused fervour. ‘Life or death! You don’t mind, do you? It’s the Italian way.’
Lisa shook her head with a good-natured smile, despite the distinct sinking of her heart. This was not how she’d imagined spending her first night in Rome.
But Giovanni was her host. She had free accommodation and it was only one night. Besides, she was good at making the best of a bad job.
She sat down opposite him, amused by his stalwart attempts to chat to her, despite the terrible distraction of the TV screen above her head.
Will brought the drinks, tall glasses of golden lager, with condensation sliding down the outside. Brilliant, just what the doctor ordered. Long and cold.
As with every other man in the place, his head slid like a magnet seeking due North – towards the screen.
‘Who’s playing?’
‘Roma.’ Giovanni grinned and reached for his drink. ‘And Lazio.’
‘Ah.’ Will raised his glass in a toast and stared up at the screen.
‘Thanks,’ said Lisa, making an unnoticed toast too. Boys were boys whatever nationality. It was a wasted gesture as neither of them even noticed.
Her stomach grumbled at the first hit of cold beer, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. Her own fault for letting her stupid nerves get the better of her and skipping breakfast before the flight, and then on the plane, deciding to give her bucking bronco of a stomach a break and save her appetite for some delicious authentic Italian pizza or a nice safe pasta dish this evening. The prospect of which was fading with every cheer at the TV. Once the game kicked off, the noise levels ratcheted up.
Watching Giovanni and Will’s rapt faces, she contented herself with thoughts of what Nan might have said in this situation. No-holds-barred Nan’s tongue. Half of Lisa’s life had been spent smoothing the bulldozer tracks of Nan, overcompensating for her rudeness, as if going out of her way not to give offence might balance the cosmic scales. Unfortunately Nan believed that age conferred the absolute right to say whatever she thought, to whomever, whenever. It could be cringingly embarrassing. Like the time she’d informed the lady in the chemist, in front of a queue of people, that she was wasting her money buying Preparation H. According to Nan, the best cure for piles was apple cider vinegar, which she explained at full volume before proceeding to give precise instructions as to how she should soak cotton wool balls in the vinegar and apply them to the area. Despite the poor woman’s hunch-shouldered attempt to impersonate a tortoise, Nan went on to ask how big they were before informing everyone that her own were like bunches of grapes.
At this exact moment, Lisa could imagine Nan’s view would have run along the lines, ‘I haven’t flown a thousand flaming miles to watch a bunch of overpaid big girl’s blouses chasing a bit of leather around a well-mown lawn.’
Lisa sighed quietly to herself.
