‘Yes, yes,’ said Marisa, who was exhausted. Nonna brought her near-sighted little black button eyes up closer to the screen.
‘You look tired. What time did you get home?’
‘Um, not too late,’ lied Marisa through her teeth. She hadn’t even noticed what time it was.
‘You didn’t drink?’
Her nonna’s face was stern.
‘Noooo . . . A little bit. He is Russian.’
Nonna sniffed.
‘Nonna! Things are different these days.’
‘You go to a man’s house, you take him food, you drink with him, you come home and you look terrible. Is this what you had hoped for the evening?’
Everything had seemed even worse in the cold light of the morning. Her nonna was right: she had offered herself up on a plate, and he had patiently explained how he much he missed his ex. And oh my God, of course, all the old ladies of the village who came up to practise Celine Dion songs for him. She was absolutely in that category too. She groaned. How could she have made such an idiot of herself?
But the worse thing was, when she put that to one side, she had felt the evening was . . . it was wonderful. She had liked him. Laughing together and drinking vodka, and how touchingly he had taken her into his confidence, talked about his life; it had been a real conversation, not idle chit-chat or the desperate flotsam of Tinder dates, where you talked about other dates you’d been on, or whether you liked dogs or pudding. It had been a real sharing of their lives.
And then when he showed her how to play . . . her fingers still tingled at the memory of it, of feeling engulfed by the music.
And then she’d gone and spoiled it all.
‘Do you like this boy?’ said her nonna.
Marisa shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s been such a long time.’
‘I think that says yes.’
Nonna was now adding the peas to some broad beans and making a mint dressing for the freshest, lightest salad Marisa could imagine. She wanted nothing more than to be sitting in her nonna’s courtyard, the sun pouring in, drinking sparkling water and waiting for lunch.
‘I just don’t meet anyone else.’
‘Well! Get out! Meet other people! Come and visit your nonna!’
‘I would love to,’ said Marisa avidly, even though the idea of getting to a crowded noisy airport and dealing with queues and strangers and boarding a plane was up there with nipping over to NASA and signing up for the Mars mission.
‘Now it is lunchtime. Get some sleep. Do not take him any more food until you know his intentions are pure.’
‘His intentions are non-existent,’ said Marisa.
Nonna sniffed. ‘He is a man; you are a woman. If he likes women, there is nothing wrong with you.’
‘I think,’ said Marisa, ‘that’s the biggest compliment you’ve ever paid me.’
Chapter Fifty
The weather cleared up in the afternoon and as well as her hard-won moving outside, Marisa couldn’t bear sitting in, listening to the piano lessons next door, each one an agony. His patient growl; the clumping repetition of the students’ slow lines. All of it was painful to Marisa and she pulled on her coat and did what she said she’d do: she managed to go down to see Polly.
It was nearly the end of the day for Polly who was waiting on the children returning and hadn’t really been expecting Marisa back, considering she wasn’t well, and hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up.
The new door had arrived, conveyed with great fanfare by Reuben, and of course she had been very grateful; she was very grateful, but she couldn’t possibly say now how much they were still in trouble.
Marisa kept close to the walls of the houses again, remembering to do her breathing – although thinking about meals didn’t help as it led her back to the previous evening – as she headed down the hill.
People smiled and nodded at her and she did her best to return them. Here and there were houses still open and drying out, and there was a large collection of ruined furniture down on the docks waiting for the refuse boat that was coming to take it away.
Still, Mount Polbearne made a pretty sight in the watery sunshine. The houses were being repainted already, many of which had long needed it, and there was a faint smell of fresh whitewash in the air. Now the day had cleared there were lots of people out on the street, calling to one another, borrowing tools and sharing biscuits. Obviously what had happened had been terrible but there was a definite sense of everyone coming together. Andy had even restrung the fairy lights above his beer garden in defiance of the storm, lending a promise of lovely light evenings ahead. It was nice to see them. I could sit in a beer garden, thought Marisa defiantly. She could. Could she?
The bakery was winding down, almost empty. Polly smiled and waved to see her; Jayden had already gone for the day.
‘Hey!’ she said.
‘Hello,’ said Marisa. ‘I came to talk about . . . well. Things I was thinking of for the bakery.’
She started unpacking the rucksack she’d prepared that afternoon. Polly beamed.
‘I wasn’t sure you weren’t just chewing the fat. Are you serious?’
Marisa held up her apron.
‘I am completely serious. You have a hot food licence, right?’
‘Surely do, class one,’ said Polly proudly.
‘Okay. Well. Want to fire them up?’
They turned the closed sign round on the bakery and cleared a workspace through the back, as well as whacking the ovens up to five hundred degrees. It got very hot inside the bakery very quickly.
‘Phew,’ said Marisa. ‘This will dry you out.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘Reuben bought us some super-duper triple-glazed door which he thinks is brilliant but it doesn’t let any draughts in. Also, it’s too heavy for my old ladies. It’s going to kill someone. Or, more likely, their dog.’
Marisa winced. ‘Ah.’
She unpacked the huge jar of fresh tomato sauce that had been simmering on the stove for hours.
‘Oh my God,’ said Polly as she opened it. ‘That smells like heaven! What’s in it?’
‘Not much,’ said Marisa. ‘Good tomatoes, lots of garlic, onions, olive oil, salt, a bay leaf and a lot of thyme.’ She thought for a second. ‘And really, the bay leaf is mostly for luck.’
Polly dipped a spoon in and tasted it.
‘Oh my God, that’s amazing!’
‘Thyme is the best bit.’
‘It’s so rich!’
‘A good sauce and a good base . . . but that doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have a good oven,’ said Marisa. ‘And boy do you have good ovens.’
The twins came cantering round the back, home from school.
‘What did you learn today?’ said Polly.
‘Health and Well-being!’ recited Daisy.
‘Mummy, do you SMOKE?’ said Avery, looking panicky.
‘Have you ever seen me smoke?’ said Polly, confused. Daisy came up to her and took her hand gently and with an air of very mature concern.
‘Do you smoke, Mummy?’
‘Of course I don’t smoke!’
‘Because if you smoke you will die.’
‘TODAY,’ said Avery, his face looking frightened.