Sign of the Times Page 3

  “Scusi, signorina,” the owner apologised.

  She picked up jars and bottles, looking at the contents and ingredients. There were no prices marked. The bottega was filled with mouth-watering goodies; pickled vegetables, zucchini, red peppers and cherry tomatoes filled with anchovies. The upper part of one wall consisted only of wine and the lower half entirely of olive oil. Holly had never seen so many different kinds of olive oil. Next to the cassa and the beaming shopowner lay a wide assortment of cold meats and cheeses. Holly wanted to buy up the whole shop. Then she clapped eyes on the counter of fresh pasta…mmm. Ricotta filled ravioli, pumpkin stracci…. Little wonder some women deemed food better than sex, although Holly thought they simply hadn’t met the right guy. Had she? Or, had she met not one, but two? That was unfair. She couldn’t possibly equate the four year relationship she had with Tom, with the feelings of lust she had felt for Dario. She genuinely liked Dario. She wasn’t sure how to deal with it, but then again, was she ever going to have to? She wasn’t ever going to see him again. That made her feel worse. Things are better this way, she tried to convince herself.

  “Le piace qualcosa, signorina? Quell’olio d’oliva ha vinto il premio del quartiere quest’anno. Guardi. Porta il sigillio.” Holly was brought out of her Dario reverie by the shopkeeper.

  “Scusi?” He asked her again if there was anything she liked and said the olive oil she had been looking at, had won the prize for their district. Holly studied it. It was very expensive. After hearing a history of virtually every bottle of olive oil in the shop, Holly gave in and bought that year’s prize winning oil. She seriously hoped it had earned its prize, as it had cost her a small fortune.

  As she approached the wine racks to choose something suitable for dinner, the shopkeeper, whom by this point had introduced himself as Giampiero, asked if the wine was for a special occasion. Holly told him of her dinner invitation. When Giampiero heard this, his next question was did she know what Sig.a Tagliaferri was cooking. Holly replied that unfortunately she didn’t. Giampiero reassured her. “We will find out” and he picked up the telephone. Holly looked on bemused. Surely he wasn’t calling Sig.a Tagliaferri? That doubt was assuaged a few seconds later when she heard Giampiero say,

  “Giuseppe. Ciao! Was Viviana in this morning? Yes? What did she order? Bistecca? Grazie, a dopo,” and replacing the receiver he turned and gave Holly a knowing smile.

  “I hope you are not vegetarian. You’re having bistecca alla fiorentina, so I would suggest a strong, fruity, oaky, red wine, a Montalcino perhaps?”

  Holly was impressed by the accuracy of their grapevine. She bought two bottles and Giampiero bustled around wrapping them for her. Holly knew she would come back here, if not simply to use Giampiero as a case study. Goods safely in a bag, Holly set off to explore the rest of the village.

  *

  Walking downhill from the village to the little stream which denoted the start of the climb up out of the valley and the steep ascent to the villa, Holly heard a car behind her. “Ciao.” Turning she saw Emilio, coursing towards her in a beaten up Fiat Punto. Beckoning her over, he grinned. “Would you like a lift? If you want to walk, I’ll just take the bags.”

  Holly, sweating and red in the face looked at him warningly and assured him, “No, I’ll just hop in too.” Dumping her bags on the back seat, she then eased herself into the passenger seat. Emilio clumsily shoved the car into first and it groaned and spluttered over the bumpy, unforgiving road for the rest of the journey.

  “Thanks,” said Holly, when Emilio drew up outside the villa. He lifted her bags out of the car and handed them to her. She was no sooner over the threshold, when Sig.a Tagliaferri appeared.

  “Tutto bene, cara?” Holly replied that all was indeed well. Juggling her bags, she made her way upstairs. As she was turning the key in the lock, her mobile rang.

  Damn, why do these things always go off at the most inopportune moments, she wondered. Dropping her things on the floor, she unearthed her mobile. Her face lit up immediately.

  “Tom! How are you?”

  “Just thought I’d see how your trip’s going.”

  “Fine. I had a bit of a hairy start with the car breaking down, but things are great now.” Holly neglected to mention the part Dario had played in her maiden in distress situation, as she regaled Tom with her tale of woe.

  “So, what are you up to?” he asked.

  “I’m having dinner with the landlady and her sons. What about you?”

  “I might get to grips with that mountain of paperwork on the dining room table. Have you written anything yet?” Tom asked.

  “Not yet. I was just gleaning my first impressions today.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be another bestseller.” Tom assured her.

  “You’re biased,” Holly laughed.

  A shrill ring pierced her laughter. “Is that your mobile?” she asked.

  “Afraid so. I’d better get that. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” said Holly.

  Chapter Four

  “These are for you,” said Holly, handing over the bottles of Montalcino.

  “Ma che cosa fai? Che ragazza!”

  The signora scolded Holly for bringing wine and told her in future she should just bring herself. A cream lace tablecloth with tiny hearts cut into it, adorned the oak table, where Guido and Emilio already sat, hungry looks on their faces. Holly hoped they were simply in need of sustenance and that steak would put them to rights. She didn’t think she could cope with any romantic overtures. It was bad enough explaining she had a fiancé, never mind the added complication of Dario appearing in her head. Sliding into the seat adjacent to the signora’s empty one, she pretended not to see Emilio’s offended look. The table was laden with simple, terracotta earthenware and silver cutlery which Holly felt certain Sig.a Tagliaferri only brought out on special occasions.

  Sig.a Tagliaferri placed the wine Holly had brought on the table. A large salad bowl and servers soon followed. Olive oil and balsamic vinegar were already pride of place. Emilio and Guido wolfed the salad down like there was no tomorrow. She could never get Tom to eat salad like that. It was as if it weren’t macho enough. Even though there had been a food revolution in Britain in the last decade, Holly felt most men still abhorred the very idea of eating salad, unless it accompanied a Big Mac and even then they probably threw most of it away. Finishing hers, she glanced at Guido who was mopping up the leftover juice with some crusty bread. They had spoken little during the introductory course.

  The two boys cleared away and Sig.a Tagliaferri struck up conversation with Holly, whilst she served the primo, ravioli di zucca, in a creamy pumpkin sauce.

  Holly explained the reason for her stay. The signora was impressed and asked Holly if she had written any other books. Holly relayed to her some of the anecdotes in her first book, Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera. She told her how happy it had made her writing about a subject so close to her heart and about a people she held in the highest regard and how much fun she had had in the process.

  She recounted the wine tastings, sipping home-made grappa and limoncello for the first time, savouring bistecca alla fiorentina for the first time. At this Sig.a Tagliaferri wailed that that was what they were having for their secondo and went on to enumerate the qualities of the high Florentine cut. Fortunately, Holly liked her steak medium, so she was looking forward to it, if she didn’t completely fill up with this amazing ravioli. She adored pumpkin. She smiled as she remembered Tom attempting to make pumpkin pie. Not known for his culinary skills, he was determined to make the perfect pie for Holly, since she was always cooking for him. Holly had entered the kitchen and seen her fiancé surrounded by an assortment of pots, pans and plates, looking harassed.

  ‘I’ve made an absolute mess of this. Do you want to get a Chinese?’ he had asked.

  Holly had managed to salvage the ingredients and handed Tom the pumpkin and a knife and asked him to carve her a Halloween lantern, in exchange for dinn
er. The pie had turned out to be mouth-watering and she had frozen the leftovers, so Tom would have something to live on during the week. He was hopeless and would live on takeaway if he could. Likewise, the lantern had turned out to be an artistic masterpiece. They both had their strong points, Holly reflected. Snapping back to reality she realised that Guido and Emilio were telling their mother about the four old men she had spotted playing chess. She was thankful that her temporary lapse in concentration had gone unnoticed.

  Emilio asked Holly of her plans for the coming days.

  “I thought I’d go to Poppi castle and possibly La Verna to see the monastery. There are a lot of connections to Cardinal Dovizi around here. I’d like to include that in my book.”

  “So, do you write stories about your travels or do you write travel guides, places to see, to stay, that sort of thing?” Guido asked.

  “No. I write stories about my experiences and about the culture of each place, traditions, history and how understanding it all has impacted me,” Holly explained.

  “So, will we be in your book?” Emilio asked eagerly.

  “Possibly.”

  “Oh please,” he begged.

  “I haven’t even started my research yet,” Holly laughed.

  “We’ll help, won’t we, Mamma? Guido?”

  “Certo,” came the reply.

  Holly assured them they would be mentioned in her book, although not necessarily by name.

  “If I need help, I know where to come.”

  The bistecca fiorentina was heavenly. Holly licked her lips, as the signora carved a piece for her. It didn’t ooze blood, but it was pink. It was so succulent and melted on the tongue. This is why she ought to live in Italy, thought Holly, for the food alone! Dario came unbidden into her thoughts, but she immediately banished him. Sig.a Tagliaferri asked Holly if she liked the fichi d’India. They were certainly very unusual, Holly thought, like fried courgettes and she had really enjoyed the first one, but two was enough. They were a bit bland. The grilled vegetables; sun blushed tomatoes, red onions and baby mushrooms were perfectly cooked. Holly never could understand how she, a good cook, could never get her Mediterranean veg to taste quite like those she ate in Italy. She used olive oil, the same spices and preparation methods, yet some vital ingredient, seemed to be missing. She vowed to ask the signora’s advice.

  The pièce de resistance was the tiramisu. Sig.a Tagliaferri revealed it had taken only five minutes to make. It was like heaven to Holly’s taste buds. They rounded off the meal with a selection of cheeses. Holly was replete. The wine which Giampiero had recommended had gone down a treat. The evening continued until they were all sated and slightly sozzled. Holly was glowing, partly from the red wine, but mainly because she really enjoyed being in Italy and in the company of Italians. Swaying slightly, she bid them goodnight. Today she had felt like one of the family, exchanging escapades and imparting tales. She flopped onto her bed and was asleep in seconds.

  Her dreams were confused. One moment Tom was there, her knight in shining armour, the next Dario was alongside Tom, replacing him in his vintage sports car. Holly wasn’t sure if Dario had a sports car, vintage or otherwise. For all she knew he drove a Fiat 126. No, he wouldn’t drive that kind of car, not with such a house. Maybe he was a Ferrari man. Holly awoke feeling more heady than when she’d gone to bed and she was pretty sure that it wasn’t all down to alcohol.

  As she had slept late, Holly passed on breakfast, hungry to go out and get some ammunition for her novel. She spent the next few days visiting Sistina, Stia and Chiusi la Verna. The audio tour of Poppi castle impressed her. She also purchased some of the Lamponi la Verna, a raspberry alcoholic drink distilled by the monks at the monastery at La Verna.

  Guido and Emilio showed her the surrounding area. They introduced her to Zita who ran the salumeria, where the Tagliaferris bought their cold meats. Zita was ninety. It was customary to spend thirty minutes in Zita’s when you had only gone in for a hundred grams of prosciutto. Like the chess players and Giampiero, she knew everything about everyone. Whether it was how Carlo’s goat was coming along, or that Natalia had been spotted in Arezzo with Sig.a Lazzerini’s husband having lunch, or that Alfonso’s nephew had graduated from an English university, they kept the gossip moving. Emilio even let Holly ride the tractor, so she could experience life in the fields first hand. Her hand flew over the paper as she took page after page of notes. Guido and Emilio seemed to have resigned themselves to not being Holly’s type and had become good friends.

  Today Holly had decided she would go to the market, to see what fare they sold. The signora told her to try the home-made pastries stall which Pina ran. Holly was eager to set off as she didn’t want to miss out by arriving late.

  The market was already thronged with people, some milling around chatting, others perusing the wares on the various stalls. Holly passed the butcher’s stall, where fresh duck and chicken vied for pride of place among the venison and veal. Moving on, she came to one of several fruit and veg stalls, where she spotted the fichi d’india she’d tasted for the first time a few days ago. They looked rather different in their raw state. Everything looked larger, juicier, more misshapen – no European directives had affected these, she thought. As she turned away from the stall, a shadow flitted past. She stood stock still and stared. She could’ve sworn that was Dario. Was she going mad? Had she been thinking of him so much, she’d even managed to conjure him up. Giving herself a shake, she moved on to the next stall.

  Holly pottered through the remainder of the market. The sun beat down mercilessly from its pole position. She came across a stall which sold fans and although she didn’t quite fit the pre-requisite ninety years of age, she bought herself one anyway. As she rested against the edge of a stall, fanning herself with her new purchase, she saw the man again. Practically launching herself from her resting place and quickening her pace, egged on by curiosity, she followed him. She rounded the corner, just in time to see him disappearing into a silver, Alfa Romeo. Her pulse racing, Holly asked herself if she was going loopy. Was it him? Tortured by uncertainty, she thought about little else as she trudged back up the hill towards the villa.

  Chapter Five

  “Hollee!” shouted Emilio. Holly, who had been relaxing in the pool, shot upright and then swam to the edge.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I have some news and I think it will be good for your book and I wanted to tell you before Guido,” he admitted slightly abashed.

  “It’s not something bad?” Holly was confused.

  “Noooo. It’s very good. Our friend, Alessandro is getting married next week. I asked him if you could come and he said yes!”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Holly. “I’ve never been to an Italian wedding before.”

  “Well, you’ll have to eat nothing for two days before.”

  “Are you saying I’m fat?” Holly was indignant.

  “Fat? Ma sei pazza?”

  Holly said she wasn’t mad, but why wasn’t she to eat for two days.

  “OK, maybe not two days, but it’s like a marathon eating event, eight courses. Last week you couldn’t even manage dessert.” Emilio chided.

  Sheepishly Holly agreed, “I know. I love food, but I fill up quickly.”

  “So, we have eight courses usually and there is lots of dancing, singing and many speeches. There are normally at least two hundred people.”

  “Two hundred guests! Evening or day?”

  “What do you mean? The wedding is during the day.”

  “No, I mean, of the two hundred guests, how many are invited for the whole day and how many just for the evening?”

  Emilio looked aghast, “No! We do not do things this way. Everyone comes for the whole day. It is a day for celebration”

  “I have nothing to wear!” wailed Holly.

  “I am sure you’ll find something. I would like you to be my guest, Holly. I know you have a fiancé, so don’t worry, I have the purest of intentio
ns.” At that he winked, letting her know that if Tom hadn’t existed, his intentions would have been less than pure.

  That night at dinner, the four of them talked of little else. Guido explained that Alessandro owned the large house on the hill, which Holly had so admired on her first day.

  Holly’s creative juices were flowing. She had already written eighty pages in three weeks, which was a lot, as she was a perfectionist and drafted and re-drafted to within an inch of her life.

  On Tuesday afternoon she decided she really did have nothing suitable to wear. She asked the signora if she knew anywhere to buy a dress in Arezzo. Sig.a Tagliaferri was delighted to be of assistance. She even went as far as to suggest that Holly might want someone with her to approve her choice. So, they set out after lunch and within half an hour, were scouring the shops in search of the perfect dress. The assistant couldn’t have been more helpful, rushing to do Holly’s bidding. Holly wondered if this was because she was foreign and therefore more likely to spend vast sums of money, or if it were because she had a local as a companion. First she brought out a red flowery dress, which horrified Holly. The assistant must have seen the look of terror on her face, as she disposed of it forthwith. Next was a pale green, floaty number. It was OK, but left Holly looking somewhat washed out. The third dress brought a sharp intake of breath from Sig.a Tagliaferri when Holly emerged from the cubicle. She’d been struggling with herself, as to whether to even show Sig.a Tagliaferri this dress. It was so revealing. Cut like that famous Marilyn Monroe dress at the top, it was of voile, with silk underneath. She looked beautiful. Holly’s main preoccupation was it was cream and it was a wedding and who knew what the bride would be wearing. The signora, also a wedding guest, dismissed this problem and insisted Holly buy the dress. The assistant, who could see Holly vacillate, said she’d give her a ten percent discount. So she bought it.

  The days leading up to the wedding flew. Guido was busy in the fields. Emilio was helping with the wedding. The villa had more guests than Holly had seen in previous weeks. Holly worked like a woman possessed on her book and was making good inroads. She had befriended the four old chess players. Roberto, who seemed to be the ringleader, happily recounted to her as many tales as she could listen to. She’d also made time to call Tom the day before the wedding, guilty that she hadn’t called him for several days. It didn’t occur to her that he hadn’t phoned her either.