One Night in Italy (7 page)

‘Wow,’ said Joe. He perched on the edge of her desk. ‘That must be weird.’

‘Yeah,’ Anna replied. ‘You could say that.’

‘So you’re half-Italian? Cool.’

‘I know. That’s the good bit. The bad bit is . . . well, not knowing anything else.’

Colin raised an eyebrow. Even the grumpiest hack couldn’t resist a tantalizing story. ‘If you ask me, there’s only one thing for it.’

‘What’s that? And don’t say “give up” again because I don’t think I can.’

‘You have to return to the source,’ Colin told her. ‘In other words, ask your mother to tell you the truth.’

Anna pulled a face. ‘If only it was so easy, Col. Believe me, I’ve tried before.’

‘Worth trying again though, surely,’ Colin said mildly. ‘All the best stories take a bit of digging to unearth. Ask the right questions, you never know what you might find out.’

‘I suppose, but . . .’ An image of Anna’s mother, tight-lipped, shaking her head crossly, appeared in her mind. It was not going to be an easy conversation. She might even end up losing the one parent she did have if her mum got the hump.

‘Good luck,’ Joe said, getting up and wandering away. ‘Or rather,
buona fortuna.
’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘Good luck in Italian, isn’t it?’ Joe replied. He tutted at her in mock-disapproval. ‘Thought you’d know that, with your Italian heritage and all. Keep up, Morley.’

Anna went back to her work, but Joe’s words had struck a chord.
Your Italian heritage.
It sounded great. What was more, he was right. She owed it to herself to find out more about her father’s country.

Abandoning the Christmas lights again, she opened up a search engine and typed ‘Learn Italian’. She might not have got very far with finding her father yet, but she could at least make sure she was ready to speak to him when she did.

It seemed she had missed the boat with an Italian language course – all the colleges had started new ones in September, most of which ran through until summer. Ahh – not quite all. Hurst College, an adult education centre, offered a three-month ‘Beginners’ Italian: Conversation’ course starting in January.

‘That’ll do,’ she murmured, whipping out her Visa card and signing up there and then. Afterwards she hesitated, reluctant to put her credit card back in her wallet just yet. January was ages away. She needed something to chew on in the meantime.

Back she went to her list of search results. You could study great Italian architecture at the university – hmm, that was a module in a degree, maybe not. There was a course in Italian history too, but that was less her thing. Then she saw it. Giovanni’s, a lovely deli on Sharrowvale Road, ran Italian cookery courses in their kitchens above the premises.
Rustic Italian Suppers. Fresh Pasta. Classic Italian Desserts.

Her stomach rumbled. This was more like it. She loved Italian food! With a few quick clicks, she signed up for an ‘Introduction to Italian Cooking’ course the Saturday after next. Then, hearing the brisk clip-clopping of high heels in the vicinity, she hastily closed the browser. That sound meant only one thing: Imogen, her editor, on the prowl, and those laser eyes of hers never missed a skiving worker.

Anna returned to her boring article about the mysterious special guest who was switching on this year’s Christmas lights, looking every inch the diligent hack as her fingers ran across the keyboard. Her mind, though, was a feast of home-made pesto and chocolate truffles and an Italian chef kissing his fingertips and exclaiming over her culinary skills. Maybe she’d turn out to be a natural. Maybe there was this hidden depth to her, previously unseen. ‘Well, my father’s Italian,’ she imagined telling the others in the class airily. ‘I must get it from him.’

Then she remembered that she was never actually going to meet this father of hers unless she took action. ‘Return to the source,’ Colin had advised. Like it or not, that seemed her only option. She was going to have to bite the bullet and approach her mum.

Tracey Morley was now Tracey Waldon, having married Graham Waldon five years ago. The two of them lived in a quiet suburb of Leeds with their sulky ginger cat Lambert (Butler, Lambert’s brother, had gone to meet his maker the year before) and Graham’s extensive cacti collection.

Although it had always been just the two of them during Anna’s childhood, mother and daughter were not bonded at the hip as you might expect. Theirs was not a cosy relationship of daily chats on the phone and long gossipy lunches or spa days in white waffle robes like some of her friends and their mums. This was fine. Anna knew that her mum loved the very bones of her and would leap in front of a speeding bus to push her to safety if need be, but Tracey was tough too, suspicious of any touchy-feely stuff. She held her cards close to her chest, always had done.

‘Christmas shopping?’ Tracey repeated doubtfully when Anna rang to suggest meeting up. ‘What, us two?’

‘I thought it would be nice to do something together,’ Anna said, slightly wounded that her idea hadn’t been welcomed with open arms. ‘We don’t have to actually
buy
Christmas presents or anything,’ she went on, when her mum didn’t reply immediately. ‘We can just have lunch and a chat, you know.’

There was a suspicious silence. ‘Oh God,’ her mum said suddenly. ‘Are you pregnant, Anna? Is that what this is all about?’

‘No!’

‘Because I did think you were looking a bit chubby about the face last time we saw each other, and I said to Graham, you wait, I think our Anna’s going to have some news for us soon. And—’

‘Mum! MUM! I am not pregnant!’ She hunched over the phone, wishing she hadn’t made this call in the office. Her colleagues must be having a field day with so much personal information flying around. ‘For heaven’s sake! Can I not suggest a coffee or lunch without you jumping to ridiculous conclusions?’ She rolled her eyes at Marla whose desk was opposite, and Marla grinned back, clearly enjoying the show.

‘All right, calm down, I was only wondering,’Tracey replied. ‘Thank Christ for that, though. No offence, but I’m not ready to be a grandma just yet, thank you very much.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s no chance of it happening any time soon,’ Anna said dryly. However disloyal this made her, she actually felt faintly nauseous at the thought of carrying Pete’s baby. A mini-Pete, who would draw up a spreadsheet and score her on her inept mothering attempts, no doubt. ‘So anyway. Meeting up. Why don’t we go to the Living Room for lunch?’

‘Blimey, that’s a bit posh, isn’t it?’ her mum said. ‘Are you
sure
there’s nothing going on? You’re not trying to sweeten me up before confessing some terrible crime you’ve committed, are you?’

‘All right, we’ll go to Maccy D’s if you’d rather,’ Anna snapped. ‘Or we can bring our own flipping packed lunches! It was only an idea.’ She was on the verge of lapsing into teenage petulance –
I won’t bother next time!
– but managed to bite it back. This was supposed to be a charm offensive after all; she didn’t want to blow it before they’d even been given the menus.

‘Keep your hair on! I can do posh. I was only saying.’

‘Brilliant,’ Anna said through gritted teeth. ‘So I’ll book a table for one-ish and text you to confirm, okay? Look forward to seeing you then.’

‘Me too. I think.’

Anna arrived in Leeds half an hour early on Saturday so popped into the big Waterstones on Albion Street to while away some time. She walked straight past all the tables of new fiction and headed for the travel section. Maybe it wasn’t just about asking the right questions, she thought, searching the shelves for what she needed. Maybe it was about coming prepared with a few props as well.

The next twenty minutes vanished as she lost herself leafing through travel guides and maps. She gazed at the colour photos, drinking in the sights: the splendour of Rome, the glorious scarlet poppy fields of Tuscany, beautiful unique Venice, the wild coastline and magnificent beaches . . . Oh, she loved it all. The best thing was, this was her country too now. She felt such a strong pull to the place, it almost came as a surprise to look up from the pages and find herself still in Yorkshire. Glancing at her watch she realized she would be late if she didn’t hurry, so she paid quickly for her purchases and left.

The Living Room was a smart, classy restaurant. Anna had been once before during a friend’s hen weekend, and it wasn’t the sort of place her mum would be able to storm out of mid-hissy-fit. She hoped.

Tracey was already there when Anna arrived, sipping a cappuccino at a corner table while filling in a Sudoku game on her phone. ‘Hi, love,’ she said, rising to kiss Anna’s cheek.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Anna said, shaking off her damp coat and hanging it on the back of her chair. ‘I got distracted buying books. Planning a holiday.’

‘You and Pete? Where are you thinking of going?’

‘Italy,’ Anna replied. There. She’d said it already, before she’d even sat down. Her heart raced as she checked her mum’s face and body language for any kind of reaction. ‘Have you ever been?’

‘Me? Yeah. Years back, before you were born. Girls’ holiday, me and your Aunty Marie. Two weeks in Rimini, it was bloody magic.’ She looked wistful, and Anna’s fingers felt clammy as she pulled her new guidebooks from the bag.

‘Rimini. Where’s that then?’ she asked, oh-so-casual, swallowing back the other, more obvious questions bubbling up inside. Caution – that was what this was all about. Stealth. No sudden moves. No blurting out ‘Where did you meet my dad then?’, much as she was dying to. To her surprise, the approach actually seemed to be working.

‘It’s in the north, I think. Give that here, I’ll find it on a map. Smashing beaches.’ She flicked through the pages then stopped and looked at Anna quizzically. ‘Hang on, I thought Pete wasn’t keen on “abroad”. How did you manage to talk him into it?’

‘Oh . . .’ Damn. She hadn’t thought this through very well. And she definitely didn’t want to go off on a tangent about Pete, she wanted to get back to Rimini and her mum’s memories. ‘I haven’t told him yet, to be honest. Working up to that bit. I thought I’d suss it all out first and then present him with this dream holiday. So if you reckon Rimini’s a good bet . . .’ Had she got away with that?

‘It’s lovely. Probably changed a bit since I was there – God, over thirty years ago, that’s a scary thought.’

Over thirty years ago. Yes, that fitted. ‘And you never went back?’

Tracey narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, no, because then you came along, didn’t you? I didn’t have the money to go jetting abroad after that.’

‘Sorry,’ Anna said automatically, but her skin was prickling.
No, because then you came along, didn’t you?
Oh. Em. Gee. Her mother had practically admitted it: an Italian holiday romance ending in an unexpected pregnancy. No wonder she’d never wanted to talk about Anna’s father. She’d have had to admit she didn’t even know where he lived!

‘No need to apologize, you daft thing,’ her mum said, interrupting Anna’s train of thought. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘No.’ Anna took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Mum—’

‘I could do with a holiday myself, to be honest. Get away from it all. Bit of winter sunshine would be lovely right now.’

‘Yes.’ Anna clutched her knees under the table and braced herself.
Just ask her.
‘Mum . . . I was wondering . . .’

‘It’s been so cold lately, hasn’t it? Two duvets on the bed, we’ve got at the moment,
and
one of them is a super-tog-doodah or whatever they’re called.’ Tracey broke off and fixed her with an intense gaze. ‘Are you okay? You look a bit odd. Peaky. Are you coming down with something?’

‘I’m fine, Mum. Listen, I wanted to ask you—’

‘Maybe you and Pete should bring your holiday forward, that’s all. Go sooner rather than later. Although I’m not sure how warm it’ll be in Italy right now, mind.’ She traced the cover of the guidebook, a dreamy expression on her face.

Anna lost her nerve. Maybe this was too public a place to start asking blunt questions after all. A new approach was called for. ‘I hadn’t thought about what time of year would be best to go,’ she said, her mind working quickly. ‘I’ve heard July and August are roasting. Maybe going earlier would be better, say, June?’ She crossed her fingers under the table, hoping her mum would take the bait. Ka-ching! Jackpot.

‘When were
we
there? Let me think. I’ve got a feeling it was June for us too. That’s right, because Marie had just finished her A-levels, and . . .’ A strange look passed across her face. ‘Anyway. Check in your book, that’s the best idea. But not now, yeah? Let’s decide what we’re going to eat, I’m starving.’

They both studied the menu but Anna could hardly read the words. Oh my goodness. This was totally stacking up. If Mum and Marie went in June, it tallied completely with her mum getting pregnant there. Her birthday was in March, exactly nine months later. And there was no denying that weird look on her mum’s face just then. In a split-second she had turned all shifty and secretive, clearly doing what Anna had just done, counting nine months back from her date of birth. The jigsaw was coming together so much easier than Anna had ever anticipated. Although . . . Wait. She still needed to check out the exact year, just to be sure.

‘Still,’ she said breezily, as if it had just occurred to her. ‘If you’re going to take a last fabulous holiday before you have a baby, it sounds like that’s a good place to do it.’

There was silence from Tracey, and Anna hid her smile behind the open menu. Mum certainly wasn’t denying the fact that it had been her last holiday before motherhood. Proof. More proof !

She began reading through the list of anti-pasti, trying to concentrate on the food options. ‘Are you having a starter?’ she asked.

Silence. Lowering the menu, she saw her mother’s aghast expression. ‘What?’

‘So you
are
going to have a baby,’ Tracey replied. She was not radiating grandmotherly joy, it had to be said. More like pity.

‘Eh?’

‘Last fabulous holiday before you have a baby – you just said it. Oh, Anna. Have you thought this through?’