The Heavenly Italian Ice Cream Shop Page 11

Luigi translated for her. ‘She would like the fruits of the forest, two scoops.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly to Luigi, serving up the ice cream and passing it to her new customer.

  ‘If you’re going to be staying here for a while, I think there is someone you might like to meet. Maria!’ he called out to a woman seated in the corner.

  The woman joined them, and greeted Anna. Anna recognised her from the grocery shop, had seen her picking up eggs and milk in the morning, chatting to the staff with an easy familiarity. She was in her late forties or early fifties, with dark hair that had gone grey in strands around her face, lending a certain grace to her features.

  ‘Maria is the best Italian teacher you’ll find around here, and her rates are very reasonable,’ he said.

  ‘He’s flattering me,’ she said. ‘But it’s true that I do give classes. I live in the house over the square, the one with the blue door. Just give me a knock if you’re interested.’

  ‘I will,’ Anna said, smiling. It would do her good to immerse herself a little more in the language, and it had never really worked out having Matteo teach her. ‘That would be nice.’

  That afternoon, Anna and Matteo served up old favourites and new flavours to one person after another, sending a steady stream of satisfied customers out into the square. Carolina had helped them put out wooden furniture painted pistachio, pale pink and a pastel blue in the square, and was serving the tables. People crowded around the fountain, perching on the edge, dipping their little plastic spoons into friends’ sorbets and ice creams for a taste.

  Matteo whispered in Anna’s ear, ‘I don’t want to speak too soon . . .’

  ‘But it seems to be going quite well, doesn’t it?’ she finished for him. ‘So much for the slow start and adjustment period we were expecting. It looks like we’ve managed to hit the ground running here.’

  At the end of their first week of trading, Anna lowered the shutters on the shop with a deep sense of pride. She and Matteo had slipped naturally into the same way of working together that they’d honed in Vivien’s, and the number of repeat customers to the shop was building. Faces were becoming familiar to her, and that helped her to feel at home – and, what was more, they seemed to be particularly enjoying the more experimental recipes that she and Matteo had brought to the menu.

  ‘It’s all going well, isn’t it?’ she said to Matteo.

  He nodded and gave her a hug. ‘It’s great.’

  ‘I’m glad we came,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, and I can’t wait to show it off to Mamma,’ he said, proudly.

  ‘When is she coming to visit, again?’ Anna asked. She had a flash of the message she’d seen on Matteo’s iPad, but forced herself to put it aside. She didn’t want to cause friction by raising it.

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Great,’ Anna said. It would be fine, she told herself. It was only for a few days.

  Chapter 17

  While the guesthouse was quiet, Imogen sorted through some old files on Vivien’s shelves. In one, she found some photos of Vivien and Evie – from the early days of starting their two shops, back in the 1960s. Then there was one of the two of them, arm in arm, with what must have been the island of Capri in the background. Tucked in behind it was a map of the Amalfi coast, similar to the one she’d framed, but this one had crosses marked on it in pen – places she and Evie had visited together, presumably. Vivien had never forgotten that holiday, Imogen thought. A few days in the sun had stayed with her till the end. Imogen tacked the photo up by the reception desk.

  ‘Imogen, have you got a moment?’

  She looked up at her uncle Martin, standing by the desk, glancing around uncomfortably.

  ‘Sure, what is it?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s Clarissa.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Imogen said. ‘I noticed she was still here. What’s up?’

  ‘I thought she’d just be staying a couple of days. She said at first that she had things to get back to. She’s got her home in London, and she mentioned a job . . .’

  ‘But so long as she’s paying, that’s not a bad thing, surely?’

  ‘No, of course not. She’s paying on time, and she’s very welcome. It just seemed surprising.’

  ‘Well, people change their minds. It’s nice that she likes this place enough to want to stay. I can’t really see the problem.’

  ‘It’s not a problem as such. Just seems strange – she rarely goes out, Imogen. She’s been in the room, or wandering around the guesthouse, almost the whole time she’s been here.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And it’s the nighttimes.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple of comments from other guests. Not complaints, exactly – everyone seems to like her – but people have noticed that she walks around a lot during the night. I even found her in the kitchen the other day, at about three a.m. She seemed dazed.’

  ‘That does sound a bit odd. How does she seem, in herself?’

  ‘That’s the thing. The reason I’m concerned, really. She seems very low, and sad. I’ve tried to ask her how she is, once or twice, and it’s like she looks right through me.’

  Imogen reached a sympathetic hand out to her uncle. ‘Let me have a word with her.’

  Imogen knocked at the door of the Gatsby Suite gently, and waited for a reply, not really knowing quite what to expect.

  Clarissa opened the door wearing a floor-length silk kimono, her auburn hair tied up loosely. She had a natural elegance that seemed to transcend age, but that same melancholy air hung over her. ‘Hello, Imogen,’ she said, politely. ‘How nice to have a visitor. Come in.’

  Imogen stepped inside the room. Clarissa motioned for her to sit down, and she took a seat by the window. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. But I just wanted to check everything was OK.’

  Her cheeks coloured. ‘Your uncle said something . . . about the other night.’

  ‘He didn’t send me . . .’ Imogen said.

  Clarissa bit her lip. ‘You don’t need to explain. He must think I’m awfully strange. I’m so embarrassed that he saw me walking around the other night. I shouldn’t have gone into those rooms.’

  ‘He’s just concerned, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. He must be wondering why I’m still here, and, for that matter, why I’m still staying in a B&B, barely going out, when I could be living in a house of my own.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Imogen said. ‘A bit.’

  ‘I have a house, up in London, like I told Martin. But I don’t want to be there now. My stepfather died a month ago, you see, and he was all I had.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  Clarissa looked down, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I knew it was coming. Mum died when I was young, so he and his parents were the ones who brought me up.’

  ‘It must be a lot to get used to.’

  ‘It is. And it’s not just losing him. The thing is, he told me a few things before he died. And I suppose they’re just starting to sink in.’

  ‘And being here helps?’

  ‘Yes. It does.’ Spots of pink came to Clarissa’s cheeks. ‘It’s calm here. And I suppose it feels a little like home.’

  Imogen walked back down the guesthouse stairs, wondering how to explain the situation to Martin. He looked up at her eagerly from his spot behind the reception desk.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

  ‘OK, I think,’ Imogen said.

  ‘Should I do something, say something?’ Martin said, anxious.

  ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing,’ Imogen said. ‘She’s just lost her stepfather, and it sounds like she doesn’t have much in the way of family. I don’t really understand why, but she says just being here is helping her.’

  ‘Right,’ Martin said. ‘Well, I know what Mum would do if she were still alive.’

  ‘Let her stay, and bring her tea, until she’s
strong again. That’s what she always did for people, isn’t it?’

  At lunchtime, Imogen went out into the front garden of the guesthouse and called Finn. He picked up, banging and construction noises in the background.

  ‘Hey there,’ she said, sitting down on the wall, ready for chat.

  ‘Hi, Imo.’

  ‘How’s it going over there?’

  ‘What was that?’ Finn shouted back, over the noise.

  ‘I said how’s it . . .’ She glanced back through the window, where her uncle Martin was walking around the living room. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not important.’

  ‘I’m outside now, bit quieter,’ Finn said. ‘Everything OK at the guesthouse?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. And it was true – everything was going smoothly. It was only her email inbox – stubbornly empty after the emails to photography contacts that she’d sent out – that was nagging at her. ‘You?’

  ‘Really well, thanks. As you can probably hear.’

  ‘Listen, I was thinking. Do you fancy going out for dinner tonight?’ Imogen said. ‘Try out that new dim sum place in town?’

  ‘Imo . . . I’d love to. But, if we’re going to stay on schedule, Andy and I really need to use every minute we have. We’re going to be working late tonight.’

  ‘OK, sure,’ Imogen said. ‘No worries. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with, anyway.’

  ‘Everything all right with you, though?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  She wished he’d say something. Ask her again. So that the white lie wouldn’t be left hanging between them like that.

  In the end it was someone calling out to Finn from the building site that broke the silence.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said.

  ‘Right – sure,’ Imogen said. ‘Well, I’ll see you at home, then.’

  ‘See you, then.’

  She hung up, feeling empty – the opposite of how she usually felt after talking to Finn. Phone conversations, she thought to herself. They were never the best way to talk. She was much more of a face-to-face person. Next time she saw him it would be fine.

  Imogen went back into the guesthouse. In the living room, Clarissa was sitting by the bay window in a patch of sunlight, looking through a book. She wore a thick cream cardigan over her top and jeans, and her legs were curled up under her.

  ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ Imogen asked, gently.

  ‘One from the shelf. A Room with a View. It’s good so far. Your grandmother had a lot of books.’

  ‘She did. Although, to be honest, she had a habit of starting them and then leaving them halfway, caught up in cooking, or chatting to a neighbour over the fence. She loved books and films, but real life was what really got her.’

  Clarissa smiled, and, for the first time since she’d arrived, she looked almost relaxed.

  ‘She’d always give us ice creams for free,’ Clarissa said. ‘Me and Mum. Did she ever talk to you about my mum? Emma she was called. Wilkinson.’

  Imogen thought back, but the name wasn’t familiar. ‘She might have mentioned something. My memory isn’t great.’

  Her eyes grew more distant then.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ Imogen said.

  Clarissa nodded. ‘See you later.’

  Imogen headed back to the reception desk. She sorted through some of the junkshop frames she’d picked up for the guesthouse, and found one to fit the photo of Evie and Vivien. She put it up beside the large map.

  She went back to the things she’d found in the old files, pulled out the smaller map and found a frame for that. As she turned it over to put it in, she noticed a name scribbled in pen on the back: ‘Sr L. Esposito – Piazza Tasso, 30.’

  She turned the map back over, but there was no further note there, nothing apart from a cross that she could see the name linked to. She thought of the postcard Anna had sent her, with her new address. Searching across the street plan, she saw that the two addresses were only a few hundred yards from each other.

  She put the frame away, folded the map back up and put it away in the bureau drawer. Her grandmother had always been open with them, but Imogen was starting to suspect that there were some things she had held back from saying. She had made her choices, though – and to pry, now, didn’t seem right.

  Chapter 18

  Matteo took over the running of the ice cream shop in the early afternoon, and Anna went over to Maria’s house across the square. She knocked on the door, with a slight feeling of trepidation. She’d warmed instantly to Maria when Luigi introduced them at the shop, but she felt nervous about speaking Italian – her understanding was quite good but the words she wanted to say so often escaped her. But she steeled herself – she knew that she needed to improve her language skills, and this seemed like a good opportunity.

  ‘Signora Anna,’ Maria said brightly, as she answered the door. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Anna said awkwardly, in English.

  ‘Italiano,’ Maria said, firmly.

  Anna felt suitably reprimanded. There wasn’t much point coming for an Italian lesson if you were going to talk in English, was there? And she needed to learn quickly.

  Maria led her inside to the living room, asking simple questions and smiling in appreciation at Anna’s effort as she haltingly replied in Italian with the aid of her phrasebook.

  ‘My mother-in-law is coming tomorrow. She speaks good English, but I want to be able to talk to her in Italian.’

  ‘Good, well, I can help you with that.’

  Anna put her phrasebook down on the coffee table between them.

  ‘You won’t need that,’ Maria said. ‘I’m going to teach you the Italian you’ll really need to know.’

  They spent the hour going round the kitchen, Anna learning the names of fruits and vegetables, the equipment she used every day to make sorbet, the things in the fridge. It was vocabulary she heard Matteo use all the time, but his early attempts to teach Anna had fallen flat – she felt embarrassed in front of him, unable at this stage to master the pronunciation and aware that she sounded like a hapless tourist. With Maria it was different: she felt relaxed about making mistakes.

  At the end of the class, they arranged to meet again. ‘I think you’re going to learn very quickly,’ Maria said, confidently.

  ‘I hope so,’ Anna said, the Italian phrase tripping off her tongue. With those words, she felt as if she had in her hands the seeds of a new life.

  Anna had come back to the ice cream shop that afternoon full of confidence and enthusiasm, and had even practised some Italian with Matteo over dinner in their apartment. She felt ready to make a new start with Elisa, on a more equal footing, and, when her mother-in-law came into the ice cream shop the next day, she readied herself to use some of the new phrases she’d learned.

  ‘Bella, my love!’ Elisa was cradling her granddaughter in her arms and coming into the shop, her son by her side. ‘Welcome to Italy!’

  She covered Bella’s chubby arms and legs with kisses as she walked. ‘Thank you for bringing this precious thing to Italy,’ she said to Matteo.

  Anna smiled politely, and formed the sentence she wanted to say in Italian.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Elisa. Can I get you a coffee? You must be tired after the journey.’

  ‘Ah, she speaks Italian,’ Elisa said. ‘Or at least she’s trying,’ she said to Matteo. ‘Yes, a coffee, please,’ she said to Anna.

  Anna got the stove-top coffee maker from the side.

  ‘A strong one,’ she added. ‘I want to hear everything, but of course we have plenty of time for that,’ Elisa said to her son.

  ‘Is it just the weekend you’re staying?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Just the weekend?’ Elisa said, laughing. ‘Of course not.’

  Anna looked at Matteo for clarification.

  ‘Mamma, I haven’t told Anna yet . . .’ Matteo started. Anna just caught the meaning of the Italian.

  ‘That’s OK, then I can be the one to shar
e the marvellous news!’ Elisa said, switching to English.

  Anna felt increasingly uneasy.

  ‘Mamma will be staying with Carolina . . .’ Matteo said.

  ‘I’ll be here for the whole summer!’ Elisa exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Anna felt the breath go out of her. What? She glared at Matteo as discreetly as she could. He shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Matteo’s father is going to run the business on his own for a while. And Filippo’s been so generous, paying for the summer house, and even giving us some spending money. I really couldn’t be luckier with my son-in-law, could I, Matteo? He’d doing so well at the moment. Did Carolina tell you? One of the richest men in the region. We’re so proud of him.’

  Anna struggled to take it all in. Why would Matteo have kept this from her?

  ‘I need to use the toilet,’ Elisa said. ‘Is it . . .?’

  ‘Just through there.’ Matteo pointed to the back of the shop.

  ‘It’s great to be here,’ Elisa said, clapping her hands together. ‘And I can see already, from the look of the shop, that you’re going to need my expert help around here.’

  As Anna and Matteo set the table for their dinner that night, Anna was stonily quiet.

  ‘Come on, Anna, we have to talk about this,’ Matteo insisted.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Anna said, but inside she was seething.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t explain earlier,’ he said. ‘But don’t you think it could be good? Mamma can help out with Bella, maybe help with some of the Italian queries when I’m not around.’

  ‘We don’t need help,’ Anna said, her resolve to keep her feelings to herself snapping. ‘And I’m learning Italian, so soon I won’t be completely useless.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Anna said, trying to steady her emotions. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. But, Matteo, I thought we said we were doing this on our own. I thought that was the whole reason we decided to come here, to Sorrento.’

  ‘We still will be doing it alone,’ Matteo said. ‘OK, so Mamma might have the occasional bit of advice, but we don’t have to take it.’

  ‘Right,’ Anna said. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she should just accept what was happening, learn to live with the new situation. Matteo was right, of course, that there were some benefits. ‘It’s different from what I was expecting, that’s all,’ Anna said. ‘I thought she’d be coming to visit rather than staying for weeks, probably months. Why didn’t you mention that her plans had changed?’