One Summer in Rome: a deliciously uplifting summer romance!. Samantha Tonge
chunky fingers giving a wide-fingered wave. His whole face shouted Welcome! – although his expression triggered a sense of sadness and she wasn’t quite sure why. In the end she decided it was because the smile only came from his mouth, not his eyes.
She recognised him easily from her Skype interview. He wanted another English waitress, like Sarah. Apparently with her GCSE in Italian and experience in catering Mary had outshone the other candidates. He was effusive and friendly and immediately put her at ease.
Alfonso’s arm was draped around the shoulders of a woman in her early twenties – that was bubbly Natale, who’d joined him during the interview to say hello. What a beautiful floral dress and long brunette waves that could have starred in any shampoo advert. She looked like Catherine Zeta Jones out of Jill’s favourite old show, The Darling Buds of May.
Natale held hands with a little girl – no doubt the granddaughter, six-year-old Lucia, with her mop of black curls. A real Mediterranean Annie with a scampish grin, except she was no orphan; she was surrounded by family. Perhaps Mary should have felt a pang of envy, but she didn’t. Lucia looked around the age she was when Mary’s grandparents had handed her over to Social Services and she never saw her mum again.
To the left stood a slim man, perhaps in his early thirties, with a high hairline and Harry Potter glasses. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and black bow tie. In his hand was a pen. He looked like someone with little time to spare. That had to be Rocco, the head waiter the family employed. Sarah didn’t get on with him – said he’d always been standoffish. Her stomach squeezed. Was it just bad luck that the camera had caught him frowning?
Finally, her gaze settled upon …
A tide of heat spread up her neck. A sensation she hadn’t experienced for months. To the right, next to Natale, that had to be Dante. Broad. Bronzed. Thick, burnt-caramel hair. She couldn’t determine his height as he crouched, one hand casually in his pocket. The other wrapped gently around the most adorable-looking dog. That’s what pulled Mary in most. Such tenderness, as if the pet was his most precious possession ever. Dante wore a wide smile – or was he simply squinting, in the sunlight? Mary wished he wasn’t wearing those trendy aviator sunglasses, but they matched what looked like expensive designer jeans that perfectly showed off his strong thighs.
She’d wondered why he’d kept so quiet on Skype as Alfonso had encouraged Natale to ask questions and said it was a family interview. He’d simply sat in the background looking stern. Jill had mentioned something about a tragedy the whole family suffered a couple of years ago. Plus something about Dante facing his own problems. Looking for clues, she scrutinised his face. Did he have a drink problem? A physical illness? Depression? She looked at her watch. It wasn’t long before she’d find out.
At least her heart was still working, thought Mary, as she immediately fell in love with Rome. Giovanni, a friend of Alfonso’s, had met her at the airport. The Rossi family were busy with the lunchtime restaurant rush. Taxi driver Giovanni spoke excellent English and proceeded to give her a historical rundown of the Italian capital.
‘Rome has two hundred and eighty fountains and more than nine hundred churches …’
So it was true – the Italian accent really was Viagra for the ears. It could make the most practical facts sound like the most wistful poetry. Her eyes widened as they passed the Coliseum and his deep, lilting tones explained how ancients used to fill it with water to stage mock sea battles. Majestic, with a kind of brutal beauty, it looked exactly like the images she’d seen in the movies. Same for the Vatican and the awe-inspiring domed outline of St Peter’s Basilica.
A cosy glow infused her whole body as Giovanni turned into a network of small avenues, bustling with everyday Italian life. The prettiest ornate balconies complemented cream and yellow apartments. Sun-tanned locals gesticulated with their hands. The ground floor of buildings offered flower sellers and glitzy designer clothes shops. Stray cats darted across streets, inciting a cacophony of car horns. Executives, sipping espressos, tapped on laptops outside red-canopied cafés. Lovers strolled, hand in hand, perusing menus.
Mary hugged her knees. It was as if architects had been asked to build the complete opposite to grey Hackney – as if she’d dined on nothing but the limpest white bread and suddenly been offered a plump focaccia, bursting with tomatoes, cheese, and olives.
‘Now we head to Piazza Navona, where Alfonso’s restaurant is. You like the city, no?’ Giovanni said, with a chuckle, and glanced in the rear-view mirror.
‘It’s stunning,’ mumbled Mary, transfixed by passing sights. For some reason she’d expected every Italian she met to sport tailored clothes and salon-glossy hair. But most just looked … normal. Short or tall. Untidy or groomed. It was kind of comforting. Having never left the British Isles before, Mary realised what preconceived ideas she’d harboured. Perhaps not all Frenchmen wore berets. Maybe some Spaniards hated paella. She wondered what foreigners expected of England. Scones with every cup of tea? Received pronunciation?
‘You like a little history of the piazza – the square – where you’re going to live?’
‘Per favore,’ she said, shyly trying out her Italian.
‘It is certainly romantic and was built about one hundred years before Christ. As a sports stadium. Picture animals fighting and gladiators …’
A vision of Ben-Hur popped into her mind with chariots racing around a track.
‘It boasts some of the best baroque architecture in the whole city, with the magnifico St Agnes church and Pamphili Palace. There are three splendid fountains and …’
The more Giovanni spoke, the more impatient Mary became and found herself leaning forward, to look out of the front windscreen. It sounded as if she’d be spending the next few months on a Hollywood film set. Finally the taxi pulled up outside a grocer’s and Giovanni pointed ahead.
‘Walk to the end of this avenue. You arrive at the piazza. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is the last building, down the end, on the left. I would drop you off, at the restaurant, but the traffic has been worse than I thought and my next fare awaits.’
‘No problem. Honestly. You have been so kind.’ Mary took out her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Giovanni turned around and fiercely flapped his hand. ‘No! Prego, signorina. Now, go. Hurry and you will catch a slice of lunchtime pizza.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘Grazie mille,’ she said and took a deep breath. Mary climbed onto the pavement and hauled out her bag. She slammed the door shut, watched Giovanni do a three-point turn, and then returned his wave as he drove off. Feeling like Paddington bear abandoned in London, Mary stood for a moment, wishing she had a nametag around her neck. But that sense of not belonging was nothing unusual and she brushed it away.
After Giovanni’s description, she was itching to see her new home. Apparently the buildings surrounding it used to seat thirty thousand people watching animals – and men – tear each other apart. Humming, she reached the end of the avenue, case jiggling up and down on the cobbled ground as she entered the piazza.
She gasped. As her pulse quickened, Mary’s eyes roved the long, curving oval of buildings and the road going around. The huge expanse of ground, in the middle, boasted the three fountains, artists, and street entertainers. Laughter, music, and chat provided the soundtrack. Tomato and garlic the smell. This place was paradise for all the senses. Down from the blue lagoon sky, the sun beat on her face, which broke in two with sheer joy.
Mary had done it. Travelled to Italy. Reached Rome all on her own. She faced the middle Fountain of Four Rivers and her eyebrows knitted together as she recalled Giovanni’s words. The figures and animals at each corner of the huge rock represented the four continents that, at the time it was built, were under papal power. For a moment she simply stood, in awe of the sculpture, until the sound of trickling water accentuated her thirst.
She