One Night in Italy Page 10

  ‘You could do it,’ her mum agreed. ‘Think about it anyway. Tina said he’d love to chat with you if you’re interested. Starts January. What have you got to lose?’

  Er, my freedom? Sophie thought immediately. Being a teacher, even if it was only a maternity cover, was way more of a commitment than wiping tables in a café or pulling pints in a bar. Before, she’d always moved on whenever she’d felt like it, giving notice on a whim, jumping on a bus to someplace new if she had the urge. Even in Caracas, she’d taught English for … what? Three weeks or so to raise funds for the next leg of her trip. It was never serious.

  Irritatingly, her dad’s words kept coming back to her. Sounds a damn sight more interesting than waiting tables …

  He had a point, if she was honest. She could waitress and clean tables with her eyes shut; it was an uncomplicated way to earn money. But much as she liked café camaraderie and talking to new people every day, it was boring at times. Plus the pay wasn’t brilliant either, and you spent most of the time on your feet. She’d worn out that many pairs of shoes waitressing, it was a crime against footwear.

  ‘Not scared, are you?’ her dad teased, seeing her lost in thought.

  ‘Of course not!’ Sophie retorted, taking the piece of paper with the phone number on. ‘I’ll phone him tomorrow.’

  Hurst College was in town, a short walk from the station – an unprepossessing sort of place, which wouldn’t win any architectural prizes for its 1960s blocky design and tired interiors. Still, there were all sorts of interesting courses running, according to the college brochure: ceramics, cookery, modern languages, engineering, drama … Her gaze latched onto the course description of the latter and she found herself reading the details with a sort of hunger: acting and technical theatre skills … vocal techniques … characterization and script analysis …

  ‘Sophie Frost?’

  She was jolted out of her thoughts at the sound of the voice and looked up to see a lady in a navy twinset in front of her. Sophie rose to her feet, trying to smooth out the creases in the skirt she’d borrowed from her mum. ‘Yes, hi. That’s me.’

  ‘If you’d like to come this way?’

  ‘Sure. Thank you.’ Her heart jumping with a sudden attack of nerves, Sophie followed the woman along the corridor. You can do it, she could hear her dad say. Well, it was time to find out, wasn’t it?

  Alan McIntyre, Tina’s husband, was tall, slightly stooped and spoke with a soft Scottish accent. He also had a crushing handshake which nearly broke her fingers. Remembering her dad’s advice – Strong handshake, strong character – Sophie took this as some kind of initiation test and squeezed back as hard as she could. Alan gasped in shock and dropped her hand, shooting her an are-you-crazy look. So that got things off to a good start.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said, examining his fingers with a frown. ‘So. The Italian job.’

  ‘Oh, I love that film,’ Sophie said with a grin, feeling that she had to make up for the handshake debacle. ‘Hang on a minute, lads …’

  ‘… I’ve got a great idea!’ he finished. They both laughed. ‘Brilliant stuff. Love Michael Caine.’

  ‘Me too. Total ledge.’

  ‘Now then.’ He rifled through some papers on his desk. It was a tip, to be frank, with folders and files in assorted heaps. ‘Tell me about yourself. How’s your Italian?’

  ‘Pretty good. I’ve lived and worked there for the last two years,’ she told him. ‘I took a crash course in Rome when I got there but there’s nothing like living in a place to force you to learn a language really quickly.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Alan McIntyre, and gave an envious sigh. ‘Lucky you. You know, that’s one of my big regrets in life, never living anywhere but this country. Now I’m far too old and have far too many children and a far-too-big mortgage to even think about it. Just a little retirement dream to while away the godawful British winters … Anyway. Yes. Sorry. Whereabouts in Italy were you?’

  ‘Rome for a year and more recently Sorrento, down on the west coast.’

  ‘Oh, I know Sorrento. Beautiful place. Amazing beaches. And the food … My God. Best I’ve ever tasted.’

  Sophie laughed again. This interview was turning out to be more like a chat with a jolly uncle. ‘The food’s pretty good,’ she agreed.

  ‘Must go back there sometime, escape from the kids for a few days with my wife. Definitely. Anyway. Interview. Yes. The class I would like you to teach is … let me see. Tuesday evenings, six-thirty to eight-thirty, complete beginners. I’ve got eight people booked on already and I’d hate to have to cancel. It’s a ten-week term, with half-term in the middle. How does that sound?’

  ‘Fab! I mean, yes, very good,’ Sophie replied, trying to sound professional. She cleared her throat and drew herself up. ‘I’ve already been thinking about lesson plans …’ She dug out the piece of paper torn from her waitress notepad where she’d jotted down ideas during a quiet moment in the café. ‘The first one could cover greetings and introductions, then basic conversational questions and answers, such as “How old are you?” and “What do you do for a living?”’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. And you’ve done this before, I’m told?’

  ‘In Venezuela, yes. Teaching English. Although it was a few years ago now.’ She cringed, ready to see his enthusiasm screech to a halt.

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered her. ‘Sophie, I’ll be straight with you. You don’t have much experience, I’m taking a bit of a punt here. But I like you. And I need an Italian teacher. So the job’s yours if you want it.’

  She tried her best not to look too astonished, but it was a struggle. Oh my God. Had that actually just happened? ‘I want it,’ she assured him, beaming. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  They shook hands on it – very carefully this time – and she walked out of there with a brand new job. The Italian job. She had a good feeling about this.

  FACEBOOK STATUS: Sophie Frost – December 25

  Merry Christmas, everyone! I’m at home in Sheffield for the first time in years – bit weird! Sorry I haven’t posted anything for ages – things have been hectic. Hope you all have a great day xxx

  She pressed ‘Post’ and watched as her message updated. Then she scanned through her timeline to see what her friends were up to, scattered as they were around the world. Lydia, her old flatmate in New Zealand, was on holiday in Fiji with her boyfriend. Smooching in our hammock. Merry Xmas y’all!, she’d written. Flamboyant, beautiful Harvey was still working in Berlin and spending the day with Kurt, his new man, in their modernist white flat in Leipziger Strasse. And Marta and Toni, two Dutch friends, had been to Manly Beach for the day, along with half the backpackers in Sydney, no doubt.

  Sophie felt a pang, remembering her own Christmas Day in Sydney with Dan. They’d gone to Bondi with a disposable barbecue, a box of wine and all their mates. Music had played. Everyone danced on the sand. The sun shone the entire day. Then, that night, she and Dan had sat out in the tiny courtyard garden of the flat she was renting, and toasted one another with glasses of Australian bubbly. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he murmured as he leaned in for a kiss.

  Still. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Especially as she was totally over him. She hardly even stalked him on Facebook these days. He was probably married with babies and a fat Labrador by now – not that it was anything to her, obviously.

  ‘Sophie! Breakfast!’ her mum called at that moment. Sophie quickly dabbed her eyes – she wasn’t crying, she must be allergic to something – and hurried downstairs.

  Two bacon sandwiches later, plus a Mars bar from her stocking, she felt a lot better. She and her parents sat around the kitchen table peeling vegetables for lunch while her dad’s Now That’s What I Call Christmas C D blasted from the stereo. ‘Present o’clock!’ Jim announced every now and then, sending Sophie to the tree to bring back gifts for them all to unwrap. ‘Gin o’clock,’ he’d add at intervals too, uncapping the Gordon�
�s and sploshing generous measures into everyone’s glass.

  ‘Easy on the booze, you,’ Trish reminded him. ‘You’re still meant to be watching your cholesterol, remember?’

  ‘Ah, bollocks to the cholesterol,’ he replied. ‘It’s Christmas Day, woman! Nobody should deny themselves on Christmas Day.’

  Aunty Jane, Uncle Clive and Sophie’s grandma turned up at midday, just as the potatoes went sizzling into the tray of hot oil. The house was full of noise and exclamations and the clink of ice as new drinks were poured. Grandma was stooped and gnarled these days, stone-deaf to almost everything unless you bellowed into her ear, but she remained beaming and jovial throughout, joining in with the words to Slade and Wizzard with surprising vigour. Aunty Jane was pissed and giggling after two swift sherries, leaving Uncle Clive to bore on about politics to anyone who would listen (nobody) until Jim challenged him to help finish the jigsaw of Dovedale he’d abandoned in the living room. ‘Happy to oblige,’ Clive boomed immediately. ‘I’m a dab hand at jigsaws, you know, Jim.’

  ‘Of course you are, Clive,’ Jim replied with a wink at Sophie.

  After a humongous and raucous lunch, more visitors arrived: Sophie’s cousins Samantha and Richard with their respective families – four children, a babe in arms and an overexcited Yorkshire Terrier between them. The house was now bursting at the seams and getting a seat on the sofa was harder than securing a ticket for the Men’s Final at Wimbledon. The living room was a melee of chocolate-fuelled children and flying wrapping paper and the noise levels were firmly at ‘rowdy’ … and Sophie was having an utterly brilliant day. Forget Bondi Beach and Berlin, this was the real deal: playing charades with your grandma and cousins, pulling crackers, eating Roses by the handful and laughing like a drain as your uncle Clive fell asleep in front of the Queen’s speech and snored louder than a wild boar.

  She looked round at her mum, whose turn it was to act something out in the highly competitive game of charades. Even Trish looked flushed and happy, in her best dress and a touch of make-up, making a rectangle shape in mid-air with her forefingers.

  ‘It’s a TV programme. One word.’

  Nod. Trish counted on her fingers then held up four of them.

  ‘Four syllables.’

  Nod.

  ‘First syllable.’

  She pinched her earlobe then pointed at Sophie’s grandma.

  ‘Sounds like … grandma. Gran? Gran.’

  ‘Man.’

  ‘Ran.’

  ‘Tan.’

  Headshakes to them all.

  ‘Ban?’

  ‘Can.’

  ‘Fan.’

  More headshaking.

  ‘Give us another one, Trish.’

  ‘Third syllable. Arm? Arm!’

  ‘Nan something arm something.’

  ‘Second syllable. Sounds like … walk. Stroll.’

  ‘Flounce.’

  ‘Stride.’

  ‘Go.’

  Vigorous nodding.

  ‘Go! Nan – go – arm – something. What the hell …?’

  Jim jumped to his feet, eyes dancing. ‘Panorama!’ he yelled. ‘Got to be!’

  ‘Is correct!’ beamed Trish, applauding him. ‘Well done, Jim!’ Then her face fell. ‘Jim? Are you all right, Jim?’

  Sophie turned in slow motion from her mother’s face to her dad as if in a bad dream. He was clutching his chest and gasping for breath, his mouth working but no sound coming out. ‘Oh Christ,’ she cried fearfully. ‘Call an ambulance. Somebody call an ambulance!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Riunione – Reunion

  Catherine had always loved Christmas: the tree, the presents, the excitement. But this year it was all overshadowed by the lies, the deceit, the ex-bloody-husband. Faking happy families with Mike was like starring in a very bad farce. It was the most enormous strain, having him back in the house.

  How, for instance, had she put up with that throaty walrus snore night after night for their entire marriage? He was a duvet-hogger too, forever rolling over and pulling it with him so that she woke up several times a night freezing cold and had to yank it back. She’d forgotten his other little faults, too: the way he swallowed so loudly when eating a meal. How he’d never rinse the bath out after using it. The way he could see a stack of washing up or a heap of dirty clothes and not think for a second that it had any part in his world. As for the TV remote, you’d think it was surgically attached to his hand. He ruled the evening viewing like a tyrant, marking up the Christmas Radio Times and consulting it constantly.

  He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. In fact, he didn’t seem bothered at all. It probably felt like a holiday to him after fending for himself in his rented flat for the last two months. There he was, lord and master, whistling in the shower, taking Matthew to the football and renewing his role as Emily’s personal taxi driver with annoying good humour. Every few days he would vanish for the evening, presumably to ravish wretched Rebecca on his rented sofa. When he came home and slipped into bed with her afterwards, Catherine could still smell the other woman’s perfume on him. It made her feel sick. Why had she ever thought this stupid charade was a good idea? There was no way the Catherine from her diary would have put up with this kind of shenanigans. She’d have poured a pint over his head and told him where to go.

  Catherine was sorely tempted. She was this close. But she owed it to Matthew and Emily to give them one last perfect Christmas, didn’t she?

  That was one silver lining at least: having her children home again. Mind you, they didn’t seem quite the same teenagers who had left ten weeks earlier. Matthew now sported a tattoo on his forearm, a really horrible one, of a skull with flames bursting from its eye sockets. Meanwhile, Emily had had her beautiful hair peroxided white and cut very short, and a purple stud glittered in one nostril.

  Catherine tried to hide her dismay, but it wasn’t easy. ‘They’re growing up, finding their own identities,’ Mike said impatiently when she raised the subject.

  ‘I liked their old identities though,’ she replied helplessly. ‘Now I feel as if I don’t even know them any more.’

  In fact, Catherine thought, putting yet another load of laundry into the washing machine, she had barely seen them since they’d been home, let alone had the chance to indulge in the lovely, intimate mother-child chats she’d hoped for. They treated her just as Mike did: as a skivvy expected to clean up after them, keep the fridge well-stocked with their favourite treats, and provide dinner on the table at six o’clock every evening. Was that all she was to them?

  Still, she reminded herself, they’d have a wonderful Christmas together. That was the main thing.

  By eleven o’clock on Christmas morning, a hysterical scream was rising inside Catherine. She’d been up at the crack of dawn grappling with the turkey, then had peeled and chopped a mountain of potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts. She’d made a chestnut stuffing with her own bare hands, set the table with her best tablecloth and the nicest silver cutlery, and polished all the wine glasses. Meanwhile, Matthew and Emily battled on the Xbox and Mike got stuck into his new political biography, flanked by the tin of Celebrations and his trusty TV remote. Nobody lifted a finger to help her. Nobody even made her a cup of tea. But then again, she realized, they never had. For all these years, she’d allowed this to happen: she’d waited on them hand and foot as if that was all she was good for. To them, this was simply a perfectly ordinary Christmas Day.

  Perfectly crap, more like, she thought darkly, pouring herself a large glass of wine.

  When it came to present-opening, Matthew apologized sheepishly for not having bought her anything. ‘I haven’t had time,’ he said, even though he’d done nothing but slob around since he’d been home. Emily, meanwhile, gave her a granny-ish toiletries set which Catherine had seen on special offer in the village chemist. Mike, of course, hadn’t maintained the charade of happy families as far as actually shelling out and buying her anything. God, no. Catch Mike wasting any
of his precious hard-earned money? That would be the day.

  Shirley and Brian, Mike’s parents, arrived fresh from church. ‘Catherine, dear, you’re looking very pink,’ Shirley exclaimed, then bit her lip and asked, ‘Going through the change, are we? Hot flushes?’

  Emily tittered, Matthew looked embarrassed and Mike popped another mini Mars bar in his mouth. I’ll flush you in a minute, Catherine thought savagely. ‘Just busy in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Mike, maybe you could get your parents a drink?’

  ‘Ooh, no, Mike, you stay where you are, I know how hard you’ve been working,’ Shirley said before he could move a muscle. Not that he looked as if he was about to move anything, except perhaps his hand back into the Celebrations tin.

  ‘Well, I’ll have a brandy,’ Brian said jovially. ‘Seeing as it’s Christmas.’

  ‘And I’ll have a sherry,’ Shirley said. ‘Just a little one. Seeing as it’s Christmas.’

  And I’ll have a nervous breakdown, Catherine thought, whisking back into the kitchen before anyone else could put in an order. Seeing as it’s effing bloody Christmas.

  Half an hour – and another glass of wine – later, the meal was ready. Catherine set out the dish of buttered vegetables, the crispy roast potatoes, the gravy boat, the bread sauce and the wine. Meanwhile, Mike, Emily, Matthew, Shirley and Brian sat around the table while she fetched and carried, none of them offering to help. Any minute now a chorus of ‘Why Are We Waiting?’ would go up, Catherine thought furiously.

  ‘Here it comes!’ cheered Emily, eyes lighting up as Catherine brought in the turkey, bronzed and glistening on its platter, with juicy, bacon-wrapped chipolatas nestling around it.

  ‘Come to papa,’ Matthew said, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Best meal of the year,’ Mike said, licking his lips.

  ‘Oh,’ said Shirley, sounding puzzled. ‘Did I forget to mention we’ve become vegetarian?’