One Night in Italy Read online

  There were twelve of them in the class: a broad assortment of people, old and young, none of whom seemed particularly cheffy, much to Anna’s relief. After coffee and a round of introductions, they washed their hands, put on aprons and got stuck in. First they made their own egg-yellow pasta sheets (surprisingly simple), and used them for spinach and ricotta ravioli (amazing). Then they learned how to make focaccia (yum) and an authentic Italian minestrone (the key was a great chicken stock) before finishing with a creamy pannacotta served with berries. Best of all, when they had finished cooking, they sat down together and devoured the lot. Every single mouthful was scrumptious.

  ‘You like?’ Giovanni said, seeing Anna’s blissed-out expression as she scraped the last streaks of pannacotta from her bowl. He was tall and weather-beaten, threads of grey through his hair and dark, sparkly eyes.

  ‘I like,’ she replied with a grin. ‘Actually my Dad’s Italian, so …’

  She broke off, cringing at how lame she sounded, but Giovanni seemed delighted. ‘Your papa? Ahh! Now you can cook some Italian treats for him, eh?’

  His enthusiasm was infectious. ‘I’d love to,’ she replied truthfully.

  The class was so interesting and fun that she spent the following afternoon baking another focaccia at home, this time with rosemary and garlic. Okay, so it wasn’t quite as perfect as the one kneaded and baked under Giovanni’s watchful eye, but it made her whole flat smell amazing, and she was so pleased with herself, she took half of it into work for her colleagues to sample on Monday.

  ‘This is bloody epic,’ Joe said, cramming two pieces in at once. He licked his fingers and grinned at her. ‘You seem more Italian already, you know.’

  ‘Oh, you are lucky,’ sighed Marla, who wrote restaurant reviews and occasional features. She was the office bombshell – all hair extensions and polished nails – and today was wearing a short candy-floss pink dress, sheer tights and vertiginous heels, despite it being minus two and snowy outside. ‘Being able to eat carbs, I mean. You can get away with it when you’ve got curves, but people with a slimmer build like me …’ She pouted down at her non-existent stomach. ‘I’d better say no.’

  Anna flinched at the not-so-subtle insult, but Joe was already speaking. ‘Calling me fat? Cheeky cow,’ he said in mock-indignation, stuffing more bread into his mouth.

  ‘No, I …’ Marla said, flustered. No, I didn’t mean you, I was having a dig at Anna, she didn’t quite say.

  ‘Only I’m happy with my curves, thank you very much,’ he went on, putting a hand on his hip and batting his eyelashes.

  Anna snorted as discreetly as she could. Joe didn’t have a spare ounce of fat on him; he was lean and wiry and knew damn well what Marla had been insinuating. The whole office knew what Marla had been insinuating.

  Marla pressed her lips together and typed very fast, and Joe grinned at Anna. ‘Like I said, bloody delicious,’ he said loudly.

  Even grouchy Colin pronounced her efforts a triumph. ‘Excellent work,’ he said. ‘Can we look forward to more of the same?’

  ‘Yeah, when’s the next cookery course?’ Joe asked. ‘Have you booked it yet? Maybe you could make us all dinner next time. Marla will be having a plate of raw vegetables, mind …’

  ‘I can hear, you know,’ Marla snapped.

  ‘… But we’d rather have plates of pasta. Or risotto. Do you like risotto, Col? Not vegetarian, are you, or denying yourself any major food groups?’

  ‘Love risotto,’ Colin replied. ‘Although I prefer a steak pie, to be honest.’

  ‘So that’s one risotto, one steak pie, a carrot for Marla and whatever you’re having.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Anna laughed, but she glowed with the praise nonetheless. She didn’t tell them that she’d already gone hunting online for another challenge and discovered a fantastic-sounding cookery school in Tuscany which offered week-long courses. Maybe when she could actually speak the language, she promised herself.

  ‘What’s all this? Somebody been baking?’

  Anna’s expression froze as Imogen came click-clacking towards them. She was wearing a boxy lilac jacket and matching heels, which made her resemble a purposeful Parma Violet.

  ‘Just a bit of bread,’ Anna said lamely as Joe melted away. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Oh God, focaccia, my bête noire,’ Imogen exclaimed, reaching out for the smallest square. She was tall and elegant with coiffed silvery hair, and had a sixth sense when it came to a) journalists behaving badly and b) free food in the office. ‘Hell, it doesn’t count when you’re standing up, does it?’ she said.

  ‘Said the actress to the bishop,’ muttered Colin.

  ‘A moment on the lips and … Mmmm.’ Imogen’s eyes widened as she bit into the bread. ‘Ooh, I say. That’s excellent, Anna. Super. I didn’t have you down as the domestic type, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Anna shrugged off the slur. ‘I didn’t have myself down as the domestic type either, to be honest,’ she said. ‘This baking business is kind of a voyage of discovery.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ Imogen said again, frowning slightly as she considered Anna. Then she nodded to herself and walked away. ‘Interesting,’ she said aloud.

  Anna flushed, not quite sure how to take that. Marla looked up from her work and rolled her eyes. ‘Interesting,’ she mouthed sarcastically behind their boss’s lilac back.

  Anna soon found out what had made Imogen so thoughtful. The very next day, she was called in to her boss’s office for ‘a little chat’ – three words that strike fear into the soul of any employee.

  Entering Imogen’s office was rather like walking into a junk shop. Life-size cardboard cut-outs of Jess Ennis and Sean Bean leaned matily against the filing cabinet, and the shelves were lined with signed photos of every local hero from David Blunkett to Jarvis Cocker.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Anna asked politely, edging around a pile of next year’s Sheffield Wednesday calendars which had been dumped on the floor.

  ‘Yes, I’d like you to take over the cookery column in the newspaper,’ Imogen replied without preamble, steepling her fingers together and regarding Anna over the top of her Armani glasses.

  ‘You want me to … what?’ To say Anna was surprised was an understatement. For the last twelve years, the column had been written by Jean Partington, a former chef who’d once had her own restaurant in town. Admittedly, it was common knowledge that Jean, now in her sixties, was keen to hang up her apron and take life a bit easier, but Anna had assumed, like everyone else, that Imogen would either cull the column or shell out for a syndicated recipe as lots of other local newspapers did.

  ‘I want you to write it,’ Imogen repeated, her smile becoming slightly more fixed.

  ‘But … Well, I don’t really know anything about cookery,’ Anna said as politely as she could manage. ‘I mean, the focaccia was a bit of a one-off for me. I don’t usually …’

  Her voice trailed off at the disapproval on her boss’s face. Imogen was wearing a beige suit today and now looked very much like an irritated Werther’s Original. ‘It’ll take you ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Just Google some recipes. Any idiot could do it. You said yourself that baking was a voyage of self-discovery, didn’t you? I like that. Share it with the readers. Take them along with you, mistakes and all. You’re the obvious choice.’

  Right. The obvious sucker, more like. ‘It was an Italian cookery course,’ she found herself mumbling. ‘At Giovanni’s.’

  ‘Even better! You could write a little feature about your experience there, get permission to use one of the recipes. Maybe wangle some kind of giveaway from Giovanni while you’re at it. Come on, Anna! You don’t need me to spoonfeed you like this.’

  ‘Fine,’ Anna said, heading for the door. There was obviously no point arguing any longer. ‘Leave it to me.’

  She walked back to her desk, reeling. Had that actually just happened?

  ‘Everything all right?’ Marla asked nosily as Anna sat down again.
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  ‘Yeah, actually,’ Anna replied. ‘She wants me to take over Jean’s cookery column.’

  Marla’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up. ‘Whoa! Your own column? How come?’ She forced her thin, red lips into some semblance of a smile. ‘I mean … Great.’

  Anna ignored the insincerity in her voice. She was feeling chirpier by the second as the news sank in. Her own column. Yes! She’d have a proper byline for the first time ever. Okay, so it was only a crummy cookery column, a tiny bit of space midway through the newspaper, but even so … Her own column! About food! Wait till she told Giovanni. Wait till she told her father!

  ‘Does that mean you’ll be bringing in more bread and stuff for us to try?’ asked Charlotte, one of the secretaries. ‘Only, you know, if you ever need any testers …’

  Anna grinned. ‘You’ll be first on my list,’ she promised. Then, feeling slightly giddy, she looked up Giovanni’s number and gave him a call.

  The first column ran the following week. She and Geoff, one of the staff photographers, had gone along to the deli and mocked up a scene in Giovanni’s kitchen: Anna in a chef’s hat and apron, beaming, as she stood with an array of food in front of her. Giovanni told her he was happy for her to use his focaccia recipe provided she credited him for it, and offered to give the newspaper an exclusive £5-off deal if they spent £25 in the deli. So with the recipe, the voucher, the photo and a short piece about the day’s course, Anna’s column took up a good third of a page, much more than Jean’s had ever done.

  I’ll be honest with you, she began, I’m nowhere near as competent a chef as Jean. But I intend to learn something new every week, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride with me and try out my recipes as I go. If I can do it, anyone can!

  Imogen pronounced herself ‘thrilled’ with the results. ‘Splendid,’ she said. ‘Very nice. Just what I was looking for, Anna.’

  Encouraged by this response, Anna went on to explore further recipes for her next column. Writing about food, she soon decided, was way more interesting than writing about the council’s recycling targets.

  I recently became aware of some Italian ancestry in my family, she wrote, safe in the knowledge that her mum would never read it, so what better reason to try my hand at that Italian classic, tiramisu. In my quest to discover the perfect recipe, I’ve whipped up a couple of variations, but this one is definitely the tastiest, in my opinion. I hope you like it – let me know what you think!

  ‘This is good,’ Imogen said when she read it, nodding so vigorously with approval that her hair actually moved.

  ‘Nice and friendly. I like that you’re telling us a story with the column as you go. Keep it up!’

  As the newspaper threw itself into all things Christmassy, Anna dutifully provided a recipe for mince pies, suggesting ways to give them a new twist. I tried adding cranberries to the mincemeat in my mince pies, she told her readers. It gave them that extra little zing. Plus, the added fruit content made me feel better about using real butter and lots of sugar in the recipe. I’m sure one of my mince pies counts towards your five a day … In fact, they’re so delicious, you’ll have trouble restraining yourself from eating five at once!

  It wasn’t long before she began to get letters and emails from readers – a slow trickle at first, but more every day. Usually it was just people letting her know how they’d got on with her recipes, but sometimes the readers would offer suggestions of their own.

  I make my mince pies with flaky puff pastry for their lids, one lady wrote in. Somehow it makes them seem a bit more special.

  Try adding a little grated lemon or orange zest to the mincemeat, another suggested. You can really taste the difference.

  My mum always puts a dollop of custard beneath the mincemeat, a third emailed in. It’s amazing – a complete pudding!

  ‘This is awesome,’ Anna murmured to herself, loving how keen everyone was to share their baking expertise. The only feedback from readers she’d had before now was the occasional nasty comment on the paper’s website telling her that her face looked fat in photos, or complaining that she’d spelled somebody’s name wrong. She made a point of listing the best mince pie tips she’d received in the following week’s column, and thanked all the senders. Please let me know how you find this week’s recipe, she finished, as I really enjoy hearing from you. Do look online to read a selection of comments and tips. Everyone has been so helpful!

  Buoyed by her initial success, Anna found herself planning hearty Italian stews and sticky cakes for the winter months ahead, and perhaps even a Valentine’s special – the food of love, and all that. For the first time in months – years! – she discovered a new degree of enthusiasm for her job. No longer was she racing out of the door with relief when five-thirty struck. Nowadays she wandered dreamily homewards, barely noticing the icy pavements because her mind was full of dainty tartlets and steaming soups.

  ‘Your fan-mail’s arrived,’ Joe said on Christmas Eve, dragging a huge mail sack behind him through the office.

  ‘No way,’ Anna breathed, staring in wonder. ‘Are you serious?’

  He laughed. ‘Course I’m not, you div,’ he said, his dark eyes twinkling. ‘Just winding you up. These are the entry slips for our FA Cup tickets competition.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘This lot’s yours,’ he added, dumping a parcel and some letters on her desk.

  ‘Are you moonlighting as one of the postroom boys now or something?’ she teased. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally had enough of rainy Saturday afternoons at the football?’

  ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Just helping out. I saw you had a few things, thought I’d bring them up for you.’ He grinned. ‘I was dying to know what this is anyway,’ he admitted, holding up a strange-shaped package. ‘Early Christmas present?’

  Anna took it from him and ripped it open. A selection of kitchen utensils clattered on to her desk: a bright green spatula, a turquoise whisk, a nifty microplane grater and …

  ‘What the hell is this? Some kind of sex toy?’ Joe spluttered, picking up the last one.

  Anna gave him a look. ‘I think it’s a lemon reamer – you know, for squeezing the juice out.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ He twirled it between his fingers, a suggestive look on his face.

  Anna laughed and picked up the accompanying note. ‘They’re from the Kitchen Shop in Meadowhall,’ she read. ‘They love the column and wondered if I’d like to try their new range. Oh my God. Freebies, Joe. I’m getting freebies!’

  ‘All right for some,’ he said. ‘No one’s ever sent me a free spatula.’

  ‘You should try being a professional reviewer like me,’ Marla said airily from her desk. ‘I’m bombarded with freebies all the time. To be honest, the novelty wears off after a while. I mean, free theatre tickets and meals every night … bor-ing.’

  Joe and Anna exchanged a look, then Joe hoisted the mail sack over his shoulder like a young, good-looking Santa. ‘My mum’s made your panettone by the way,’ he added, turning to go. ‘She won’t let anyone try it before Christmas Day, but it looks amazing. Nice one.’

  ‘Oh, that’s strange,’ Marla put in innocently, and Anna braced herself. Marla was about as innocent as Bill Sikes. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but my mum told me she’d tried that recipe too. She actually wondered if you’d printed the wrong measurements? Hers turned out very strange, like totally gross. Ended up in the dog’s bowl and even he wouldn’t touch it.’

  ‘It’s best not to give dogs sugary things,’ Anna said, refusing to take the bait. ‘Anyway, cheers Joe. Glad the measurements were printed correctly in your mum’s newspaper,’ she couldn’t resist adding. ‘And happy Christmas if I don’t see you later.’

  ‘You too, Anna. Hope it’s a tasty one.’

  She smiled as he walked away, then stacked her new utensils at the side of her desk. Freebies from the Kitchen Shop! That was praise indeed. Maybe she could suggest a kitchen gadgets
review section to Imogen next, where she tried out different pieces of equipment …

  She began typing again with a new burst of energy. Thank you, Jean Partington, for your timely retirement decision, she thought. This is the best thing that ever happened to my career. And thank you, Joe’s mum, for trying my recipe too. How many other people, she wondered, had read her words and made their own panettone for the festive period? She loved imagining full cake tins around the county, safely stored in cupboards, as everyone waited for the big day to arrive. Her father would surely be proud of her if he knew she was bringing a little slice of Italy to Yorkshire.

  Chapter Nine

  Il diario – The diary

  April 19, 1993

  So I know it was v bad but I couldn’t help myself – I picked up his Newky Brown and tipped it all over Jamie’s head. He was like, What the hell … ? – but the girls all gave me this massive cheer as I walked away. It was SO FUNNY!

  June 2, 1993

  Alex Zetland can KISS MY ARSE if he thinks he’s got a chance with me now. I’m fuming! Stupid lairy bastard. I elbowed him right in the nuts when he tried to grope me. To think I used to fancy him!

  July 11, 1993

  Me and Zoe are OFF tomorrow! Soooooo hysterically excited I might wee myself. Gary was all like, Are we still an item or what, but I was just like, Sorry, Gazza, I’m off interrailing, let’s not tie ourselves down, yeah?

  He looked a bit excited at the ‘tying ourselves down’ bit until he clocked what I meant. Was that harsh of me? I don’t actually care. I’m off for some European fun and adventures and copious amounts of la-la-la-la-lager!

  During a massive, cathartic clear-out, Catherine had come across some of her old diaries. God, she’d been a feisty thing in her student years. Ballsy and bolshy, not putting up with any shite. Admittedly, Catherine wasn’t exactly proud of this behaviour now: throwing alcohol over men, assaulting their privates, dumping them heartlessly as she left the country … She hoped Emily wasn’t behaving like this at university – or Matthew, come to that. Mind you, the nothing’s-gonna-stop-me attitude that shone from the pages of her diary was one she kind of admired.