One Summer in Italy. Sue Moorcroft
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in Hendon. But, as I told you when we went out before, I wanted a gap year, so I decided to travel.’
What she hadn’t confessed was the gut-wrenching shock, Mum’s guilty tears, Dad’s horror, the screaming match that took place with Amy in the middle, the explanations and apologies that had preceded her sudden determination to do exactly what her mum hadn’t wanted her to do – miss her final couple of International Baccalaureate exams, making it impossible to be granted the diploma that should have allowed her to take up that university place. It made her feel sick to remember the time, less than three weeks ago, when she’d holed up in her room and, pounding angrily at her laptop, fixed up the job at Casa Felice via a website for seasonal workers.
Looking back on it, she felt a slithering suspicion that she needn’t have been so hurtful as to actually exit during the night, leaving a furious note behind her:
I’ve gone travelling because I need time alone. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve got a job at a hotel called Casa Felice in Montelibertà, Italy. I’m only telling you so you know I’ve got everything sorted. I’m 18 and I’m not coming back unless I want to. I’ll keep in touch so long as you don’t follow me. If you do, I’ll move on and you won’t hear from me at all. Don’t ring or text me either. I’ll text you.
She took several sips from her drink before she could continue past what felt like a ball in her throat. ‘To be honest, we didn’t part on good terms. I talk to my brothers on social media and text Mum every few days to say I’m OK and that’s it. Dad’s actually my stepdad,’ she added, to forestall Sofia asking about him. She hoped it sounded as if she’d coolly put a plan into action rather than simply lashed out to hurt everybody who’d spun her life into the wall and watched it smash down in pieces.
Sofia had paused with her wine glass halfway to her mouth, brows right up at her hairline. ‘Wow. Poor you. I can’t imagine how falling out with your family feels.’ Her eyes brimmed with sympathy. ‘Do you want to talk about it? It’s fine if you do, but don’t feel you have to.’
Amy shook her head.
But then, because Sofia hadn’t said anything judgy, she immediately wanted to. ‘I found out something. Something Mum knew about and never said. In fact, she lied.’ She felt tears gathering hotly behind her eyes. ‘I hate my mum at the moment. I don’t think I’m ever going home.’
Sofia tilted her head, concern written all over her face. ‘That’s a big decision,’ she said tentatively. ‘Don’t you think—’
‘No.’
Sofia showed no sign of taking offence at the way Amy cut her off. ‘OK,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t think I’m going home, either, come to that – well, I don’t really have a home as I’ve sold Dad’s house because it was a ruin, but I don’t think I want to go back to living in Bedford. I’ve given myself a couple of years to travel before I even think about doing anything grown-up. Then I might do something about getting a degree myself.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘That makes our plans quite similar, doesn’t it?’
All at once, Amy felt loads better. ‘Where do you think you’ll go after Montelibertà?’
Sofia shrugged, turning her face up to the sun. ‘Somewhere I like the look of and I can find a job I fancy. There are a hell of a lot of places that need waiting staff.’
‘So you don’t have a husband or anything?’
Sofia crossed her eyes. ‘Nope. Enjoying the life of the independent woman.’ She grinned.
On a sudden surge of excitement Amy said breathlessly, ‘Will I be able to go with you?’ Almost instantly she wished she hadn’t said anything so stupid. As if Sofia, just about a teenager when you were born, would want you tagging along, all shy and dorky! You just sounded like you had a girl crush on her or something. She opened her mouth to stutter a red-faced retraction.
But Sofia didn’t betray by so much as a blink that she found anything odd in the suggestion. ‘Don’t see why not. Where do you fancy? North Pole?’
Amy tried to think of something someone older and cooler might say. Someone of about twenty-five. ‘Seen enough snow in Germany in winter. I was thinking Spain.’
Sofia’s eyes lit up and they swapped ideas about which part of Spain looked most appealing while they ordered salads and more drinks. People came and went from the tables all around, English, American and Italian voices mingling on the air.
‘If we pick up a bit of Spanish,’ Sofia suggested, ‘we could follow the sun to the Canary Islands as autumn comes and central Europe gets cooler.’
Amy didn’t know where the Canary Islands were but she nodded enthusiastically. ‘Awesome!’
‘Or we could travel south through Spain to Gibraltar and cross over to Morocco.’
‘Sounds great!’ Amy thought that with Sofia’s quiet confidence along for the ride, almost anything sounded possible.
They sat on, planning ever more adventurous journeys as the sun crossed the afternoon sky, making the colours of the peaks change as it hit from different angles. Sofia switched to drinking coffee, Amy to lemonade. Finally, Amy had to check the time because she knew soon she’d have to return to Casa Felice, put on her black dress and white apron and race around the tables. She sighed.
Sofia’s gaze softened. ‘Cheer up. Soon be payday.’
Amy’s heart hopped. ‘Will it?’
‘Friday. We’ll get paid for the first part-week we worked, then a full week’s pay next week – which is when we start getting our share of the tips!’ Sofia had popped sunglasses on as the sun moved around. They made her look supercool, like Selena Gomez or Demi Levato.
‘Tips?’ Amy had never been on the receiving end of a tip. She was used to her parents paying for meals when they went home to the UK and checking the bill to see whether a tip was included, but in Germany tipping didn’t seem so much of a thing.
‘Of course!’ Sofia fanned herself. ‘Haven’t you worked as a waitress before? I can give you “Tipping 101” if you like.’
Amy understood what she meant. There were American and Canadian kids at the international school she’d attended and something-101 always meant basic introduction. ‘That’d be good.’ She’d watched Sofia swerving through her tables and seeming to make customers and staff love her – apart from maybe Davide, who was surly towards Sofia but at least hadn’t ever tried it on with her.
‘OK.’ Sofia pushed her sunglasses up on her hair. ‘At Casa Felice most tourists leave tips and locals don’t – but that’s probably because “gratuity included” is only printed in Italian on the menu! The better the service the better the tips, generally speaking. Make personal connections if you can, remember faces so you can say “hello again!” to show you appreciate their repeat custom. They’re incredibly flattered and it loosens the wallets and purses nicely. At Casa Felice, whether they come back to your section isn’t important because all the tips go in together and are divided up on payday.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Is that bad?’
‘Can be. If you see your own tips you know what you’re getting, and that you’re getting your due,’ Sofia said frankly, dividing the last of the bottled water between their two glasses. ‘Smile, even if you hate your job. If you call the men “sir” then call the women “madam”, not “love” or “darling”. The women often carry handbags and therefore the money, so if they feel they’re being condescended to they may indicate their displeasure with a stingy tip.’
Amy threw back her head and laughed. ‘You are such an experienced waitress!’
Sofia’s smile wavered and she turned her gaze to the peaks across the valley. ‘Dad was sick for a long time but he had good patches, especially when I was your age. It had to be casual work so I could leave at short notice