One Summer in Italy. Sue Moorcroft
Читать онлайн книгу.
for a caffeine fix.
No sooner had he begun the process of informing his insurance company and speaking to his provider than an email notification, apparently from his own LinkedIn account, dropped into his email inbox. My name’s Octavia and I think I have your phone. I found it on the pavement in High Street. It was signed into LinkedIn so hopefully you’ll get this message.
Relief had swamped him. You’ve saved my life! Thank you! As an afterthought, he’d added: Intrigued how you got around the passcode though.
No password protection enabled, she’d replied. It would have been rude to disbelieve her and, sure enough, when he’d met up with her by arrangement in Bettsbrough town centre he’d found the passcode protection box unchecked.
He’d brushed that detail aside as he settled his phone’s comforting and familiar weight in his pocket; he’d been so relieved that he’d grinned like an idiot and showered her with thanks. ‘I keep my life on that phone! You were in Costa, weren’t you? You must’ve left right after me to find my phone before I got back for it.’ He generally noticed well-groomed, attractive women and he remembered seeing her behind him in the queue and then brushing past his table on the way to one nearby.
‘Nice to be noticed.’ She’d returned the smile coquettishly from behind her curtain of blonde hair. ‘You’d better take me out to dinner to express your gratitude.’
He’d been taken aback. But, hey, she was an attractive woman and it would have been churlish to refuse – even when she’d laid a well-manicured hand on his arm and steered him straight to a nearby Greek restaurant where she’d become uber-chatty and mega-friendly, even taking his hand when he rested it on the table. That had been the beginning of a crazy week.
He supposed that some men would have been intrigued by her front, or simply gone along with her in the hopes that she’d jump into bed with the same lack of inhibition, but on him she’d had the opposite effect. Uncomfortable with her over-familiarity, only good manners had made him remain until the end of the meal. Then, with cool courtesy, he’d put her in a taxi and said farewell.
Alarm bells had only really begun to sound the next day when she’d texted effusive thanks for ‘a fab date’ and he knew instantly that he hadn’t given her his number so she must have extracted it when she had his phone. An avalanche of texts followed, all suggesting ‘another date’. After the first few polite prevarications his phone had begun to buzz with her calls, all of which he’d let go to voicemail. He was grateful she’d returned his phone, but she had ‘unwanted admirer’, ‘cling’ or even ‘ring’ written all over her.
And then he’d been distracted when a sobbing Freya had blasted from the past to lob into his lap a bomb with a short fuse. Octavia’s next call had come while he’d been packing his bike to shoot off on the mission that had brought him to Montelibertà. Angry and stressed enough already, he’d blocked her number.
But now she was somehow intruding on his life via his business and his best friend. He rose to pace once more, wandering out onto the sunny balcony, idly watching the aerial view of Il Giardino as his mind circled the problem. Despite the disparity in their company shareholdings he was all too aware that Wes had worked just as hard as Levi to set up The Moron Forum. Levi had simply been the one with the money to put up for the Mac Pro computers and other set-up costs. Between student loans and his girlfriend at the time having expensive tastes, Wes had been broke. His 10 per cent share had been a reward for his work. The benefit was only monetary as Levi kept an ample controlling interest, but it could definitely cause all kinds of issues if Wes followed through on his threat.
His gaze strayed from Il Giardino to the view of Via Virgilio, the engines of the ever-present scooters shrill with the pain of climbing the hill, cars and buses rumbling up in lower gears. His attention was grabbed by two figures sauntering along the pavement and he recognised Amy, with Sofia by her side. As they drew closer, the breeze brought a gust of their laughter to his ears.
The sound redirected his thoughts and he hurried back indoors to gather up his A4 pad of watercolour paper and his paintbox. He wasn’t going to worry about Wes and Octavia right now. He was going to paint, as planned.
Hooray! Davide was on a rest day when Sofia returned to Il Giardino the next day, Wednesday. She and Amy were both on the lunch shift and alongside them was Paolo, a middle-aged man who made ends meet with shifts at Casa Felice on his days off from a bar in town. Paolo was stooped like a man thirty years older and walked as if treading hot coals.
Paolo got section two, which contained one table fewer than either of the other sections. Although Sofia felt a bit mutinous when Davide continually allotted himself section two, she didn’t mind Paolo getting it because a bloke who worked seven days a week deserved a break, however meagre. Amy was on section three, nearest the car park, and Sofia section one, close to the clatter of the kitchen hatch.
What made that interesting today was that Levi was crammed in a shady corner of Il Giardino beside the hatch, a board-backed pad propped across his lap and a box of paints and two little jars of water on a stool beside him.
It was hard to see what he was doing because she had no reason to be in the hatch area unless clearing crocks or an order was called for tables one to nineteen, when she’d whizz up to sweep up a tray of food and hurry to deliver it to whichever hungry customers awaited.
‘Hello,’ she greeted Levi the first time she arrived, conscious of the tetchy end to their last encounter but curious about the paints and pad.
He returned her greeting politely but with no smile.
As the shift progressed she noticed that his smile was definitely in evidence whenever he paused to speak to Amy, paintbrush poised. It was only when she saw him taking photos of Il Giardino on his phone that Sofia addressed him again, unsettled that the camera might be following Amy, who, so far as Sofia knew, hadn’t given her permission.
‘Why are you taking pics?’ she asked bluntly as she arrived to grab a food order for table twelve.
He glanced at his screen before answering briefly, ‘Record shots.’
‘Of?’ She hefted the heavy tray shoulder-high.
Slowly, he fixed his stare on her. ‘You’re here to wait on tables, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ she agreed equably. She whisked off to deliver bruschetta to the man and woman on table eight. They’d already told her they were returning home from a sales conference in Perugia and had chosen to break the journey. Sofia, observing covert touches and meaningful smiles, had decided they had a lot more in common than whatever they sold.
‘Grazie mille,’ the man said as Sofia deftly deposited the appetiser and small plates in the centre of their table.
‘Prego!’ She gave them her warmest smile. Then, acting on impulse, dropped her voice, speaking in Italian so Levi wouldn’t be put on his guard if he chanced to hear her above the clatter and chatter of the cafè patrons enjoying the sun. ‘Tell reception if the artist in the corner is bothering you by taking photos. I hope he isn’t posting on Facebook.’ She gave an expressive shrug.
The man and woman exchanged looks of alarm as Sofia wished them buon appetito and whisked off to clear table fourteen and take orders from the tourists seated there.
‘Buon giorno,’ she greeted them.
The man, probably the dad of the family, looked apprehensive. ‘Solo Inglese,’ he offered doubtfully, probably his only Italian apart from vino and pizza.
‘I speak English,’ she confided with a grin.
His look of relief was comical. ‘Phew! Is the lasagna good?’
Wondering whether there could possibly be an eatery in Italy that served