Page 19 of In Italy for Love

‘I can make the bed,’ she insisted as he wrestled with the stiff fastenings to open the double windows and then push out the shutters. She dumped her backpack, taking her battered laptop case carefully out of the top and placing it on the bed before rummaging for fresh undies and her threadbare pyjamas. ‘Thanks for this. Really,’ she added without looking at him.

‘Psht,’ was his only response. ‘I’ll find the Wi-Fi password for you. And I’m not sure how well this radiator works. You’ll have to let me know if you’re cold.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be fine.’

Half an hour later, she tiptoed out of the bathroom feeling slightly more human and ready to collapse into bed and sleep off her bad decisions. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t have the energy – or the cash flow – to go out and find something to eat.

The kitchen door was open a crack, sending a narrow shaft of light into the hall. A little wet nose appeared and Arco nuzzledhis way out, tail wagging as though she’d just made his day by appearing after an absence of ten minutes. As soon as she stroked her hand over his woolly head and neck, he pressed himself into her, demanding more petting.

‘We’d better get you some dinner,’ she crooned.

‘He’s already eaten the cat’s food.’

She glanced up to find Alex standing in the kitchen door, a tea towel over his shoulder and another frown on his lips.

‘Oh, shit! I’m sorry!’

‘You’ll have to apologise to Attila, not me,’ he said. He gestured into the kitchen with a lift of his chin. ‘Come have something to eat.’

Opening her mouth to protest that he didn’t have to cook for her, she instead took a breath of the most divine scent of red onion and salted meat, and nothing could have stopped her feet from taking her straight into the kitchen.

‘We shouldn’t be taking advantage of you,’ she insisted weakly as she took a seat at the small table. ‘Or Attila,’ she added, looking around for the cat, but there was no sign of his bushy tail.

‘It’s only polenta soup. It’s no trouble to reheat a little more broth. And the cat has gone out to terrorise the night-time wildlife.’

‘Broth? You make it sound like food for needy orphans, but it smells like paradise in here.’

‘You’re my needy orphan for the night, hmm?’

He placed a ceramic bowl in front of her, full of creamy soup topped with pancetta. The bowl was painted with tiny blue flowers and beige stripes and had two little handles on the side. Grabbing the spoon like a starving woman, she nearly dug in then and there, but she felt Alex’s gaze and remembered her manners, setting the spoon down again, her cheeks hot.

‘Bon pitìc,’ he said with a hint of a smile – the closest he’d come to one since she’d seen him again that evening. ‘Our version of “buon appetito”. Don’t wait. You look like a wolf.’

‘A dog, a catanda wolf. You’ve got a menagerie tonight.’

She sipped her first spoonful and stifled a groan. ‘Wow,’ she mumbled, taking another spoonful. ‘This soup could put the entire world to rights.’

Alex took his seat opposite her with a doubtful smile. Tugging a cork out of a bottle of white wine that was already open, he poured a small amount into two glasses. ‘Cure the world with polenta and radicchio? You sound like an Italian grandmother.’

‘Radicchio? Is that the taste I couldn’t work out? I didn’t think I liked it.’ With a pinch of discomfort, she remembered Luca’s mamma constantly trying to educate her palate.

‘It has the amaro taste – bitterness. Perhaps it takes some getting used to. Cooking it takes some of the bitterness away, but I enjoy it raw.’

‘Perhaps I have enough bitterness,’ Jules joked, taking another spoonful of soup and hoping he didn’t ask why.

‘Here in Friûl we appreciate bitterness,’ was all he said, propping his chin on his fist. ‘Sometimes life is hard. Bitter is one of many natural flavours.’ With a thoughtful frown, he picked up his wine glass for a sip.

She took note for the first time of the strange wine glasses. Although the stem was conventional, the top part was made of green glass. Peering at her own, she said, ‘Are these genuine seventies vintage? It kind of looks like we’re drinking absinthe.’

‘They came with the place,’ he explained. ‘The bowls too, although none of them match.’ He gestured to his own soup bowl which was decorated with colourful, swirling flowers and leaves, along with a sentence in a straight, sharp script.

‘Benvignûts in cjase nestre,’ she read out, squinting. ‘Benvenuto in casa nostra?’ she guessed.

‘Benvenuti a casa nostra in standard Italian,’ he corrected with a nod. ‘Welcome to our house – ormyhouse in this case.’ The smile he gave her was tight and puzzling.

‘Well, thank you for putting me up for the night,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘So, this place was a B&B? How did you end up here?’

‘I inherited it,’ he explained. ‘But it’s a long story. It’s been nearly ten years since the business operated.’

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