Page 7 of Livia in Rome
‘Or I could just wear a fig leaf and achieve the same effect.’
‘Ha! You wish!’
I spin to face the huge La Cimbali coffee machine on the ledge behind me, and pretend to inspect the dials and switches while my cheeks cool down. Theoversized hunk of metal vibrates with a low hum that does nothing to mask Giulio’s soft chuckle as he moves away.
‘It’s so nice to see you two getting along,’ Ma murmurs.
My spine stiffens. While Italian is my default with Ma – something she’s insisted on since I was tiny – I switch to English so I can insult Giulio freely. ‘What? Me get on with that smug, arrogant, rude—’
‘OK, OK!Scusami.’ Ma laughs.
She’s not sorry at all. Her lips are pressed together as if she’s suppressing a smile, and I just know she’s going to tell Pa I couldn’t even go a full day in Rome without flirting with some Italian boy – which is NOT what was happening at all.
I’m about to snap back when an elderlysignorawalks into the bar. Ma drops to the floor as if someone’s just taken aim at her.
‘Wha—?’
Ma holds up a finger and mouths, ‘You didn’t see me!’ Then she crawls commando-style to the door at the end of the counter and disappears upstairs.
I’m still gawping after her when the source of Ma’s vanishing trick approaches the counter. Her small head, barrel-shaped body and short skinny legs remind me of a robin, an overgrown one wearing aflowery blouse and knee-length black skirt. Milky blue eyes peer out at me from deep wrinkles. ‘Ah, now who is thisbella ragazza, Giulio?’
I squirm at being called pretty, especially when I rolled out of bed five minutes ago. And why can no one over the age of seventy speak to me directly here?
‘Salve, Signora Pedretti,’ Giulio shouts in her ear. ‘This is—’
‘Aspetta!Don’t tell me...’ She flattens her hand against Giulio’s chest, making me squirm a little, then narrows her eyes until they almost disappear. ‘I know this girl, don’t I? She looks...familiar.’
‘I don’t think we’ve met before,’ I say.
Signora Pedretti claps her hands together. ‘Ah, but you are not from here!’
Ouch. Signora Pedretti isn’t just my first customer; she’s the first person I’ve spoken Italian to outside of my family and Giulio. And it only took a handful of words for her to clock my accent. My body crumples as I exhale. Maybe I do need those Italian classes after all.
She continues to scrutinize me, then her gaze darts to my nose, and her mouth drops open in recognition. ‘Ah!Dio mio!You’re Caterina’s daughter! Where is your mamma? I need to have a word with her.’
‘She’s upstairs,’ Giulio answers.
‘She just stepped out,’ I blurt, my words overlapping his.
Signora Pedretti arches a brow and I laugh nervously.
‘So . . . what can I get you, Signora?’
She studies me for a while longer. ‘Eh, vabbè. Un caffè, per favore.’
I don’t ask what kind of coffee she wants.Un caffèmeans one thing, and one thing only – an espresso.
I turn back to the hulk of chrome, a flutter of anxiety in my chest.
‘First, make sure the portafilter’s clean.’ The unexpected sound of Giulio’s voice in my ear sends a rash of goosebumps skittering up the back of my neck. I have a definite allergy to this boy, I think, as he passes me a device with a long black handle.
‘Then tap it out, wipe it down and fill it with coffee – you’ll need to grind some, it’s been busy.’ He gestures towards one of the many switches, and I follow his instructions, focusing on all the new Italian words I’m learning and trying to ignore his closeness as I tamp down the freshly ground coffee and lock the portafilter into place.
‘Now, start the machine.’ Giulio points to another switch and pushes his long body away from the counter. ‘OK from here? I need to sort out the tablesand...well...you should take full credit for your firstcaffè.’
A rich dark liquid starts flowing into the doll-sized cup and I breathe in the intense, full-bodied aroma. Ahh. Perfect! So why do I get the feeling there’s something ominous behind Giulio’s words – something lurking between the lines, as usual?
I watch him from under my lashes as I set a tiny saucer and teaspoon on the counter. He’s so at home here, trading jokes with the shop owner next door as he restocks the sugar sticks and sweeteners outside. But he keeps glancing over at me and I can’t help thinking he’s like a tomcat guarding his territory.
