Passionate Affairs: Breakfast at Giovanni's

‘She was lovely.’

‘Yeah. She’s bossy and she’s interfering and she drives me absolutely bananas,’ he said with a grin, ‘but I still wouldn’t change her for anything. I knew she’d come and check you out. I bet she’d been skulking in the street, wearing dark glasses and hiding behind bay trees in big pots, until she saw me leave and knew the coast was clear to come and vet you.’

Fran laughed, but he could still see the sadness in her eyes. ‘Tell me about your family,’ he said softly.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m adopted. My parents didn’t think they could have children. So they adopted me…and then the twins came along. And then Suzy.’

He reached out slid his hand over hers. Squeezed it. ‘Hey. There’s nothing wrong with being adopted. It just proves your parents really wanted you to live with them. They chose you.’

She swallowed hard. ‘That’s what they said, when they told me the truth about my parentage. That I’m special because they chose me.’

‘And then being able to have more children was a bonus for them. An unexpected bonus.’

‘Maybe. But I’m not like Suzy or Dominic or Ted. I…’ She struggled to pull her hand away. ‘Oh, just ignore me. I’m being wet.’

‘No.’ He refused to let her hand go. ‘Have you told your parents how you feel?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to hurt them or make them feel I don’t appreciate what they’ve done for me over all the years. But I know I’m a disappointment to them. The others were all good at sport and exams, and I’m not.’

‘But look at what you are good at,’ Gio said. ‘You’ve got tons of common sense—something a lot of highly academic people don’t have. You’re good with people. And you’re scarily organised. I’m willing to bet you anything you choose that they don’t see you as a disappointment.’He paused. ‘Something else Nonna says. You never treat your children the same, because they’re all different. But you treat them equally. And you love them the same amount—just for different things.’

She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Maybe.’

‘Definitely.’ How on earth could Fran not fit in to her family? She’d been here less than a week and already she was part of the team. He’d noticed a couple of times this afternoon that the Docklands team had been halfway to dialling Fran to ask for help sorting out a problem before remembering that he was there on the spot.

But maybe being adopted gave you a different perspective. Fran’s birth parents had given her away, so no doubt there was a part of her that would always worry her new family wouldn’t want her, either. That there was something about her that made her unlovable.

‘Have you ever tried finding your birth parents?’ he asked quietly.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never wanted to. I’m sure they had good reasons at the time for not keeping me.’

And if she managed to trace them and they didn’t want to know her, Gio knew that a second rejection would shatter her trust in people completely.

Right now, Fran needed security—something Gio knew he couldn’t give her in a relationship, given that he didn’t know what he wanted from life right now. But he could definitely make her feel part of Giovanni’s.

‘It’s good that you’re not judging them too harshly. Not bitter about it.’

‘There’s no point. Being bitter isn’t going to change anything or make things better.’ She shrugged. ‘Besides, Mum and Dad gave me a stable home.’

She hadn’t mentioned love, Gio noticed, something he’d always taken for granted in a large and noisy family where you got hugged and kissed every day and told how special you were. And even though the demonstrativeness had been excruciatingly embarrassing during his teens—especially when his parents insisted on showing all his baby photos to any girl he brought home—he’d always known he fitted in, that he was part of the family.

‘Your family’s proud of you,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe they’re not good at telling you—maybe they’re English and reserved instead of Italian and over-demonstrative like my lot. But my guess is they’re proud of you. And they’re going to get even prouder when Giovanni’s expands and your parents realise that their daughter is the number two in the company.’ He squeezed her hand again, and this time let it go. ‘Want my advice? Go home, ring them and tell them you love them.’

‘I might just do that.’

‘No “mights”. Do it. It’ll make you feel better.’ He smiled at her. ‘Go home. I’m not going to make you stay really late on a Friday night.’ Even though what he wanted to do with her would take the rest of the weekend, let alone the night. Because he was going to be sensible about this. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, OK?’

‘Sure. Have a nice weekend.’

He laughed. ‘You’ll never know how glad I am that you didn’t say, “Giovanni Mazetti, don’t you work too hard”…’

CHAPTER SIX

‘MORNING, Fran. How was your weekend?’ Gio asked as she walked into the coffee shop on the Monday morning.

‘Fine, thanks. Yours?’

‘Fine.’

She’d just sat down when he brought a latte in to her. This time, there was the shape of an apple floating on the crema. ‘You’re definitely showing off. Flowers, hearts, apples…’

‘Just you wait. Tomorrow I’ll do you an ammonite,’ he said with a grin.

She scoffed, ‘No way can you free-pour an ammonite.’

‘I didn’t actually say I’d free-pour it. I said I’d do you one.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But as challenges go…that’s a good one.’ He leaned against her desk. ‘Did you do what I suggested, on Friday?’

She nodded. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Don’t thank me—it’s Nonna’s wisdom, not mine. She says you can never tell people too often that you love them. And no doubt, as she’s coming over from Milan soon, you’ll get to thank her in person.’ Gio sighed. ‘I have this feeling she’ll be “just passing” the café, like Mum was. And when she’s finished grilling you, she’ll start on me. Telling me that I work too hard, and I need to find myself some bella ragazza and settle down and produce a great-grandchild for her to spoil.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m really hoping that she gets distracted by her newest great-granddaughter. Lorena’s absolutely gorgeous.’ He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and flicked through the photographs. ‘See?’

For someone who was so adamant that he didn’t want babies, Fran thought, Gio had a very soppy look on his face. She’d bet he had a picture of every single child in his family on his mobile phone. Not that she was going to take him to task for being a fraud. ‘She’s lovely,’ she said.

‘Nonna will enjoy cuddling her. But then again, it’ll probably make her worse. Once she gets started on this settling-down stuff…’

‘You can always try distracting her with latte art,’ Fran said, laughing and gesturing to her mug.

‘I could even draw her a bat with a long nose, to make the point. But she’d only laugh and say I was trying to get her off her favourite subject. Like when is her youngest grandson going to settle down,’ he said ruefully.

The week got better and better. Gio switched to etching pictures in her coffee, from the promised ammonite through to a lion with a shaggy mane and a spider in a web, making her laugh. Fran teased him back by making a rosetta in his latte with chocolate syrup and ignoring his demands to see a proper free-poured rosetta—she was still a long way from being ready for that. Though she’d been practising in secret, coached by Sally in return for a promise of half-share in the chocolates Gio had bet her.

Even the food hygiene course on the Thursday wasn’t that bad; everything was practical, common sense, and the multiple-choice exam wasn’t as scary as the exam papers she remembered from her schooldays. Thirty questions in forty-five minutes—and, as Gio said, she was organised and practical, and most of it was simple common sense. She just had to wait a fortnight for the results. A fortnight that just sped by so she actually forgot about the wait.

The post hadn’t arrived before Fran left for work on the Thursday morning, but Fran came home to find a large envelope on the doormat. An envelope with the logo of the college on it.

Her results.

It had been nearly eight years since she’d taken an exam. And she’d been physically sick afterwards, knowing she’d done badly and furious with herself because the second she’d walked out of the exam room all the knowledge had come flooding back again and she could’ve answered all the questions after all.

And when she’d opened the envelope containing her results—proof in black and white that she’d messed up her A levels and let everyone down—she’d spent the whole day crying, because she was such a failure. Despite the fact her parents had tried to comfort her and said it didn’t matter, she knew she was a disappointment to them. They were academics, living in Oxford: how could they not be disappointed that she’d failed her A levels and wouldn’t go on to university?

Would she be a disappointment to Gio, the same way?

On the day of the course, she’d felt she’d done OK. The exam hadn’t thrown her.

Now…she wasn’t so sure. Not with her track record. And she couldn’t bear the idea of Gio losing his faith in her. Of letting him down.

But she wasn’t a coward. She took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope. Stared at the piece of paper inside. No, two pieces of paper. A letter and a certificate. So she didn’t even have to read the letter to know.

She’d passed.

She whooped and did a Snoopy dance on the doormat.

She’d actually passed!

Gio’s belief in her had been right. She’d come good.

And she needed to tell him. Right now. She grabbed the phone—and then replaced the receiver without dialling. He’d be in the office, she knew; although he was a stickler for sending her home on the dot, he worked until at least half past seven most nights.

Tonight, she was going to take him out to celebrate. And they were going to drink champagne. She locked her front door, took the tube back to Goodge Street and walked down to the café. As she suspected, the closed sign was up and the front of the café was dark, but she could see the faint light from the office in the back of the shop. Gio was still there. Still working.

She banged on the door.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Still no answer.

Third time lucky?

Yes.

The frown on Gio’s face dissolved as he saw her and unlocked the door. ‘Hi, Fran. What are you doing here?’

‘You sent me to learn about and understand the importance of food hygiene and hazards, plus good hygiene practice and controls based upon food safety management systems,’ she said. ‘So there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘Uh-huh. Come through to the office.’ He stood aside, then locked the door behind her again.

She followed him to the office, rummaging in her handbag, then handed him the letter.

He handed it back without unfolding it. ‘I don’t need to read this.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘No, I don’t.’ He smiled. ‘I told you that you’d pass.’

‘Gio, it’s the first exam I’ve taken in eight years. Last time I sat in an exam room, I screwed it up. I failed.’

‘But this time, you did well. Just as I knew you would.’

His unshakeable confidence in her made her feel warm from the inside out. She smiled wryly and tucked the letter back into her handbag. ‘Just for the record: yes, I passed.’

‘Well done. You can do the intermediate certificate next, if you want.’ He shook his head. ‘Actually, no. You’re on the management side, so it’s probably better if you do the HACCP in Practice course.’

Was he testing her to see if she knew what the acronym stood for? Ha. No sweat. ‘Hazard Analysis Critical Control Points,’ she said with a grin.

‘And you’ll pass that one standing on your head because you’re organised, practical and sensible. Piece of cake.’ He laughed. ‘Well, a brownie, maybe—if Sally leaves us any.’

Fran smiled back. Then she noticed that his guitar was out of its case. ‘Sorry, was I disturbing you?’

He followed the direction of her gaze, then shrugged. ‘I sometimes use it when I’m thinking. Let things work in my subconscious.’

‘And you’re thinking about the franchise options?’

He nodded.

‘Would you play something for me?’ she asked on impulse, settling herself on the edge of the desk.

He blinked. ‘I don’t play for an audience any more.’

‘I’m not an audience. I’m your office manager. And I just passed my exam, so I deserve a treat, yes?’

‘That,’ he said, ‘is manipulation worthy of my mother—in fact, it’s worthy of my grandmother.’

Maybe. But she had a feeling that Gio had given up his music as a penance for what he believed he’d done wrong. And maybe playing to someone else would help make him see that he’d more than paid his dues. That he could have his music back.

So she simply sat there. Waiting.

He sighed. ‘I should warn you, I’m out of practice. Not like I used to be.’

‘I’ve never heard you play before, so I don’t have anything to compare it with,’ she pointed out.

‘Even so.’

But he was wavering. She could see it. ‘Just one piece? Something short and simple.’

He was silent for what seemed like a long, long time. To the point where Fran thought maybe she’d pushed him too far.

She was about to slide off the desk, apologise and leave him be, when he picked up the guitar.

The notes rang out, sweet and clear, in the office—a slow, pretty tune that Fran half-recognised. And then he changed it; it was the same tune, but this time it sounded incredibly different, as if it were being played by a Venetian gondolier on a mandolin. Then he switched back to the slow, sweet version.

‘Wow,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘I’ve heard that before, but I’ve got no idea what it’s called.’

‘“Spanish Ballad”.’

‘Spanish? That middle bit sounded more Italian than Spanish.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a technique called tremolo—and it’s used in Spanish music as well as Italian. Tarrega’s “Alhambra” is probably the best-known example.’

Not one she knew—at least, not by name. ‘You didn’t sound rusty to me. I liked it.’ She paused. ‘Can I be really greedy? More, please?’

He blew out a breath. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to play “Cavatina”. I loathe that piece of music. My sisters used to warble it around the house just to annoy me.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t mind what you play. Pick something you like.’

He played Bach’s ‘Air on a G String’, and she ended up closing her eyes and letting the music flood through her senses; the sound was so beautiful that it brought her close to tears. She didn’t recognise the next two pieces, though the style reminded her of the Mozart piano pieces Suzy used to practise as a teenager; and then Gio launched into a fast, flamenco-sounding piece. It sounded as if there were two people playing different guitars, though she knew that was a crazy idea. She opened her eyes just to check that someone hadn’t just appeared out of thin air to accompany him—but, no, it was just Gio.

And he looked as if he were enjoying himself, as if the speed and sudden loud flamenco licks were releasing all the tension that had built up inside him.

‘That was incredible,’she said when he’d finished. If this was what he called ‘out of practice’, he must’ve been a truly fantastic musician in his late teens. Gio had a real talent for music, she thought; but he’d sacrificed it for the sake of his family.

‘That was Albéniz’s “Asturias”,’ he said. ‘A bit showy-off.’ He grinned. ‘But since I’m being a show-off…’ He launched into another piece, slightly jazzy.

‘I really like that. What is it?’

‘“Verano Porteño”. It’s by an Argentinean composer, Piazzolla.’

The mischievous twinkle was back in his eye, Fran noticed with pleasure. Music definitely brought out the best in Gio. ‘Should I have heard of him?’

‘Probably not—unless you dance the tango.’

She laughed. ‘Not with my two left feet.’

‘Dancing a tango’s easier than making latte art.’ He gave her a speculative look. ‘Maybe I’ll teach you.’

Being musical and having a good sense of rhythm, Gio would probably be a superb dancer. And the idea of dancing a tango with him—breast to breast and cheek to cheek, their bodies moving as one—sent little ripples of desire down her spine.

‘In Argentina, there’s a saying that everything may change except the tango…but Piazzolla changed it,’ Gio said. ‘He fused the old-fashioned style with jazz, to make something called nuevo tango.’

Given that saying…‘And it went down badly?’she guessed.

‘At the time, yes—though nowadays most people think of him as the Tango King. He ended up living in Italy, where his parents’ family came from, in the late nineteen-seventies. Nonna actually saw him play in Rome, and said he was completely amazing.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I normally only play Piazzolla for Nonna.’

‘Then I consider myself honoured,’ Fran said. ‘What does “Verano Porteño” mean?’

‘Summer—well, it’s meant to be an evocation of summer in Buenos Aires. It’s from his Four Seasons,’ he said, ‘which is sadly not as well known as Vivaldi’s.’ He played a couple of bars she recognised from ‘Spring’, then put his guitar back in the case. ‘Enough for now.’

‘Thank you for playing for me,’ she said.

‘Well, I guess you earned it. Seeing as you passed your exams.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m glad you came to tell me.’

‘Even though, strictly speaking, it could’ve waited until tomorrow,’ she admitted. ‘But you believed in me, Gio. I couldn’t wait tell you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Actually, what I’d intended to do was drag you off to a bar and buy you a glass of champagne to celebrate.’

‘That’s very sweet of you.’

At his tone, Fran felt her stomach swoop. Oh, no. Now he’d think she was trying to hit on him. And he was going to be kind about it and refuse very politely.

‘But I think champagne is overrated. There’s way too much snobbery about a few bubbles in some wine. I’d rather have a good Margaux any day. Or there’s this amazing Sicilian red wine Netti found that actually tastes of chocolate. It’s fabulous with puddings.’ He switched off the computer. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Do you like dim sum?’

She nodded.

‘Then how about we swap the champagne for Chinese food?’

‘Don’t tell me.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know the best Chinese in London, and it’s something to do with your family?’

He laughed. ‘Yes to the first, no to the second. Actually, there were a couple of things I wanted to run by you.’

‘So we might as well multi-task it.’ She threw his favourite phrase back at him.

‘We want to celebrate your exam. We both need to eat.’ He spread his hands. ‘And we can talk at the same time, can we not?’

Jasmine tea really hadn’t been the way Fran had intended celebrating, but when they were seated in the restaurant, having chosen a mixture of dishes to share, she realised that this was just about perfect.

‘So, what did you want to run by me?’ she asked.

‘We’re just about into week four of your trial. Which is practically a month.’ His eyes glittered. ‘We said a month’s trial, with a week’s notice on either side.’

Fran went cold. Her boss had told her about the studio merger over lunch. Was Gio about to tell her that he’d changed his mind about her working with him, over dinner? Was this going to be her week’s notice?

Then her rational side kicked in. They were celebrating her exam results. And he wouldn’t have suggested having dinner or said that he had some things to run by her if he was about to terminate her contract. ‘So we did,’ she agreed coolly, and sipped her jasmine tea.

If he noticed that the bowl clattered when she returned it to the saucer, he didn’t comment. ‘I’m happy with the way things are going. What about you?’

She nodded. ‘I’m enjoying the work and I like the staff.’

‘So can we consider you a permanent member of the team, now? Don’t look so worried,’ he added.

‘I wasn’t worried,’ she fibbed.

‘Then you’ll stay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

That was the first hurdle over with. Now for the biggie. Gio decided to wait until they were eating and Fran had filled her bowl with choice morsels.

‘There was something else.’

‘What?’ She paused with the chopsticks held over her bowl.

‘You know my grandmother’s coming over from Milan at the weekend?’

She nodded.

‘It’s for our family birthdays.’

She frowned. ‘Birthdays? Sorry, I’m not with you. Are you saying you have an official birthday as well as a normal one—like the Queen?’

He choked. ‘Not quite. My sisters and I,’ he said, doing his best impersonation of the Queen’s opening to her Christmas speech, ‘well, our birthdays are all within a fortnight of each other. Four family parties in that short a space of time is a bit excessive, even for my family. So we tend to celebrate them all at one really big family party.’

‘Makes sense. Though I do hope you celebrate individually, as well.’

‘Yes.’Well, the girls did. He hadn’t bothered, the last couple of years, though he’d invented dinner out with friends so his parents wouldn’t worry about him. ‘I was wondering if you’re busy, a week on Saturday. If you’d like to come to the party.’

Her eyes widened, but he couldn’t quite read her expression: horror or delight?

‘Me?’ she asked.

Surprise, then. Well, he could work with surprise. ‘Yup. I can guarantee the food’ll be good.’

‘And your birthday is when, exactly?’

He coughed. ‘In the next fortnight.’

‘That’s approximate. I asked for exact.’

‘Are you coming to the party?’ he asked, trying to evade the question.

‘Are you going to tell me when your birthday is?’

He scooped more food into his bowl. ‘You’re not supposed to answer a question with a question. It’s rude.’

She smiled at him. ‘Of course, as the office manager, I have access to the personnel records. So if you don’t tell me, I can simply go into the system and look it up for myself.’

‘That,’ Gio said, ‘is flagrant abuse under the Data Protection Act, Francesca Marsden. It’s illegal.’

‘I could still do it. Or…I could ask your mother.’ Fran was inexorable.

He knew when he was beaten. He leaned back in his chair. ‘All right. It’s next Wednesday.’

‘Thank you.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think it’s your turn to answer the question.’

‘Thank you for the invitation.’

He really couldn’t tell if her answer was going to be yes or no, and he was shocked by the way his skin suddenly felt too tight. It really shouldn’t matter whether she said yes or no.

But it did.

It mattered a lot.

He wanted her there.

‘I’d love to come,’ she said softly.

Which was when Gio realised that he’d actually been holding his breath.

Oh, lord. He was already in way too deep.

‘What’s the dress code?’ she asked.

He spread his hands. ‘Whatever. It’s a party. Wear what you want.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Men. Do I have to ask your mother?’

‘I’m beginning to think,’ Gio said, ‘that’s you’re just as scary as Mum, Nonna and Netti rolled into one.’ But she’d said yes, so far.

Would she say yes to the next question?

‘There’s, um, a bit more.’ He took a deep breath. So much for thinking he’d felt tense before. What he was feeling right at that moment was G-force tension—the sort you got on one of those rollercoasters that sent you round a corkscrew spiral and then round a series of loops. ‘I love my grandmother.’

Her smile definitely said, I already know that. Are you going batty or something?

‘And because she lives in Italy, I don’t get to see as much of her as I’d like. I speak to her a couple of times a week, but it’s not the same as seeing her.’