One Night in Italy (13 page)

Trish said nothing.

‘Mum, I promise,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’

The look in Trish’s eyes said,
You already did.
‘Only it hurt me and your dad,’ she said, spooning dollops of sticky dark mincemeat into the pastry. ‘And while he might not admit as much, he’s fragile right now. He couldn’t bear to go through that again. It might finish him off.’

Sophie swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what else you want me to say,’ she replied. ‘I’m not going to write about you and Dad any more, okay? Look.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We’ve both upset each other over the years, we’ve both done things we shouldn’t have.’

‘Here we go. I’ve been waiting for this. I knew we’d get there sooner or later.’

‘Well, it’s true! I’m not the only one who’s behaved badly here, am I?’

‘Any chance of a cup of tea around here?’ There was Jim, desperately trying to curtail the start of World War Three.

The room simmered with the unspoken argument. ‘I’ll make it,’ Sophie muttered.

At least she had a good excuse to get out of the house frequently now. After two days’ searching, she’d picked up a job at the café down the road six days a week, serving coffee and cake to yummy mummies who said, ‘I really shouldn’t,’ then tucked into enormous flaky almond croissants with gusto. The pay wasn’t great but she reckoned that by February she’d have enough money for a plane ticket somewhere new. If she could survive that long at home without nuclear meltdown, that was.

Obviously this wasn’t good enough for her parents, as Trish arrived home from work triumphantly one night with the news that she’d ‘got Sophie a job’.

‘Er, hello? I’ve already
got
a job,’ Sophie reminded her. ‘At Nico’s Café. Where I was all day today. Remember?’ Anger sparked inside her. Pushy parents never changed their spots, did they? They just lulled you into a false sense of security then started shoving again.
You’re doing it wrong. You should do this. We think business studies is the best option. Drama School won’t lead to any kind of stable job. You’re making a big mistake, my girl . . .

‘I know, love. But this is an evening thing, teaching “Conversational Italian” at the Hurst. I reckon you’d be a shoo-in.’

Sophie felt like screaming. Oh, she could see it now – her mum flicking through the newspaper for job listings on the quiet, signing her up with recruitment agencies, trying to micro-manage her daughter’s life just like before. ‘Mum, I can look after myself, you know. You don’t need to go around finding other jobs for me.’

‘I know I don’t. Tina’s husband did it for you.’

‘
What?
’ Now she was really incensed. Had her mum sent the word round her friends and colleagues that her little girl needed a leg-up in the job world? Oh, brilliant. Her fists tightened into knots and it was all she could do to remain in the room rather than storm upstairs and pack up her belongings. She’d been here before, with her parents trying to dictate her life. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

‘Calm down, for heaven’s sake. I only mentioned to Tina that you were back for a while, that’s all. Her hubby is the course director over at the college, and it just so happens that the woman who teaches the Italian classes is going off on maternity leave. So Tina, being really kind and helpful, put two and two together, told him that you’re here, fluent in Italian, looking for a job, and . . .’ Trish spread her hands wide. ‘Bob’s your uncle. He’s asked you in for a chat.’

‘But I . . .’ Her anger was deflating.

‘I’m not interfering,’ Trish went on. ‘I don’t care if you get it or not. You’ve made it clear you don’t want to stick around here – that’s fine.’

‘She’s doing you a bloody great favour, although she’s too polite to point that out,’ Jim growled, looking up from his newspaper. ‘And teaching Italian sounds a damn sight more interesting than waiting tables. Even you, stubborn as you are, have to admit it.’

‘Sorry,’ Sophie said grudgingly after a moment. ‘You’re right. That does sound interesting. I won’t get it, though.’

‘Why the hell not? Bright girl like you, you could do anything.’ That was Jim again, voice raised.

‘You can’t do meaningless jobs all your life,’ Trish suddenly burst out. ‘Life’s not a rehearsal, Sophie.’

Sophie glared. ‘That’s an unfortunate choice of phrase coming from you,’ she muttered before she could stop herself.

‘And that’s uncalled for, dragging up ancient history,’ Trish retorted, turning pink.

She was probably right. ‘Sorry,’ Sophie mumbled.

‘Right,’ Jim said. ‘Does that mean you’re going to give this a go, then?’

‘I’ve never done any proper teaching before though, Dad,’ she replied, then paused, thinking about it. ‘Well, a bit, I suppose, teaching English to businessmen in Venezuela, but it was a total blag, cash in hand, no contract or anything. The only references I’ve got are from foreign employers.’

‘Even better. With a bit of luck Tina’s husband won’t be able to understand a bloody word of ’em.’ Jim chuckled at his own wit. ‘I bet you’re a great teacher, Soph, blagging or not. You’ve got excellent people skills – except when you’re arguing with your parents, that is – you’re patient, you’re articulate . . .’

Sophie scuffed her toe along the ground, not knowing what to say. Her dad wasn’t one for needless gladhanding; he would call a spade a bloody great shovel rather than soft-soap anyone. His praise made her feel disconcertingly warm and fuzzy inside. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘You could do it,’ her mum agreed. ‘Think about it anyway. Tina said he’d love to chat with you if you’re interested. Starts January. What have you got to lose?’

Er, my freedom?
Sophie thought immediately. Being a teacher, even if it was only a maternity cover, was way more of a commitment than wiping tables in a café or pulling pints in a bar. Before, she’d always moved on whenever she’d felt like it, giving notice on a whim, jumping on a bus to someplace new if she had the urge. Even in Caracas, she’d taught English for . . . what? Three weeks or so to raise funds for the next leg of her trip. It was never serious.

Irritatingly, her dad’s words kept coming back to her.
Sounds a damn sight more interesting than waiting tables . . .

He had a point, if she was honest. She could waitress and clean tables with her eyes shut; it was an uncomplicated way to earn money. But much as she liked café camaraderie and talking to new people every day, it was boring at times. Plus the pay wasn’t brilliant either, and you spent most of the time on your feet. She’d worn out that many pairs of shoes waitressing, it was a crime against footwear.

‘Not scared, are you?’ her dad teased, seeing her lost in thought.

‘Of course not!’ Sophie retorted, taking the piece of paper with the phone number on. ‘I’ll phone him tomorrow.’

Hurst College was in town, a short walk from the station – an unprepossessing sort of place, which wouldn’t win any architectural prizes for its 1960s blocky design and tired interiors. Still, there were all sorts of interesting courses running, according to the college brochure: ceramics, cookery, modern languages, engineering, drama . . . Her gaze latched onto the course description of the latter and she found herself reading the details with a sort of hunger: acting and technical theatre skills . . . vocal techniques . . . characterization and script analysis . . .

‘Sophie Frost?’

She was jolted out of her thoughts at the sound of the voice and looked up to see a lady in a navy twinset in front of her. Sophie rose to her feet, trying to smooth out the creases in the skirt she’d borrowed from her mum. ‘Yes, hi. That’s me.’

‘If you’d like to come this way?’

‘Sure. Thank you.’ Her heart jumping with a sudden attack of nerves, Sophie followed the woman along the corridor.
You can do it
, she could hear her dad say. Well, it was time to find out, wasn’t it?

Alan McIntyre, Tina’s husband, was tall, slightly stooped and spoke with a soft Scottish accent. He also had a crushing handshake which nearly broke her fingers. Remembering her dad’s advice –
Strong handshake, strong character –
Sophie took this as some kind of initiation test and squeezed back as hard as she could. Alan gasped in shock and dropped her hand, shooting her an
are-you-crazy
look. So that got things off to a good start.

‘Have a seat,’ he said, examining his fingers with a frown. ‘So. The Italian job.’

‘Oh, I love that film,’ Sophie said with a grin, feeling that she had to make up for the handshake debacle. ‘Hang on a minute, lads . . .’

‘. . . I’ve got a great idea!’ he finished. They both laughed. ‘Brilliant stuff. Love Michael Caine.’

‘Me too. Total ledge.’

‘Now then.’ He rifled through some papers on his desk. It was a tip, to be frank, with folders and files in assorted heaps. ‘Tell me about yourself. How’s your Italian?’

‘Pretty good. I’ve lived and worked there for the last two years,’ she told him. ‘I took a crash course in Rome when I got there but there’s nothing like living in a place to force you to learn a language really quickly.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Alan McIntyre, and gave an envious sigh. ‘Lucky you. You know, that’s one of my big regrets in life, never living anywhere but this country. Now I’m far too old and have far too many children and a far-too-big mortgage to even
think
about it. Just a little retirement dream to while away the godawful British winters . . . Anyway. Yes. Sorry. Whereabouts in Italy were you?’

‘Rome for a year and more recently Sorrento, down on the west coast.’

‘Oh, I know Sorrento. Beautiful place. Amazing beaches. And the food . . . My God. Best I’ve ever tasted.’

Sophie laughed again. This interview was turning out to be more like a chat with a jolly uncle. ‘The food’s pretty good,’ she agreed.

‘Must go back there sometime, escape from the kids for a few days with my wife. Definitely. Anyway. Interview. Yes. The class I would like you to teach is . . . let me see. Tuesday evenings, six-thirty to eight-thirty, complete beginners. I’ve got eight people booked on already and I’d hate to have to cancel. It’s a ten-week term, with half-term in the middle. How does that sound?’

‘Fab! I mean, yes, very good,’ Sophie replied, trying to sound professional. She cleared her throat and drew herself up. ‘I’ve already been thinking about lesson plans . . .’ She dug out the piece of paper torn from her waitress notepad where she’d jotted down ideas during a quiet moment in the café. ‘The first one could cover greetings and introductions, then basic conversational questions and answers, such as “How old are you?” and “What do you do for a living?”’

‘Excellent, excellent. And you’ve done this before, I’m told?’

‘In Venezuela, yes. Teaching English. Although it was a few years ago now.’ She cringed, ready to see his enthusiasm screech to a halt.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered her. ‘Sophie, I’ll be straight with you. You don’t have much experience, I’m taking a bit of a punt here. But I like you. And I need an Italian teacher. So the job’s yours if you want it.’

She tried her best not to look too astonished, but it was a struggle. Oh my God. Had that actually just happened? ‘I want it,’ she assured him, beaming. ‘I won’t let you down.’

They shook hands on it – very carefully this time – and she walked out of there with a brand new job. The Italian job. She had a good feeling about this.

FACEBOOK STATUS: Sophie Frost – December 25

Merry Christmas, everyone! I’m at home in Sheffield for the first time in years – bit weird! Sorry I haven’t posted anything for ages – things have been hectic. Hope you all have a great day xxx

She pressed ‘Post’ and watched as her message updated. Then she scanned through her timeline to see what her friends were up to, scattered as they were around the world. Lydia, her old flatmate in New Zealand, was on holiday in Fiji with her boyfriend.
Smooching in our hammock. Merry Xmas y’all!
, she’d written. Flamboyant, beautiful Harvey was still working in Berlin and spending the day with Kurt, his new man, in their modernist white flat in Leipziger Strasse. And Marta and Toni, two Dutch friends, had been to Manly Beach for the day, along with half the backpackers in Sydney, no doubt.

Sophie felt a pang, remembering her own Christmas Day in Sydney with Dan. They’d gone to Bondi with a disposable barbecue, a box of wine and all their mates. Music had played. Everyone danced on the sand. The sun shone the entire day. Then, that night, she and Dan had sat out in the tiny courtyard garden of the flat she was renting, and toasted one another with glasses of Australian bubbly. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he murmured as he leaned in for a kiss.

Still. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Especially as she was totally over him. She hardly even stalked him on Facebook these days. He was probably married with babies and a fat Labrador by now – not that it was anything to her, obviously.

‘Sophie! Breakfast!’ her mum called at that moment. Sophie quickly dabbed her eyes – she wasn’t
crying
, she must be allergic to something – and hurried downstairs.

Two bacon sandwiches later, plus a Mars bar from her stocking, she felt a lot better. She and her parents sat around the kitchen table peeling vegetables for lunch while her dad’s
Now That’s What I Call Christmas
C D blasted from the stereo. ‘Present o’clock!’ Jim announced every now and then, sending Sophie to the tree to bring back gifts for them all to unwrap. ‘Gin o’clock,’ he’d add at intervals too, uncapping the Gordon’s and sploshing generous measures into everyone’s glass.

‘Easy on the booze, you,’ Trish reminded him. ‘You’re still meant to be watching your cholesterol, remember?’

‘Ah, bollocks to the cholesterol,’ he replied. ‘It’s Christmas Day, woman! Nobody should deny themselves on Christmas Day.’

Aunty Jane, Uncle Clive and Sophie’s grandma turned up at midday, just as the potatoes went sizzling into the tray of hot oil. The house was full of noise and exclamations and the clink of ice as new drinks were poured. Grandma was stooped and gnarled these days, stone-deaf to almost everything unless you bellowed into her ear, but she remained beaming and jovial throughout, joining in with the words to Slade and Wizzard with surprising vigour. Aunty Jane was pissed and giggling after two swift sherries, leaving Uncle Clive to bore on about politics to anyone who would listen (nobody) until Jim challenged him to help finish the jigsaw of Dovedale he’d abandoned in the living room. ‘Happy to oblige,’ Clive boomed immediately. ‘I’m a dab hand at jigsaws, you know, Jim.’