The Heavenly Italian Ice Cream Shop (23 page)

At two, Anna and Matteo closed the ice cream shop in Sorrento for an hour, for the bloggers’ event – a dozen food writers had arrived, and were chatting to them both over smoothies about how they’d got started.

‘We have our own shop in Brighton,’ Anna explained, ‘but then we were drawn back here to Italy, where Matteo grew up, and it seemed the perfect opportunity to introduce a wider audience to our recipes.’

It helped, Anna thought – having to make a good impression with strangers and present a united front with Matteo. As they talked about happier times, she could almost forget about the devastating conversation they’d had the previous night. Almost.

‘The English recipes have actually travelled really well,’ Matteo said. ‘The gin-and-tonic-and-lemon lolly has been a huge hit here,’ Matteo said. ‘And our classic Wimbledon ice cream, strawberries and cream.’

The food bloggers took notes, and tasted the samples Anna had put out for them. They looked around the shop, intrigued.

‘It’s a real transformation from how it was before,’ said one blogger, a woman called Lucy. ‘I moved out here from the UK ten years ago and I’ve been longing to find somewhere that felt like home. As soon as you guys took this place over I knew I’d found it.’

‘Thank you,’ Anna said. ‘That’s nice to hear.’

‘A few people have commented to me that they find it refreshing to see a mix of different styles on your menu. Obviously, Italy’s known for its ice cream for good reason, but there are plenty of places here doing the traditional stuff. I think you’re standing out because you’re not afraid to try something new.’

Matteo listened and nodded. Anna felt a little vindicated by Lucy’s comment – but, then, it didn’t seem to matter so much any more. Things had gone beyond that now.

‘You’re from the Bonomi family, though, aren’t you?’ Lucy asked.

‘You’ve done your research,’ he said.

‘Have there been any problems, with you breaking away from the family business like this?’ Lucy enquired.

Matteo’s and Anna’s eyes met, for a fleeting moment.

Anna spoke up first. ‘There are challenges in any business, aren’t there? What matters is that you try to work past them.’

Lucy smiled, and made a note in her pad.

When Matteo touched her hand behind the counter, warmth spread back through it, and she closed her fingers around his.

When the bloggers left the shop just after three, and things fell quiet again, Carolina arrived back with Bella. She was carrying a new ball – blue with silver stars – and she and Carolina were bouncing it along the floor as they walked.

‘You two look like you’ve been having fun,’ Anna said.

‘We have been. We went around the local shops and Bella learned how to say “
grazie
”. Didn’t you, sweetie?’

Bella looked up at them, confused.

‘You’ll have to take my word for it,’ Carolina said. ‘So, how did it go here?’

‘Really well, actually,’ Anna said. ‘We seemed to get quite a lot of interest.’

‘It’s always worth doing these things – ensure that the word spreads. Although you do seem to have been getting plenty of attention already.’

‘Yes. How are you feeling, by the way?’ Anna whispered. Although she was fairly sure Matteo was out of earshot she didn’t want to take any chances.

‘Terrible,’ Carolina said quietly. ‘I thought the sickness was supposed to improve, but mine seems to have got worse. Bella’s been a great distraction, though.’

‘I’m glad. If it gets too much, though, you must let me know.’

‘Don’t worry. And I suppose in a way I ought to thank you. Up till now Mamma hasn’t stopped bugging me about when Filippo is coming down. Now she’s started obsessing about whether you’re going to stay here. She seems to have forgotten about Filippo altogether.’

‘She’s spoken with you about it?’ Anna said.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Anna. You know what she’s like when she gets an idea in her head. She’ll calm down, in time.’

‘I hope so. I respect your mother. I really do. I just need this to be our decision.’

‘Of course you do. And it should be. Mamma just can’t resist making everything her business. You see why I’ve kept quiet about my own life? How do you think she’s going to react when she finds out I’m breaking up with one of the richest men in our region – and about to become a single mother, too?’

‘I wish I could help,’ Anna said.

‘You already have, just by listening. It’s my problem,’ Carolina said.

‘There is one thing I can offer you. It won’t fix this – but it might make you feel better. My tried-and-tested morning-sickness solution – lemon-and-ginger sorbet. Light as air. Curative properties almost guaranteed.’

Slowly, Carolina began to smile. ‘I thought I couldn’t eat anything right now. But that sounds irresistibly good.’

Chapter 35

At the Elderberry Guesthouse, Imogen unpacked her clothes and hung them in the small wardrobe in one of the guestrooms. When she’d arrived earlier that evening, her uncle Martin had welcomed her in, no questions asked, seeming to understand that she needed a quiet place to be.

On the way over, her nerves had felt raw and frayed after the conversation with Finn, but now she drew some comfort from the surroundings – her grandmother’s house would always be a haven. It had the power to transport her back to a time when she’d felt nothing bad could or would ever happen, a childhood mostly spent in tears of laughter with her sister and parents, building dens and making potions – mixing things sweet and grimly chemical that they found around the house, pretending to be magicians. Life had been simpler then.

A knock at her door jolted her out of her memories. Uncle Martin smiled apologetically. ‘Your parents are here,’ he said.

‘What? Why?’ she said.

‘They just popped in. But, when I mentioned to your mum you were here, she was quite insistent.’

‘OK. Don’t worry, I’ll come down.’

Imogen followed her uncle down the stairs, her heart heavy. She didn’t really want to talk to anyone, let alone her mother.

‘Oh, Imogen,’ Jan said. She was sitting on the sofa in the living room, a cup of tea in her hand. ‘Have you left Finn?’

‘Something like that,’ Imogen said, taking a seat.

‘What a mess,’ Jan said.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, flatly. ‘That helps.’

‘Well, it’s just that the two of you were such a good match. I don’t really understand how all of this has happened. It was only a couple of weeks ago that your dad was helping him make the darkroom for you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen said, turning to her dad, the thought of his work on the darkroom making her feel worse than she already did.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Tom said. ‘Not for a second. It doesn’t matter. We just want to know that you’re OK.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Imogen said. ‘I think.’

‘You sure you wouldn’t like to come back home? Just for a little while?’ her mum asked.

‘No. Definitely not. Sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

Imogen went up to her room, feeling even more deflated. She loved her parents, and knew she was lucky to be close to them, but at times like these she wished that they could stay out of things. When they tried to rescue her like that, it just made her feel like a child.

Up on the top floor, she saw that Clarissa’s door was open, and she was sitting on her bed with a book.

On impulse, Imogen went to her own room to pick up the bottle of Limoncello that she’d bought in duty-free. She went back to Clarissa’s room and knocked on her door gently.

‘Sorry to disturb you. Don’t suppose you’d like to help me with this?’ Imogen asked.

She’d expected a polite no, and to spend the evening drowning her sorrows alone, but, instead, Clarissa’s face brightened. ‘Yes. I would like that. Come in.’

Imogen took a seat on the red-velvet armchair near the bed, and cracked open the bottle, pouring two small glasses. She handed one to Clarissa and downed the other herself.

‘Like that, is it?’ Clarissa asked, kindly.

‘A bit. I think me and my boyfriend have just broken up,’ Imogen said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Clarissa said, sympathetically. ‘That must be hard.’

‘It’s my fault. I was an idiot.’

‘You still love him?’

‘Yes,’ Imogen said. The emotions that she’d been working so hard to suppress started to rise to the surface, and her bottom lip trembled.

‘Well, then, there’s hope, isn’t there?’ Clarissa’s green eyes seemed softer then. ‘If something’s worth having, it’s worth fighting for.’

‘Yes,’ Imogen said. ‘But I don’t know how I can expect him to forgive me. I don’t think
I
can forgive me. And my mum’s already driving me mad, asking about it . . .’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t thinking. I know I’m lucky to have her.’

Clarissa brought the book she’d been holding back into her lap. Imogen saw that it wasn’t a hardback but a linen-bound journal, with a satin ribbon keeping her place. ‘It’s been years since my mother died,’ she said. ‘And I feel like I’m only just getting to know her.’

Imogen resisted her usual urge to fill the silence. Instead, she waited for Clarissa to go on.

Clarissa’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘My stepfather had this all those years, but he only gave it to me just before he died. My mother’s diary,’ she explained. ‘From the time before I was born, and after.’

‘Wow,’ Imogen said. Her problems seemed to shrink in significance.

‘I’m not angry with him. I know he thought about it a lot, what was the right thing to do. Mum didn’t throw the diary out, but she didn’t leave it for me to find, either. She’d left it somewhere she knew
he
would find it.’

‘It must have been a difficult decision for him.’

‘It was. I know you must think I’m mad. Still here, barely going out. But in a way it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to Mum. I’m seeing part of her life that she never told anyone about.’

Imogen looked at her, confused.

‘And now here I am, talking in riddles,’ Clarissa said, with a wry laugh. ‘Sorry.’

‘What does it say in there?’ Imogen asked, motioning to the diary.

‘A lot of things I didn’t know. I’ve read it already, of course. But there’s only so much I can take in at one time. I go back to it, try and make sense of it little by little.’

‘She stayed here, didn’t she?’ Imogen said.

‘Yes. Mum – Emma, that was her name – she grew up in Brighton, with her parents and her brother. When she was a teenager, she’d go into Sunset 99s with her friends, get a drink or an ice lolly when school was out. That was the part she always told me. But in here’ – she touched the diary gently – ‘is the other part.’

Clarissa took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Then Mum started going there on her own, during school hours. She was only sixteen, so your grandmother felt bound to ask her what was wrong, why she wasn’t in classes. Mum told her she’d left school. She was pregnant, with me.’

‘Oh dear,’ Imogen said. ‘That can’t have been easy.’

‘It wasn’t. She’d been up to London with a neighbour, a married man. She’d told her parents she was staying with a girlfriend that night. Anyway, he’d promised to take her to a show – she’d always loved musicals – and she couldn’t resist. But when they were there he took her to a hotel instead. She hadn’t been willing, not at all, by the sounds of things. But when she got home she couldn’t tell anyone what had happened, because of the lies she’d told. When she couldn’t hide the pregnancy any longer, her parents got the name out of her. They accused her of trying to break up his family, that they couldn’t understand how she could do it. She felt she had no choice but to leave.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘Her parents gave her some money, and she stayed in a hostel in Hove. But it was squalid, and, the closer she got to the baby arriving, the more anxious she got. Then your grandmother saw her one night, going in there. She insisted Emma came back with her. She came back here, to Elderberry Avenue. Even though your grandparents had their own young family – your dad and uncle – they made space for her. A fortnight later, I was born.’

Imogen took in the story – it still didn’t seem quite real. And yet it did. It was just the kind of thing she could imagine her grandmother doing.

‘My mum stayed here for three months, until the two of us were stronger.’

‘That’s why Dad . . .’ Imogen said.

‘I think he saw something of my mother in me, when he came round. We looked very alike. He would have been a boy then, but it must have made a mark on him, having us there.

‘Anyway, the time came for Mum to move on, so Vivien helped set her up in a flat in Hastings, and put in a good word for her with a couple of local businesses. She ended up working in one of the shops. But it clearly stayed with her – this place, the kindness your grandmother showed her.’

‘I can see why you wanted to come.’

‘Yes. And maybe now you can see how sorry I am that I was too late. But it’s not been a wasted journey. It’s been wonderful just being here, in these four walls. Where she was, back then.’

‘It’s sad, though. That you didn’t get to meet. She would have loved to meet you,’ Imogen said. Her heart felt heavy from the story she’d heard.

‘Sometimes life brings you to a dead end,’ Clarissa said. ‘You have to turn back around. I’m just stopping here for a little while first.’

Imogen refilled Clarissa’s glass, and poured herself another shot. As she drank the sweet yellow liquid, sipping it this time, she thought of something. The diaries Anna used to keep when she was younger. Imogen would sneak a look from time to time, only to be disappointed by the noted-down recipes and snippets of conversations with friends and teachers, very little in the way of romantic gossip at all. She remembered, on the inside front cover, in black biro, the name of the cottage in Hove where they’d lived.

‘Could I take a look?’ Imogen ventured, pointing to the book. ‘I won’t read it, I just want to check something.’

Cautiously, Clarissa passed her the diary.

Imogen opened the cover, and there on the marbled end paper was a white space, with writing on it. It had been scratched over in pen until what had originally been there was barely legible. But she could just make it out – 61 Washington Street. She knew it – a friend of hers had lived there once – an ordinary street, a road of small, terraced Georgian houses, in a residential area not far from the Brighton Pavilion.