Page 74 of Old Girls on Deck
‘So, what happens next?’ she said, fiddling with her cutlery, picking up another piece of bread and putting it down untasted.
I hid a knowing smile. Despite all her denials over the past few days, I still knew my sister well enough to recognise the slightly breathy, anxious tone in her voice. I’d heard it many times before at school discos, weekends spent lolling on our beds reading Jackie magazine and discussing some spotty youth or other. There was no doubt in my mind, she definitely fancied him. Did it matter that she was no longer a teenager with all the hang-ups and insecurities that go with it? It seemed not. After sixty years of sisterhood and friendship, eventually she would always reveal what she was thinking, and I just needed to give her the space and time to do so.
No mask can be worn forever and perhaps at my age I had at last learned some patience. I don’t think I had realised before what a powerful tool that can be.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Evelyn said happily, ‘these things have a way of working out. I remember once a girlfriend and I were stranded in Cairo. There was a man from our hotel who had taken quite a shine to me, and it was terribly romantic. Telling me I was his goddess, that he couldn’t live without me. There were stars above the pyramids in an endless sky…’
She stopped and shook her head, a little smile playing across her face.
‘So, what happened?’ I asked when the suspense got too much.
‘Oh nothing, I just laughed and my friend and I just started walking and I suppose the man realised how ridiculous the whole thing was. The next thing, we were back in the hotel and I was perched on my favourite bar stool with a gin sling. Anyway, I think our chef is bringing yet more food. I really shouldn’t have eaten so much bread.’
Maddalena came out of the kitchen again, banging open the door with her bottom, and depositing a platter of bruschettas on the table between us. A feat which required a lot of things to be moved out of the way first. Diana sat, holding the salt and pepper grinders in one hand and her wine glass in the other, until Raphaël came to her rescue and put them on a nearby table.
‘These look delicious, although I don’t think I really need any more carbohydrates,’ Evelyn murmured.
We looked up to see Maddalena watching us from a small crack in the door, and unwilling to offend her, we tucked in.
Ten minutes later, just as we were sitting back in our chairs and congratulating each other on finding such a delicious meal and wondering again where Genova had got to, a big pot of something was brought out and deposited on top of the empty platter, before Maddalena whisked off the lid with a flourish.
‘Pollo all’Arrabiata,’ she said, allowing herself a brief look of pride, before standing at the side of the table, hands on her hips, watching for our reaction. ‘Mangia adesso prima che facia freddo!’
‘She wants you to eat up, before it gets cold,’ Raphaël murmured.
Emmanuel crept forward. ‘Her favourite,’ he said, ‘you would call it angry chicken, she does it very well. Spicy.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ Evelyn whispered. ‘I’m absolutely full up.’
‘Thank heavens it’s not pasta,’ Diana said, ‘my carbohydrate levels are already at bursting point. I’m going to be so fat when I get home.’
‘Nonsense, madame,’ Raphaël said gallantly, ‘you are parfait. Perfect. This is good Italian cooking, fresh peppers, herbs, and chicken braised in wine. There is nothing fattening about that.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Diana said, and helped herself to some.
It really was delicious, and we were there, eating and chatting away for about two hours while customers came and went, and the night outside grew even darker.
‘That’s it,’ Evelyn said putting down her cutlery and trying to hide the remnants of her meal under a spoon, ‘I can’t eat another thing.’
Emmanuel cleared away our plates and brought us another carafe of red wine.
He shook his head. ‘No one leaves without fritole,’ he said firmly.
We sat, loosening our belts wondering what he meant.
Seconds later Maddalena came out of the kitchen with yet another platter, and I think we all stifled a whimper.
‘Fritole,’ she said, and glared around the table, daring us not to eat them, ‘fritole di mia nonna.’
‘Her grandmother’s recipe,’ Raphaël explained.
They were small, deep-fried fritters flavoured with apple and oranges and covered in powdered sugar. They looked about a thousand calories apiece.
‘I don’t suppose Genova is here, is she?’ Diana said hopefully, glancing towards the door.
Raphaël went outside to phone her yet again and returned a few moments later.
‘She says she will be with us soon.’