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Chapter One
Coco?
Notto de coco?
No. That’s not right. What on earth was coconut—or rather,desiccated coconut—in Italian?
I was in the cramped aisle of the local supermarket, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember.
Anyway, I didn’t have time to stand here guessing. There was only two and a half hours before Marta, aka the mother-in-law from hell, would be round for dinner. Which meant that somehow I needed to whip up a restaurant-standard dessert and clean the house before she arrived and no doubt started criticising everything.
The only dessert I knew was fail-safe was my mum’s apple crumble. I’d made it a couple of times before, and as long as I followed everything to the letter, it wasguaranteedto taste delicious. But, I repeat, onlyifI followed the recipe precisely. No deviations or omissions allowed.
I had the flour, butter, sugar and apples. Miraculously, I’d even managed to track down some cinnamon—orcannellaas I’d just discovered it was called. But the one thing I couldn’t seem to find was the coconut and Ineeded it.Coconut was the secret ingredient my mum added to give it extra flavour. Sweetness. It took the dish from ordinary toextraordinary. And after my last disastrous attempt at cooking for Marta, I needed a miracle. Ihadto show her that I wasn’t completely useless in the kitchen. The crumblehadto be perfect.
Jesus. That sounded so bloody antiquated. Never did I think I’d be scrambling around a supermarket, desperate to find an ingredient so I could ‘prove my domestic worth’. I thought we’d moved on from the Dark Ages and stereotypical traditional roles. But food was important to Lorenzo’s mother and his mother was important to him. So as much as it grated on me, I was determined to make a good impression. I would win her over. Show her that Brits didn’t just eat fish and chips and drink tea. We could cook up a storm in the kitchen too. Tonight’s dessert was critical. Not just for the culinary reputation of the United Kingdom, but for my relationship with my mother-in-law. Ihadto find the coconut.
Sod it.I’d tried to remember the Italian, but I couldn’t, so I’d just have to ask my new best friend and all-round lifesaver, Google Translate, what the magic words were and then little Leo and I would be on our way.
I unzipped my bag and reached in for my phone.
No, no, no…
Not again.
I put the basket on the floor and rooted through my bag frantically.
I vaguely remember taking my mobile out to answer a call just before we left…and…oh yes. Then Leo started screaming and I put it on the table so I could pick him up.
Dammit.
This forgetting-my-phone thing was becoming a habit. There had been too much going on in my head lately.
Don’t worry. Keep calm.
Lorenzo did the food shopping, so I hadn’t been to this store before, but perhaps someone would speak English.
Fat chance.
Ever since I’d arrived here in Chiorno, a small town in Tuscany three months ago, I could count on one hand the number of people I’d met whoparla inglese, so I wasn’t holding out much hope.Still, it was worth a shot.
I picked up the basket and approached a cashier who was unpacking a box at the till.
Here goes nothing.
‘Scusi, per favore…dov’è …dov’è …coco…de…notto de coco?Coco de notto poco?’
Christ.
The moment the jumble of words fell from my mouth, evenIcould tell they weren’t right.
I’d hoped that adding the wordlittleat the end might convey that I needed the coconut to be desiccated, but something told me it hadn’t made a blind bit of difference.
The lady glared at me like I was a five-legged purple alien who’d just landed from the moon. Then she started speaking at a hundred miles an hour, waving her hands in the air. I didn’t have a clue what she was saying, but something along the lines ofstupid English ladywas probably accurate.
Two other women in their late fifties joined her and started talking loudly. Suddenly they began sneering, holding their noses and making choking sounds.
Then the smell hit me.
