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Chapter Eight
Icouldn’t find her anywhere. I’d tried Google and searched on social media, but nothing came up.
Now more than ever, I’d realised how important it was for me to take proper lessons, so I needed to know who I was dealing with first. Do my thorough checks to find out what her credentials were. I couldn’t afford to waste any time. I had to get up to speed as quickly as possible.
The language barrier definitely made everything harder. It was at times like this morning that I wished I was back home. I could have sorted Leo out in seconds if all I had to do was speak English. Plus in London I had friends. Family. A doctor who understood me. Everything was so much easier. But London didn’t have Lorenzo. And I didn’t want to be without him again.
Once I’d got back from my first trip to Chiorno after my birthday last year, Lorenzo and I had done the long-distance thing. He’d try and fly over for two or three days a month, so we’d never spent more than a few weeks apart.
We’d decided early on that I would have the baby in London. I’d felt more comfortable having the familiarity of my midwife, a hospital I knew and my mum close by.
Lorenzo had wanted to be there for the birth. So a week before I was due, he’d quit his job as a chef at Taste Holidays and come to live with me in London.
It had been great to share those special moments with him, like taking Leo home from the hospital for the first time, feeding and bathing him. You know, to give us both the chance to bond. And let’s get real. I also needed Lorenzo there to change nappies and take over when I was too tired to keep my eyes open. Mum and Dad popped over regularly to help out too, which was a godsend.
In mid-October, when Leo was six weeks old, Lorenzo had gone back to start a modest chef job he’d secured in the restaurant in town. We both knew that with his experience, he could do much better. He’d been head chef at some of the top restaurants in Florence and any one of them would have welcomed him back with open arms. But working in the city would mean more time travelling back and forth, longer hours and more stress. And Lorenzo had insisted that being closer to me and Leo was more important.
I’d followed Lorenzo a couple of weeks later at the beginning of November, excited to start what I thought would be my idyllic new life in Italy with the man I loved and our little boy. And the rest, as they say, was history.
I crept into the bedroom to check on Leo. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours and looked so peaceful. Such a contrast to how distraught he had been earlier. But hopefully he was on the mend now. Today only highlighted the importance of protecting him.
I was tempted to pick him up for a cuddle. He was so fragile. So precious. And so beautiful, with his thick mass of dark curly hair. It was still hard to tell who Leo resembled the most. I felt like he changed every day. Lorenzo was convinced he had his dark eyes, but actually, I thought they were quite similar to mine. There wasn’t much in it, I supposed. I could definitely see both of us in him, though. I had seen his resemblance to Lorenzo the moment he was born. I just knew.
After breaking up with Charlie, who I’d dated for a few months, and then hooking up with Lorenzo shortly afterwards when he’d unexpectedly come to work in London, there had been a question mark hanging over who the father could be. I know, right? Sounded like something from a soap opera or theJerry Springer Show.What can I say…?
Anyway, originally, when I was pregnant I’d said I wanted to know, but then when Leo had been born I’d changed my mind and decided not to bother doing the paternity test thing. Lorenzo had said that either way, he’d raise Leo as his own. But after some pressure from Charlie, who was desperate for a son and an heir to his family empire (he was loaded), Lorenzo and I had discussed it and decided to go ahead. To get confirmation and Charlie off our backs.
Somehow, though, during the time we had to wait for the results, I hadn’t been nervous. I’d justsensedthat he was the father. And thankfully I’d been right. Leonardo Rossi-Huntingdon was Lorenzo’s biological son.
Leo began to stir a little. He might wake up soon, so I had to get on with calling this Italian teacher. I went back to the living room and picked up my phone. I didn’t have time to search online anymore. I just had to call her and get info the old-fashioned way.
I launched WhatsApp and scrolled through Lorenzo’s messages to find the number.There we go. It started ringing.
‘Pronto.’
‘Ciao…is this Angelica?’
‘Sì.’
‘Bene. Good. I’m calling to find out about your Italian lessons. I couldn’t seem to find your website—’
‘Website?’ Angelica let out a raucous laugh. I wasn’t sure exactly what was so funny… ‘Not my style. First lesson starts tomorrow. Six p.m.’
‘Tomorrow?’ I repeated. That didn’t give me much time to ask Marta.
‘We will meet at Casini. You know it?’
‘Is that the bar near the supermarket?’ I shuddered, remembering my nightmare visit there a few days ago.
‘Sì.’
‘Well, then, yes. I know it.’
‘See you then.’
‘Wait!’ I needed to know a lot more about her and the lessons before I agreed. ‘I have some questions to ask you first…’
‘You want to know the cost?’
