The Prodigal Daughter

by Prue Leith

Genres: Sagas; Family Life

Synopsis

After growing up in her family's restaurant business, Angelica Angelotti wants to strike out on her own, so she moves to Paris to learn French cuisine. Angelica's career blossoms, but when her marriage fails her parents' concerns are proved painfully right. Moving back to run the inn on her family's estate in Gloucestershire may feel like failure, but little does Angelica know that what awaits her there is the greatest challenge of her life - and a second chance at love.

Release date: September 15, 2016

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter One

Laura was aghast. Plastic vines and raffia-covered Chianti bottles fixed to garden trellis covered the walls of the restaurant’s bar. More vines snaked through trellis on the ceiling, and fake grapes hung thickly overhead. Mario, at the top of a ladder, fixing the last bunch, saw her. ‘Porca vacca, Laura, I wanted to finish it before you came. As a surprise.’ He jumped off the ladder, his handsome face wearing a grin.

‘What on earth are you doing, Mario? Don’t you understand anything? Why would I want plastic rubbish all over the bar?’

Her nephew’s face fell. ‘But it looked so bare, so cold!’

‘We have the best restaurant designer in the business, and you want his clean white walls to look like every mamma-and-papa Italian joint in London?’

‘I just thought—’

‘You thought? Mario, one thing you don’t do is think.’ She took a deep breath, made an effort to drop her voice to somewhere near normal. ‘I’m sorry, Mario, but you must get rid of it. All of it. Now.’

She turned to leave. Mario made to follow her. ‘But, Laura—’

‘No buts, Mario. Please. Just do it. And if there are any holes in the wall, or marks on the ceiling, they’d better be fixed by lunchtime.’

Laura walked out of the bar and stood in the passage, trying to regain her equilibrium. Mario drove her mad. He always had. Ever since he’d arrived at the age of eleven with his mother and brother, Silvano, from Abruzzo, he’d been a liability – thoughtless, over-confident and getting into trouble, then sliding out of it with charm, flattery and, often, the help of big brother Silvano.

How different those two are, she thought. Her husband Giovanni’s nephews had always been chalk and cheese. Silvano was studious, quiet and sensible, the opposite of his feckless father, who had abandoned the family. Now twenty-six, Silvano was the head accountant for the family’s ice-cream business, the Calzone cafés and the new Giovanni’s restaurant. Mario was full of ideas but his enthusiasms faded fast. If she could, she’d employ only Silvano, but Giovanni, with typical Italian loyalty to his family, had insisted Mario be given a job. Giovanni’s sister, Carlotta, had refused point-blank to have her son in her kitchen and eventually Laura had agreed that he could man the bar, a decision she regretted already.

Still, Laura thought, she shouldn’t have been so rude. He was only trying to help. He thought of himself as artistic and imaginative – he’d have been hurt by what she’d said.

Really, she could have done without this. Tonight was the official opening of Giovanni’s, and she was only just holding at bay the panicky thought that they’d never be ready. She continued her tour of inspection. In the first dining room she found her husband surrounded by upturned tables to which he was attaching the legs and castors. ‘They were supposed to come assembled,’ he said.

‘God, darling, how long will that take? I’ve got the waiters coming in to lay up at twelve.’

‘Silvano’s asking a few to come in early to help. We’ve got the other dining room to do as well, and we still have to unpack the china and cutlery.’

Silvano walked in. ‘Hello, Laura,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks, ‘The big day!’ Then to Giovanni: ‘Three of the waiters are on the way. It’ll be fine.’

‘Silvano, darling, I’m afraid I’ve just been very unkind to your brother. He got it into his head to improve on the bar décor and I shouted at him.’

‘Don’t worry, Laura. If he’s upset, he’ll soon get over it. I’ll go and see him.’

Reassured, she went through to the cool pastry kitchen to find Carlotta surrounded by pasta drying on racks stacked six deep. Now she was making pistachio ice cream.

‘Here, Laura, try it. This new machine is a wonder. It works so quickly – and the ice cream tastes like my mother used to make in a bucket! We had to put salt and ice round the sides and turn the handle for hours.’

Laura scooped up a teaspoonful of the pale-green mixture and popped it into her mouth. ‘Carlotta . . . you’ve excelled yourself. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.’ She ate another spoonful. ‘Is everything on track?’

‘The desserts and pastas will be ready. And the focaccia is in the oven. Not sure how the boys are doing, though. There’s a lot of swearing coming from in there.’

Laura left her and went into the main kitchen. The chefs looked organized enough. They shouted a lot, but they knew what they were doing. At the big double sink two lads were scrubbing mussels and behind them the fish chef was cleaning squid. At the larder end another boy was coating thin slices of cooked veal loin in tuna mayonnaise for vitello tonnato. Such an odd dish, she thought, fish with veal, but it had suddenly become fashionable and was their most popular takeaway dish.

The head chef, Dino, was tipping a bag of charcoal into the well of the grill. ‘Signora, look,’ he said, indicating a sack beside him. ‘We have vine prunings from a vineyard in Somerset. I’m going to cook the veal chops on them, like in Italy.’

‘How on earth did you find them? We don’t deal with English winemakers.’

‘Luca, the new commis, he was picking down there during the vendemmia and they had a huge pile they were going to burn so he rang me to ask if we wanted any. He chopped off all the thicker wood and stuffed it into the back of his van. The English! They haven’t a clue!’

The enthusiasm of the cooks, the quality of the produce, and the air of anticipation were exciting. Laura went into the big cold room where she found the dishes for the first course – tiny stuffed peppers, grilled Mediterranean vegetables, sliced mozzarella with chopped rosemary and olive oil, aubergine with cheese, avocado and prawn terrine, seafood salad, finely sliced prosciutto and salamis, real Italian mortadella. The simple Italian antipasti would look so enticing, so beautiful on the trolley.

At first Giovanni had objected: ‘We don’t want an hors d’oeuvre trolley! So old-fashioned!’

‘But ours isn’t going to be like that. We’ll serve food like you get in summer in Abruzzo. Like you and Carlotta make at home. Nothing English, nothing from a tin. Our dishes will be fresh and irresistible! You’ll see.’

Now, looking at glistening peperonata and shiny black olives, Laura had a sudden memory of Giovanni starting out in the fish-and-chip shop in Billingsgate. He’d had no real kitchen, just a bank of deep-fryers behind the counter. They’d come a long way since then.

Even now, twenty years on, thinking of those early days could unsettle her. It had been a classic war-time story. She’d fallen in love with Giovanni, who had embodied everything her father didn’t want in a son-in-law: a penniless Italian ex-prisoner of war, a lowly cook, who had made his precious daughter pregnant.

Laura shook her head in an attempt to dislodge thoughts of that baby, given up for adoption. With an effort she forced them into the part of her brain that she could ignore. She had to concentrate on their successes. The fish-and-chip shop had become a warm and delightful Italian café. Others had followed, as had market stalls, the Calzone coffee shops, two Deli-Calzones selling Italian groceries, and now the restaurant, Giovanni’s.

It was called Giovanni’s but it had been her vision. She had been the one who believed that the public would patronize a top-class Italian restaurant as they did the French haute-cuisine establishments, like Le Caprice or the Coq d’Or.

Satisfied with what she had seen in the cold room, she went back into the kitchen. There, she was struck once more by the expanse of stainless-steel benches, the charcoal grill, the huge Falcon range, the rack of copper pans – and a shaft of anxiety: they had sunk so much money into Giovanni’s, hiring the best designer, stocking the cellar with the finest Italian wines, buying quality equipment and employing experienced staff. What if it didn’t work? But the orderly bustle cheered her and the unease passed.

In Reception she glanced through the bookings register. Most of the tables were reserved for family, friends and the press. Forty-five altogether. They could take another twenty but, thought Laura, it would be no bad thing today if they weren’t full – less strain on waiters and kitchen staff.

Angelica, Laura’s daughter, was sticking numbers to the coat hangers in the cloakroom. ‘Darling, have you got the tags to give the guests?’ Laura asked.

Angelica reached under the counter and produced a box of metal discs embossed with numbers on one side and ‘Giovanni’s’ on the other, stacked in numerical order. She asked, ‘Mamma, why do they have to be so big and heavy? They must have cost a fortune. Wouldn’t a card have done?’

‘No, because the guests lose anything like that in their handbags or pockets and we have to give them a coat or bag with no proof it’s theirs. Big ones cut down the risk.’

‘Groovy.’

Laura smiled. Angelica wasn’t always so agreeable: a lot of the time she was downright bolshy. Still, she’d been the same herself when she was seventeen.

‘Mamma, why can’t I be in the kitchen? You know I’d rather.’

‘Because we need you on Reception, darling.’ She touched her daughter’s cheek. ‘You’ll be the first thing the guests see as they come in. Tonight you’ll look gorgeous and give them your famous smile, because then you’ll get more tips.’

Angelica brightened, as Laura had known she would. Her daughter loved miniskirts, knee-high Biba boots and her Mary Quant haircut: she’d make sure she looked good.

Next stop on the inspection tour was the Ladies. Inside Laura stopped dead in front of the wall facing her, which was covered with framed photographs of famous people, most of which were signed: John Gielgud, Joan Collins, Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, the Beatles, Lulu, John Betjeman, Princess Margaret . . . She turned on her heel and dashed into the Gents across the corridor. Sure enough, there were more photographs: David Niven, Julie Christie, Muhammad Ali, Peter Finch, Peter O’Toole, Twiggy, Oliver Reed . . .

She tried to think. Terence, the designer, would never have bought them. The pictures suggested that all these people ate at Giovanni’s, which was clearly impossible. And why hadn’t she been consulted?

The penny dropped.

Mario.

She stalked back into the bar. Mario was filling the holes that his vine-and-trellis arrangement had made in the ceiling.

‘Mario, the lavatories – those photographs. That was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Sure. Don’t say you don’t like them either? They’re wonderful. Everyone will love them.’

‘But they’re a fraud! You’re telling customers that these people eat at Giovanni’s and we aren’t even open!’

‘We’re not saying they eat here. Sure, people might think they eat at other Angelotti places, and I didn’t write, “What a lovely restaurant” or “Thank you for a perfect meal,” just their names.’

‘You forged the signatures?’

‘I had to—’

‘Mario! What if Lulu or John Gielgud or, God forbid, Princess Margaret comes in and—’

‘They’ll be flattered. And we can say we bought them ready-signed.’

He hasn’t an honest bone in his body, thought Laura. She took a deep breath. ‘Has Terence seen them?’

‘Not as far as I know. But he’ll like them, I’m sure.’

‘I’m sure he won’t. And I don’t like them, which is more to the point. How did you pay for them? They look expensive – proper prints, good frames.’

‘They came from that Celebrity Souvenirs shop in Soho. The bill is coming to the restaurant.’

Laura shut her eyes briefly while she took control of herself. Then she went to find her husband.

Giovanni persuaded her to leave the photographs – there was no doubt that the customers would love them. He’d talk to Mario, make it clear that any more such interventions would mean his dismissal. Then he took her shoulders and kissed her. ‘And, my darling Laura, we have more important things to get through before tonight.’

*

As Laura predicted, Angelica charmed the arrivals, who loved the clean modern décor, the quirky tractor seats on the bar stools, the informal country flowers, the back-lit wine racks and the deep turquoise carpet on the ceiling, studded with spotlights directed to the tables. It was far removed from the usual Italian restaurant, just as she’d meant it to be.

The biggest table, a long oval in the window recess, was reserved for the family. During dinner only eight people occupied it, with space for the working Angelottis to join them later. The restaurant’s backers, George and Grace, the Earl and Countess of Frampton, were there with Grace’s twenty-seven year-old daughter Jane, expensively dressed but with her usual

discontented expression. Laura’s older brother, David, and his wife, Sophie, had come up from the Cotswolds, with their fifteen-year-old twins, Richard and Hal, and David and Laura’s mother, Maud, as energetic as ever in her late seventies. This being the English side of the extended family, the atmosphere was decorous until a few bottles of Sangiovese had been drunk.

The other dozen or so tables varied from those for two in discreet corners to round six-seaters in the middle of the room, the majority seating three or four.

Laura talked to her customers, trying to distinguish between British reluctance to complain and genuine satisfaction. It particularly pleased her that the guests clearly enjoyed the first and last cold courses, wheeled to the tables on huge trolleys, and that they approved of their innovative (and, in Giovanni’s opinion, mad) pricing policy. Laura had reckoned it was not so much the dishes people ordered that should determine what they paid but the fact that they were occupying a seat. If someone sat all evening with a salad and a glass of water, it was, she reckoned, costing her lost income from a heartier appetite. To make things fair for the customer, and profitable for her, she decided on a fixed price, to cover whatever was eaten, with no added extras other than drinks : no cover charge, no supplements, and with service included.

‘Laura,’ Giovanni had protested, ‘that could bankrupt us. We’ll attract only the greedy who will eat, say, a great plateful of antipasti, then lobster risotto, then a fillet steak with truffles, then a huge selection of cold puddings and a hot soufflé, followed by a great plate of cheeses, then start all over again.’

‘Darling, our customers are not going to eat like that! The men will have probably had a business lunch and won’t even be hungry and women don’t eat like horses. They’ll want exquisite food, not mountains of it. I just want to take some of the angst out of choosing. Yes, a few young men will overdo it, but most customers, I bet, will eat two, maybe three courses.’

The price was two pounds eight shillings, all in. And she calculated that wine and other drinks would bring the bill per person to about four pounds ten shillings – more expensive than any other Italian restaurant and almost matching the top-end French ones.

When Laura flopped down between Jane and David at the family table, her face was flushed with pleasure at the effusive compliments all of the customers had uttered. Now she basked in George and Grace’s congratulations – Grace was raving about her Lobster Thermidor ‘You’ve really pulled it off, little sis,’ David said, hugging her. ‘Smart décor, smart food, smart staff and smart customers. It’s wonderful. Don’t you think so, Sophie?’

‘Of course I do. Laura, darling, I thought being a GP, a mum and farmer’s wife was tough – but look at what you’ve managed! I’m bowled over.’

Laura laughed. ‘Good! Always wanted to impress my oldest friend.’ She turned to Jane. ‘What do you think, Jane? Did you have a good dinner? What did you eat?’

‘I had the avocado salad from the trolley, then the grilled squid. Both delicious, Aunt Laura.’

‘No pudding?’

‘I don’t eat pudding.’ But she was smiling for once and Laura smiled back.

The best moment of the evening came at two in the morning when, after helping the staff with the clear-up and having a congratulatory drink with them in the bar, she walked between her husband and daughter to their car. Giovanni said, ‘Angelica, aren’t you proud of your mamma?’

Angelica put an arm round her mother’s waist. ‘I am,’ she said, ‘and one day, Mamma, I’m going to be as good a restaurateur as you, only I’ll be the cook, not the manager.’

Chapter Two

Sophie never ceased to be amazed by her mother-in-law. Maud had refused the offer of a taxi from Giovanni’s: ‘I’ve been sitting all day and I’ll never sleep if I don’t stretch my legs a bit.’ She and David each took one of the old lady’s arms and the three set off down Westbourne Grove.

‘Aren’t Hal and Richard coming with us? asked Maud.

‘They’ve gone dancing,’ said Sophie.

‘Jigging about to records,’ explained David. ‘Hal fancies himself as a disc jockey.’

After ten minutes Sophie thought Maud was getting tired, which she’d never admit to. She suggested a taxi and David promptly hailed one.

As they sat down, Sophie said, ‘We could stay in town for an extra day, couldn’t we, David? You’d like that, Maud, wouldn’t you? We could go to a show, or an exhibition.’

‘Mm.’ David looked sideways at her. ‘Do I smell a shopping trip coming on?’

Sophie laughed. ‘He always sees through me, damn it.’

‘Out with it!’

‘It’s that dinner jacket. You’ve been wearing it for twenty years at least and I dare say your father wore it for twenty years before that.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked David, fingering the lapel. ‘I’m rather proud of the fact that it still fits me.’

‘But the trousers are shiny and the jacket’s going brown at the edges.’

‘What do you think, Mum?’

‘Well,’ said Maud, ‘a modern one would be lighter and more comfortable.’ She patted his arm. ‘And you might make less fuss when you have to wear it.’

‘I don’t remember ever seeing Dad in it, though I must have. He used to wear his RAF uniform at a formal dinner, didn’t he, Mum?’

‘That was what he liked.’ Maud smiled at the memory. ‘And very handsome he looked in it, too.’

Sophie smiled to herself, thinking how true the cliché of time being a great healer was. She knew Maud had had a difficult time with her husband, but now she spoke of Donald with humour and love. And, she thought, David, now so content, had been devastated at his first wife’s death, had rejected the twins for almost a year. He’d been, she thought, close to suicide. And then he’d only married her because she’d be a mother for them. And yet, within a couple of years, he loved Hal and Richard more than life itself. And, she thought, he finally fell in love with me. And still is.

*

Silvano was sitting in Deli-Calzone, near the British Museum, drinking coffee. He’d been there for fifteen minutes and his brother was late. He made a conscious effort to banish his irritation. If he was to get his message across he must stay friendly and cool.

Suddenly Mario was breezing in, all smiles, no apology. Silvano signalled for two more coffees and Mario sat down, immediately swinging away from him to look at the shop’s counter, stuffed with Italian delicacies. Silvano followed his gaze. Behind the overloaded display cases were boxes of pannetoni, tied in Christmas ribbon, piled high. His mother had insisted they import them from Milan and try to persuade the English that they were better than mince pies or English Christmas cake.

He breathed in with pleasure. ‘Smells like the real thing, doesn’t it? Coffee, garlic, salami. Italy should give Laura a medal, don’t you think?’

‘And she’s not even Italian. Giovanni must have taught her well.’ He followed Mario’s gaze. ‘But this place only just breaks even. It makes half the sales of the King’s Road.’

Mario blew on his espresso. ‘So, brother, you didn’t get me out of bed to talk sales returns, I’m sure. What’s up?’

‘Actually, it’s Laura.’

‘What about her?’

‘I just want to warn you, bro. Lovely aunt that she is, Laura is a tough professional, and she’s a lioness when it comes to her babies. Both of them.’

‘Both of them?’

‘The new restaurant is her baby too.’ Silvano spoke gently. He didn’t want a Mario-outburst. ‘She’ll do whatever it takes to make Giovanni’s exactly as she wants it. And if you go in for any more DIY design, or reckon you can break her rules because you’re family, you’ll be out on your ear.’

‘I got that message last night.’ Mario laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do as instructed. Though she was so unkind about my beautiful vines in the bar. All those empty walls are so cold.’

‘They’re her walls. And now to her other cub, the beautiful Angelica.’

‘Well?’

‘If you value your job you’ll stop flirting with her. She’s only seventeen, much too young for you. But even if she was twenty-four, she’d still be the boss’s daughter and out of bounds.’

‘Oh, Silvano, it’s only a bit of fun and Laura doesn’t mind.’

‘That’s not the point. The point is, Angelica is young enough to take you seriously. She might get hurt.’ As he said this, Silvano suddenly realized it was true. Angelica might fall for the handsome Mario. The thought was uncomfortable and he pushed it away.

Mario might have read his mind. ‘Hah! You’re jealous, aren’t you? I’ve seen you looking at Angelica. Just because you haven’t asked her out, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. She’s pretty and good fun. Maybe I—’

‘Don’t you dare.’ With an effort Silvano kept his voice level. ‘I can promise you one thing. If any of us – and there’s a dozen young cooks and waiters drooling over her – makes a move, Laura will sack him.’

*

The next morning, Laura took her mother and Sophie to Deli-Calzone in the King’s Road for breakfast. She felt guilty about Maud: what with the business, Angelica becoming an increasing handful and Giovanni’s, she’d not been down to Chorlton for months. And it was only four years since her father had died. Maud never complained and was always cheerful so Laura had told herself that her mother was fine. Anyway, she lived at her beloved Chorlton with David, Sophie and the twins. But she was still suffering. When Maud thought she was alone, the sadness in her face told the truth.

Laura was proud of Deli-Calzone’s new Gaggia machine, and insisted her mother try a cappuccino rather than her usual tea. For herself she ordered an espresso, and they all plumped for scrambled eggs, mushrooms and crisply fried pancetta. All delicious.

‘You must try our English-Italian compromise, Mum. Carlotta is on a mission to convert the English to Italian bread and cake. But since our customers can’t do without toast and marmalade for breakfast all the Calzones serve toasted panettone with butter and marmalade.

‘Goodness darling, I can’t keep up with you and Giovanni.’ Maud looked at the logo on the menu. ‘What’s a Deli-Calzone? I thought they were all called Calzone. Is there a difference?’

‘Sure there is. The Calzones are straightforward Italian coffee shops. You know, like the first one in Billingsgate. Basically a coffee bar, but with table service and simple meals served all day. The Deli-Calzones are smarter. Similar menu, but open in the evenings, licensed – we sell a lot of Italian wine – and with a food shop at the front. Like here.’ She pointed towards the entrance, where the stacked breads and cakes, the chilled cabinets of takeaway dishes and cheese, the wine bottles, the hanging salamis and strings of garlic had already attracted a little queue of shoppers.

‘And how many are there? I lost count ages ago.’

‘We’ll open our fourteenth Calzone, in Dulwich, next month.”

They were soon talking about Giovanni’s and last night’s dinner again. ‘I’m so proud of you, darling,’ said Maud, ‘and your father would be too.’

‘I do so wish he’d been there. Even though he’s gone, I still want to please him. Last night, standing at the door watching customers streaming in, I was thinking, There you are, Dad! We aren’t useless. And Giovanni’s a wonderful husband. Childish, isn’t it?’

Her mother smiled, but sadly. ‘No, it’s natural. Donald misjudged Giovanni, and was very unkind to you. Of course you’d have liked the chance to prove him wrong. He was jealous, of course, and furious at losing his beloved daughter.’ She looked into Laura’s eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I miss him so much. He was so difficult – proud, intolerant – so wrong, and so maddeningly convinced he was right.’

‘He loved you, Mummy. Everyone needs someone who loves them more than anyone else. Dad knew you were the anchor in his life, even if he’d never have said it.’

Maud seemed cheered by that. ‘Strangely, he did say it – one day when the morphine was working and he was feeling better. It made the next few weeks more bearable for me.’

Her father’s lung cancer had spread to his bones and his breathing had become so laboured that Laura could hear its rasping sound as she’d climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Maud, drawn and pale, had hardly left his side. Once Laura had found her in Donald’s dressing room, sitting on the single bed there, weeping. She’d sat down beside her, put her arms around her and held her close, conscious of the reversal in their roles. Maud’s sniffling had become sobs.

‘I can’t bear it. He says I have to sleep in here. We’ve never slept apart, except when we quarrelled. I feel he’s banishing me when we need each other most.’ Laura had reached over and pulled one of Donald’s hankies out of the drawer. Maud had buried her face in it. ‘And he won’t talk to me. He just turns to the wall. He’s cutting me out.’

She’d said, ‘Maybe Daddy hasn’t the energy to cope with your grief as well as his pain.’

Now her mother went on, ‘For two years after he died, it just seemed that all the colour had gone out of my life. I felt so empty, purposeless. But now I find there are some advantages to widowhood.’ She smiled. ‘Donald was so demanding – I seemed to spend all my time trying to please him, reasoning with him or soothing people he’d upset. At least I don’t have that any more. And I don’t have to starch dress shirts till they’re stiff as a board. Or put up with crumbs in the bed.’

They both laughed.

*

Three nights later the restaurant was packed, the telephone ringing non-stop. There’d been a rave review in the Evening Standard and a less excited but still good one in The Times. For the sake of a new kitchen brigade still finding its feet, Laura had decided to limit the bookings to one sitting per table, which meant a maximum of about sixty-five covers, and to try to stagger the timings.

The kitchen was running smoothly: no customers were having to wait long, and Laura’s rule of no swearing or shouting seemed to be holding. She walked through the two dining rooms to the bar, a now familiar thrill running through her: her own restaurant, as she’d dreamed of it, full, relaxed, convivial.

She took the couple of steps down to the bar and was surprised to see the banquette and both bar tables jammed with people, two more waiting at the bar. Mario was mixing cocktails and Laura went up to him. ‘Mario, what are you doing?’ she asked quietly. ‘We can’t take these people. Every table is full.’

‘They know that, but they arrived on spec and they’re prepared to wait, so I thought, Why not?’

‘Because I said no to double booking tables.”

‘But the kitchen’s managing fine, isn’t it? You don’t want to turn down the business, do you?’

Laura had no option but to leave it. ‘We’ll talk later. Meanwhile make sure they know they might be in for a long wait.’

*

At ten o’clock when some diners were leaving, the head waiter Paolo came to collect a foursome from the bar. As they stood to follow him into the dining room, Laura saw one of the men slip Mario a folded note. So that’s his game, she thought. She’d already established her no-bribes-for-favours policy and that all tips were to go into the communal tronc.

Worse was to come. Back in the dining room, Paolo stopped her. ‘Signora, table twelve is refusing to pay. The young lady says she’s the daughter of the owner and she doesn’t have to pay. I didn’t like to tell her I knew she wasn’t your daughter. What must I do?’

It could only be Jane. Laura followed him and saw she was right. Jane, Grace’s daughter, was obviously tipsy. She waved and called loudly, ‘Hello, Auntie Laura. So glad you’re here. This fellow’ – she waved a hand to indicate Paolo – ‘seems to think I should pay for our dinner.’

‘And don’t you think you should?’ Laura kept her voice mild, but firm.

‘Of course not. owns this place. I know it’s called Giovanni’s, but who put up the money? Certainly not Giovanni.’ She turned to Paolo. ‘My father is the Earl of Frampton. Daddy owns this establishment. I’m not paying that bill.’

Laura was torn between laughter at Jane’s pomposity and anger at her attitude to Giovanni and rudeness to Paolo. One of Jane’s guests tried to intervene but Laura cut him short, speaking in a straightforward polite tone so as not to igni