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Authors: Sarah-Kate Lynch
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rollingthe words around on his tongue as he Italianised the name. How Tom would have loved that, I thought. In fact I was surprised he hadn’t thought of it himself. One tiny little letter at the end of his name and he could have been Italian all along.
At the thought of my long-lost husband, of course, I felt a slap of reality, which left me scrabbling in a deep pool of guilty, grubby awkwardness. ‘What did you mean before when you said you’d been looking for me?’ I asked, mildly belligerent.
‘Why, I saw you arrive, yesterday,’ Marco answered, surprised. ‘We made a connection, remember? On the canal.’
This was a little too forward and frank for my liking. Unless I’m writing a review, in which case I have to cut to the chase or the copy editor will mangle it, I usually prefer an extended period of fluffing around followed by a short stint of prevaricating before meandering hesitatingly towards anything remotely straightforward. His mention of our connection was far too confrontational by half.
‘Yes, well I’m just out for a walk,’ I said irrelevantly.
He laughed. A deep, sexy laugh that almost made me drool. Seriously, I was all over the place. I didn’t know if I was Arthur or Martha as my dad would say. Part of me wanted to jump off the bridge, swim to the airport and fly back into the arms of my husband, another part wanted me to be swept up in a completely different set of arms altogether. A closer set. Much closer.
‘Well, walking is a hungry business,’ Marco said. ‘You must be starved. Let’s eat. I know just the place.’
Now, you don’t have to know me very well to know that to me these words are like ‘abracadabra’ to Aladdin. Had Marco been the ugliest guy in the world with a hairy back, little flat butt and a great big beer belly I still would have gone with him. You just don’t hear, ‘You must be starved. Let’s eat. I know just the place,’ anywhere near often enough in my opinion.
So despite the fact that all I knew about the guy was that he had a strong stomach and a good feel for suede, I reached out and took thearm he was offering. He guided me through the narrow back lanes behind the market, stopping eventually, after a series of twists and turns I had no hope of remembering, at a low doorway under a barely noticeable wooden sign bearing the name Do’ Mori. The darkly lit wine bar was slender, another low doorway at the opposite end opening on to the next lane. There were no chairs or stools and along one wall were bottles stacked floor to ceiling in dusty clay pipes; along the other was a bar heaving with bite-sized snacks behind which stood a portly matron, her long grey hair falling out of her bun, her kindly face beaming with a radiance I had rarely seen.
‘Marco!’ she crowed. ‘Saving another one?’ Her accent was so thick it took a while for me to work out what she had said and by then my attention was on the bar food. ‘It looks fabulous,’ I enunciated. ‘
Squisito
.’ My mouth was watering. I licked my lips and looked up at Marco.
‘Two glasses of pinot bianco, Signora Marinello,’ he instructed the matron. It was not quite 10 in the morning yet at that point I realised the dozen or so older men standing around in little groups chatting on either side of us were all sipping wine.
Marco laughed at my surprise. ‘Venetians drink more than any other Italians,’ he said. ‘And they do it with pride.’
At this, a florid-faced septuagenarian to my right slammed down his empty glass on the counter and nodded his head for another at Signora Marinello.
She raised her eyebrows as she slid our glasses over to us and turned away again to fulfil his request.
‘Now,’ said Marco, as we clinked glasses, ‘I’ll tell you about
cichetti
. Venice isn’t known for its food, did you know this? Well, not any more. Never mind the fact that the Venetians were once the world’s leading traders and the first to invent the humble fork. Actually, the
At the thought of my long-lost husband, of course, I felt a slap of reality, which left me scrabbling in a deep pool of guilty, grubby awkwardness. ‘What did you mean before when you said you’d been looking for me?’ I asked, mildly belligerent.
‘Why, I saw you arrive, yesterday,’ Marco answered, surprised. ‘We made a connection, remember? On the canal.’
This was a little too forward and frank for my liking. Unless I’m writing a review, in which case I have to cut to the chase or the copy editor will mangle it, I usually prefer an extended period of fluffing around followed by a short stint of prevaricating before meandering hesitatingly towards anything remotely straightforward. His mention of our connection was far too confrontational by half.
‘Yes, well I’m just out for a walk,’ I said irrelevantly.
He laughed. A deep, sexy laugh that almost made me drool. Seriously, I was all over the place. I didn’t know if I was Arthur or Martha as my dad would say. Part of me wanted to jump off the bridge, swim to the airport and fly back into the arms of my husband, another part wanted me to be swept up in a completely different set of arms altogether. A closer set. Much closer.
‘Well, walking is a hungry business,’ Marco said. ‘You must be starved. Let’s eat. I know just the place.’
Now, you don’t have to know me very well to know that to me these words are like ‘abracadabra’ to Aladdin. Had Marco been the ugliest guy in the world with a hairy back, little flat butt and a great big beer belly I still would have gone with him. You just don’t hear, ‘You must be starved. Let’s eat. I know just the place,’ anywhere near often enough in my opinion.
So despite the fact that all I knew about the guy was that he had a strong stomach and a good feel for suede, I reached out and took thearm he was offering. He guided me through the narrow back lanes behind the market, stopping eventually, after a series of twists and turns I had no hope of remembering, at a low doorway under a barely noticeable wooden sign bearing the name Do’ Mori. The darkly lit wine bar was slender, another low doorway at the opposite end opening on to the next lane. There were no chairs or stools and along one wall were bottles stacked floor to ceiling in dusty clay pipes; along the other was a bar heaving with bite-sized snacks behind which stood a portly matron, her long grey hair falling out of her bun, her kindly face beaming with a radiance I had rarely seen.
‘Marco!’ she crowed. ‘Saving another one?’ Her accent was so thick it took a while for me to work out what she had said and by then my attention was on the bar food. ‘It looks fabulous,’ I enunciated. ‘
Squisito
.’ My mouth was watering. I licked my lips and looked up at Marco.
‘Two glasses of pinot bianco, Signora Marinello,’ he instructed the matron. It was not quite 10 in the morning yet at that point I realised the dozen or so older men standing around in little groups chatting on either side of us were all sipping wine.
Marco laughed at my surprise. ‘Venetians drink more than any other Italians,’ he said. ‘And they do it with pride.’
At this, a florid-faced septuagenarian to my right slammed down his empty glass on the counter and nodded his head for another at Signora Marinello.
She raised her eyebrows as she slid our glasses over to us and turned away again to fulfil his request.
‘Now,’ said Marco, as we clinked glasses, ‘I’ll tell you about
cichetti
. Venice isn’t known for its food, did you know this? Well, not any more. Never mind the fact that the Venetians were once the world’s leading traders and the first to invent the humble fork. Actually, the
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