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Authors: Ruth Edwards
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if the price of getting the bridal suite is to get married, it’s too high a price for me.’
‘What a pity, Signora. You are a loss to matrimony.’
‘It’s hard to flatter me too much, Mr. Ricciano, but you’ve almost reached that point. I can’t imagine any of my friends visualising me as a blushing bride.’
‘I remain to be convinced.’
‘What I want to be convinced of is that the fridge will be installed by the time I get back with the groceries.’
‘That was confirmed in that last phone call I took. It will be in your room by midday.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And all your possessions will have been transferred by then too. Do you wish to look after Horace yourself, Signora? Or shall I move him?’
‘I’ll install him in the non-bridal suite before I leave the hotel. Now, you won’t forget to tell the chef that he is to cook what I provide him with in the manner in which I instruct him?’
‘Of course not, Signora. I’ll do that right away.’
‘And you are sure that I can rely on the parrot being looked after in emergencies? However long they last?’
‘I come of Sicilian stock, Signora. You have my word and my cell-phone number. Ring me any time in an emergency.’ He paused. ‘You do know what I mean by an emergency?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘When I need something.’
‘No, Signora. I have a job. I have a family. When you need something that is truly important and there is no one else to call, that is an emergency.’
She looked at him with mingled irritation and respect. ‘Dying parrot but not overdone steak, you mean?’
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I think we will do well, Signora.’
***
‘It’s no good, Betsy. Any more of this and I’ll explode.’ She extracted her diary from her handbag, opened it and handed it over. ‘Ring this number and then pass me the phone.’
‘It’s an emergency, Mr. Ricciano. And I mean an emergency. I’m in a supermarket the size of the Colosseum and I can’t find anything I want. Even the simplest products are mucked up. There are fifty kinds of milk. When it isn’t described as “lite” it’s full of additives. There are a hundred kinds of flavoured coffee, mostly decaffeinated. Who in hell’s name wants blasted flavoured coffee? And there are miles and miles of plastic bread, and what they call ‘flavoursome fruit’ look like the product of some plastic factory and…’
‘Whoa, whoa, Signora. Calm down. Calm down. You should have consulted me.’
‘I would have, had I realised you can’t get food in American supermarkets. Now what do I do?’
‘Pass the phone to your little Betsy and I will tell her how to find the delicatessen my wife and I shop in.’
‘What do you eat at home?’
‘My wife’s cooking. It is beautiful. She cooks just like her mamma. And mine.’
‘You mean real food?’ asked the baroness suspiciously.
‘Yes, yes, Signora. Real food. Ragouts and pastas and saltimbocca and it is all bellissimo. You should come home with me for dinner sometime.’
‘I’ll come tonight if that’s all right, Mr. Ricciano. Now, before I pass you to Betsy, just one question. If you like real food, why do you serve garbage in the hotel?’
‘We serve what the customers like, Signora. And most of them like it.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ she grunted, and returned the phone to Betsy.
***
‘We’ll have a picnic in my suite, Betsy,’ said the baroness, as they staggered towards the car.
‘Sorry, Lady Troutbeck….’
‘Oh, God. Of course. You’re banned. Any idea why?’
‘I think there was like some trouble,’ said Betsy hesitantly.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said the baroness. ‘I wish to feed you, not corrupt you.’ She dumped the bags beside the car. ‘Get me the Provost.’
The Provost caved without a fight.
‘I’m glad you’ve seen sense, Helen. Now I want you to ring the hotel manager immediately and tell him I can entertain any Freeman student anywhere I
‘What a pity, Signora. You are a loss to matrimony.’
‘It’s hard to flatter me too much, Mr. Ricciano, but you’ve almost reached that point. I can’t imagine any of my friends visualising me as a blushing bride.’
‘I remain to be convinced.’
‘What I want to be convinced of is that the fridge will be installed by the time I get back with the groceries.’
‘That was confirmed in that last phone call I took. It will be in your room by midday.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And all your possessions will have been transferred by then too. Do you wish to look after Horace yourself, Signora? Or shall I move him?’
‘I’ll install him in the non-bridal suite before I leave the hotel. Now, you won’t forget to tell the chef that he is to cook what I provide him with in the manner in which I instruct him?’
‘Of course not, Signora. I’ll do that right away.’
‘And you are sure that I can rely on the parrot being looked after in emergencies? However long they last?’
‘I come of Sicilian stock, Signora. You have my word and my cell-phone number. Ring me any time in an emergency.’ He paused. ‘You do know what I mean by an emergency?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘When I need something.’
‘No, Signora. I have a job. I have a family. When you need something that is truly important and there is no one else to call, that is an emergency.’
She looked at him with mingled irritation and respect. ‘Dying parrot but not overdone steak, you mean?’
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I think we will do well, Signora.’
***
‘It’s no good, Betsy. Any more of this and I’ll explode.’ She extracted her diary from her handbag, opened it and handed it over. ‘Ring this number and then pass me the phone.’
‘It’s an emergency, Mr. Ricciano. And I mean an emergency. I’m in a supermarket the size of the Colosseum and I can’t find anything I want. Even the simplest products are mucked up. There are fifty kinds of milk. When it isn’t described as “lite” it’s full of additives. There are a hundred kinds of flavoured coffee, mostly decaffeinated. Who in hell’s name wants blasted flavoured coffee? And there are miles and miles of plastic bread, and what they call ‘flavoursome fruit’ look like the product of some plastic factory and…’
‘Whoa, whoa, Signora. Calm down. Calm down. You should have consulted me.’
‘I would have, had I realised you can’t get food in American supermarkets. Now what do I do?’
‘Pass the phone to your little Betsy and I will tell her how to find the delicatessen my wife and I shop in.’
‘What do you eat at home?’
‘My wife’s cooking. It is beautiful. She cooks just like her mamma. And mine.’
‘You mean real food?’ asked the baroness suspiciously.
‘Yes, yes, Signora. Real food. Ragouts and pastas and saltimbocca and it is all bellissimo. You should come home with me for dinner sometime.’
‘I’ll come tonight if that’s all right, Mr. Ricciano. Now, before I pass you to Betsy, just one question. If you like real food, why do you serve garbage in the hotel?’
‘We serve what the customers like, Signora. And most of them like it.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ she grunted, and returned the phone to Betsy.
***
‘We’ll have a picnic in my suite, Betsy,’ said the baroness, as they staggered towards the car.
‘Sorry, Lady Troutbeck….’
‘Oh, God. Of course. You’re banned. Any idea why?’
‘I think there was like some trouble,’ said Betsy hesitantly.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said the baroness. ‘I wish to feed you, not corrupt you.’ She dumped the bags beside the car. ‘Get me the Provost.’
The Provost caved without a fight.
‘I’m glad you’ve seen sense, Helen. Now I want you to ring the hotel manager immediately and tell him I can entertain any Freeman student anywhere I
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