Chapter 3

Chapter 3

T

here were seven more sets of traffic lights before the turn-off to Wil’s parents’ street in the heart of Toorak. I knew this because the first time Wil took me to meet them I was so nervous I’d counted them all the way from the café where Wil had picked me up. I’d been right to be nervous. Not only had Wil told me horror stories—okay, so maybe horror was also too strong of a word, let’s just say stories—from his childhood. His parents weren’t horrible, sadistic people or anything like that. Just your typical well-to-do people who had no idea what life in the real world entailed. If you didn’t drive a European branded car, or spend your days either in a suit or attending charity galas, they couldn’t relate. They’d sent Wil off to boarding school at the age of twelve, which had horrified me in itself. Wil, on the other hand, said they were the best years of his life. And after meeting his parents that first night, I could see his point.

Don’t get me wrong, Ray and Marlo were polite, respectful, well-mannered people, they just weren’t normal people—not

my

people. Which, on more than one occasion, had me wondering if Wil was my people or if, in fact, I was

his

people. But Wil was different. Although he’d been born into wealth and affluence, boarding school had also given him a taste of life outside the four and a half square metres of the Toorak bubble. He was down-to-earth, hardworking, and wanted to be anything but like his parents. The only reason he was still working for his father was the promise of the real estate agency one day. It was his inheritance.

We came to a pause at the sixth traffic light and I glanced across at Wil, the glow from the dash illuminating the worry lines between his eyes.

‘You okay?’ I asked. ‘You’ve hardly said anything since we got in the car.’ Wil didn’t respond, so I prompted him again. ‘Wil?’

‘Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just a lot going on.’

I wasn’t sure how much more I could take of this

a lot going on

. It had become the standard answer lately. I had a lot going on too, but I tried not to let it impact our relationship. Wil, on the other hand . . .

‘Have you ever thought of starting fresh?’ Wil said out of the blue.

‘Sorry?’

‘Like, a new start. New job, new house, new life.’

Wil’s statement caught me off guard. ‘Ah, no. What do you mean, exactly?’

‘As in move away from Melbourne. Maybe somewhere along the coast?’ Wil was talking fast, as if the idea was growing momentum in his brain as he spoke. ‘Maybe even a regional area. Country real estate is hot right now. City people wanting a tree change, the simple life and all that. We could move. Start fresh.’

The lights changed, and Wil put his foot down on the accelerator with force and I was lurched back into my seat.

‘Sorry,’ he said, as he glanced over and slowed down.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m not sure that’s the answer.’ He was worrying me now. I’d never seen him as anxious as this.

‘I’m serious, Dem,’ he replied, almost impatiently. ‘I know your life is here with the café and everything. But maybe . . .’ He paused.

‘And everything? You mean my family? You want me to move away from my family and

my

future at the café just so

you

can get away from yours?’

‘We can make our own family. Our own life.’

My throat became choked with a barrage of emotions.

What the absolute hell?

‘We have our own life, Wil. You know how hard I’ve worked to get to where I am, and I’m within reaching distance of it. How could you think I would just walk away?’ I stopped myself short of adding

even for you

. My breath caught.

‘It wouldn’t be giving up. It would be starting fresh, building everything you want, your way.’

‘That’s not what I want. I

want

the legacy. The café

is

family. My heritage. My dream. Always has been since I can remember. Carrying on the family name and tradition is everything to me.’ The waver in my voice faltered over the car engine. Wil must have sensed it as his face softened.

‘I’m sorry. I know it’s too much. I was just . . .’ He trailed off.

I continued to stare out the window, my chest rising and falling heavily the mood heavy between us. One set of lights to go.

Wil pulled his Audi to a stop in the driveway of his parents’ imposing double storey Mediterranean style mansion and turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, Dem. That was stupid of me. Let’s forget it, okay?’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Let’s get through the night, okay? Together.’

I nodded, pulling my emotions back in check. I wasn’t sure I could forget what Wil had just suggested, but I knew he must be under immense pressure to even consider such an idea.

We walked up the path hand in hand. Everything was as I remembered from last time. The gardener had manicured the pristine topiary hedges, not a leaf out of place, and the lights that bordered the path to the front door twinkled serenely. The house was stark white with large French windows and wrought iron balconies on the top storey. It wouldn’t have been out of place in one of those architectural magazines Anna used to leave lying around our apartment.

‘Right-o, here goes nothing.’ Wil exhaled as we reached the front door.

If only we were about to enter my parents’ triple fronted cream brick veneer with the fig tree in the front yard. My family may be loud, and unashamedly so, but the moment you stepped inside, you were part of the family. Welcomed into the noisy ambience of chatting, bickering, and laughter. And fed like you hadn’t eaten for six weeks. I can’t say I’d ever felt welcomed like that here. I shook away my thoughts, pushed back my shoulders and took a deep breath.

Wil led me through to the sitting room where his parents usually sat with a pre-dinner martini before dinner each night. As you do

.

Not! My parents sat at the kitchen table and bickered about the café over a vino before dinner.

‘Mum? Dad?’ Wil said, announcing our arrival as we entered the doorway.

‘Ah, darling.’ Marlo—Wil’s mum—floated towards us as if in sync with the soft jazz music playing in the background. ‘You’re looking tired, darling,’ she said, patting Wil on the cheek. ‘Are you taking your vitamins?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Wil sighed, and placed a kiss on her rouged cheek. He acknowledged his father who was seated on the couch with a nod. ‘Dad.’

‘Hi, Mrs. Brooks,’ I said, as I shrank into my Diana Ferraris—the most expensive but surprisingly comfortable heels I owned. Marlo’s embrace barely touched me. There was an art to it, the air kiss. And she had it down pat, the soft audible mwah and all.

‘Demi, lovely to see you,’ she purred.

With her white pant suit, Marlo blended perfectly into the décor of the room. I had to admire her confidence in wearing all white to dinner. I could imagine the spaghetti sauce I’d spill on it.

‘Demi, hello.’ Ray stood and placed an almost-there kiss on my cheek. He’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, and the dark circles under his eyes were more profound than last time we’d met.

‘Hi, Mr. Brooks.’

We stood in an uncomfortable silence for a moment then Wil made some small talk. ‘Martini?’ Ray offered.

‘Ah, no. I might wait til dinner,’ I replied, instantly regretting my decision. Having something in my hand and gin fizzing in my head was probably necessary to make the night more bearable.

Once the conversation stilted, Marlo clapped her hands together and declared it was time to eat. I exhaled the tension I’d been holding in my shoulders as we made our way to the formal dining room lined with what I imagined were expensive art pieces. I didn’t know my Rembrandt from my Picasso to be honest.

We took our seat at the huge dining table and I remembered Marlo didn’t cook. Ever. She was far too busy organising the many charity functions for which she was a chair. It was a full-time job, apparently. Who’d have known?

‘So,’ Marlo said,‘It’s a special night, so I’ve engaged one of the country’s finest Italian chefs to cater our little family celebration.’ She looked straight at me, and I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or impressed. I smiled and nodded, my intrigue piqued. At least the food would be worth putting ourselves through whatever it was we were celebrating.

‘What are we celebrating?’ Wil asked.

‘The Anderson sale,’ Ray said, pouring himself a glass of red wine. ‘It’s a done deal.’

‘The Anderson’s house? St. Georges Road,’ Wil asked, his eyebrows knitted.

‘Enough, you two,’ Marlo interrupted. ‘Business later. For now, let’s enjoy this wonderful food.’

Wil exhaled heavily and I placed my hand on his leg, which was quite a stretch considered we were seated so far apart. Probably on purpose.

The first dish was served. Minestrone soup. Which you would think sounds a little lacklustre from an apparently top Italian chef, but after one mouthful, I knew this was more than any old minestrone soup. Vibrant flavours of tomato, oregano and, if I was right, one of the best pork broths I’d ever tasted filled my mouth.

‘Wow,’ I said as I sipped it from my spoon. ‘This is amazing.’

Marlo nodded. ‘Mmm, it is. So, Demi, how is your little coffee shop going?’

‘Demi’s dad’s about to announce his retirement and hand it over to her,’ Wil said, before I had a chance to answer.

‘Well, not exactly,’ I corrected him. ‘One day soon, I hope.’

‘She’s got some fantastic ideas, and a great business brain,’ Wil continued. ‘Some great plans to keep the tradition of the place but add some new flair.’

Mr. Brooks raised his eyebrows, seemingly impressed.

‘That’s lovely, dear. I’m sure it will be very rewarding,’ Marlo said, as our soup bowls were removed by a silent staff member. ‘Oh, Wil, darling,’ Marlo continued, her face lit with excitement as if she’d just had a brainwave. ‘You’ll never guess who I saw the other day.’

Wil shifted in his seat. ‘Probably not,’ he replied, taking a gulp of wine.

‘Nicole!’

She pronounced it Nic-

whole

. I disguised my giggle as I wiped my mouth with my napkin.

Wil glanced sideways at me. I knew who Nicole was. Wil’s most recent ex-girlfriend. The model. A Miranda Kerr look-a-like. I

may

have googled her once or twice. Wil had told me his parents had adored her—of course they had. He’d also pre-warned me that Marlo had never gotten over him breaking it off with her. Nicole was from another well-to-do Toorak family and, after her international success as a model, had since been making a name for herself as a fashion designer.

Haute couture,

of course.

‘Oh, she’s looking stunning,’ Marlo continued. ‘She has highlights through her hair and she’s just come back from France. Paris, to be precise.’

‘Mum,’ Wil warned through gritted teeth. ‘Do you mind?’ His eyes flicked in my direction, and I instantly wished I was anywhere but here.

‘I was simply

saying,

darling. Can’t I talk about an old friend? She’s doing so well. She has her own shop front on High Street in Armadale now. Apparently all the footballers’ wives want her to dress them for their events this year.’

‘That’s great. I’m pleased for her,’ Wil said.

‘She’s still single, you know,’ Marlo added, raising an eyebrow.

An involuntary cough escaped my mouth.

‘Mum, please.’ Wil gasped, almost choking on his mouthful of wine.

Marlo’s expression pained. ‘I’m only making conversation.’

‘Well, don’t. You can be so insensitive sometimes,’ Wil said, shaking his head.

I wiped my mouth and excused myself from the table to use the bathroom. My shoulders had crept up to kiss my ears from all the tension in the room so I stretched my neck from side to side and wandered down the parquetry floored hallway and into the marble bathroom. I closed the door behind me and exhaled. Marlo was something else. No wonder Wil loved boarding school. For once, I was glad I was born into a life of blue-collar struggle. It was moments like this that my heart swelled thinking of my family.

On the way back to the dining room, I could smell wonderful things coming from the nearby kitchen. Giving into my curiosity I detoured and peeked into the kitchen to catch a glance at the chef. He was standing in his chef whites, hovering over the stove stirring a large pot. The aroma was both sweet and spicy, and most definitely tantalising. As the chef, spun on his heels, I recognised him instantly. Roberto Pasqualini, head chef of Cucina Rustica. He was one of the most renowned Italian chefs in the country and a regular guest-chef on

Masterchef

.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, as he caught my eyes. I began to retreat.

‘No, no, come!’ He smiled and motioned for me to enter. His dark, kind eyes stared at me intently, and then he tilted his head. ‘Italian?’

‘Is it that obvious?’ I smiled, smoothing down my black curls.

Roberto let out a small chuckle, which made his thin moustache wriggle above his lip. ‘Ah, be proud. Italians do it better!’

I laughed. I’d heard Roberto bucked the arrogant chef reputation. Seemed they were right. I immediately felt at home.

‘Something smells amazing,’ I said, my nose tingling.

‘Come. See,’ he said, stirring the concoction on the stovetop. ‘What do you smell?’

I closed my eyes and inhaled the wonderfully delicious aroma. ‘Mmm. Wine. Chili. Garlic, of course. And . . . mmm . . . a seafood . . . is it lobster?’

‘Ah, very good.’ Roberto raised his eyebrows. ‘Not lobster. Close. Blue swimmer crab. I will serve with freshly made linguine.’ Roberto gestured to a mountain of freshly made pasta on the flour-topped counter that looked perfectly smooth and silky. ‘You know food. Are you a chef?’

‘Me? No, not a chef. My family own a café in Richmond. Moretti’s. I work there, well, help my dad manage the place. I do a bit of everything, really.’ I blushed. As if Roberto Pasqualini would have heard of our little café or care what I did there.

‘Si. Si.’ He nodded. ‘I started in my family ristorante in Florence. The kitchen, it was no more than a bench and a stove, but my papa, he was the best teacher.’ He nodded proudly. ‘He show me everything in that little kitchen, and when I turn eighteen, I come here to Australia and got a job at

Otto

in Brisbane.I start from bottom and work my way up. And now’—he smiled and gestured with open arms—‘now, I can cook like this.’ He inhaled the steaming pot with a look of pride.

‘My family are from Bari,’ I said. ‘I’d love to go there one day.’

‘Ah, Puglia.’ Roberto’s eyes danced. ‘A beautiful part of our country. You have not been there?’

I shook my head.

‘Oh! You must go,’ Robert said passionately as he instructed his sioux chef to drop the linguine gently into a large pot of boiling water. ‘You want to one day run your café?’

‘I do. When my dad retires.’

‘Well, then you must one hundred percent go to Italy. To Puglia. Learn the traditional way of cooking. It is the only way. Our country is very special, you know? Of course you know!’ He chuckled as he swirled the pasta. ‘So many different regions. Different specialities. Different ways of doing things. Which way the best?’ He tilted his head with a cheeky grin and tapped his nose. ‘

That

is the question!’

Roberto clicked his fingers and a server appeared at the ready with a huge colander to drain the pasta.

‘Well, I’d better head back,’ I said, nodding to the dining room. ‘Thank you for sharing your kitchen. I can’t wait to taste the pasta.’

‘Prego. You are very welcome, Ms. Moretti. I hope you enjoy.’ Roberto nodded with a smile. ‘And,’ he paused with a grin, ‘enjoy Italy.’

I wandered slowly back to the dining room, my head awash with Roberto’s words. Should I go to Italy?

Could

I go to Italy? It wasn’t like Dad was that much fun to work with at the moment. Maybe Dad and I just needed a break from each other. We still had family back in Bari, and Dad’s brother apparently still ran the family trattoria. If I sounded vague, it’s because Dad hadn’t spoken to his family since he came to Australia and he’d never offered a reason why. Every time one of us had asked, we were brushed aside with some half-hearted comment, ’I tell you one day.’ But one day had never come. Maybe I could go. Meet them. Learn from them. My head skipped with possibilities, but it didn’t last long. As I approached the dining room, I heard voices on the other side. Heated voices. It sounded as if Wil and his father were arguing. I pushed open the door quietly, hesitant not to interrupt.

‘You work for the vendor, not the purchaser,’ Wil’s father said sternly. ‘Three weeks was more than enough time to arrange finance.’ He took a swig of his wine.

‘They were almost there!’ Wil replied. ‘I’d spoken with the broker only yesterday and he said they were just waiting on the final approval.’

‘Well, they were out of their finance clause. It’s too late. The new deal is done. No finance. All signed and off to the solicitors. And the Andersons are more than happy.’

‘And what am I supposed to tell my purchasers?’

I sat down in my seat and glanced towards Wil. His face had turned a shade not unlike a ripe peach.

‘You tell them they missed out. Show them the Morgan property. Maybe they can afford that.’

‘Ray, Wil,’ Marlo said with a tired tone to her voice. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration. The biggest sale price in Toorak, isn’t it darling?’ She looked at Ray with hopeful eyes. Ray nodded.

Wil threw his napkin on the table. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said, and then turned to me. ‘Let’s go.’

Marlo stood and reached across to Wil’s arm. ‘Please, darling. Stay. We’ll change the subject.’

Wil looked at me, but I wasn’t offering any comment. I froze in my seat, unsure what to do or say or even where to look. You know when they say you could cut the air with a knife? Well, I don’t think a chainsaw would have made headway through this level of tension.

Wil sighed heavily and sat back down, topping up his wineglass before the server appeared with plates of pasta. I turned my gaze to the plate of seafood linguine in front of me. Despite the friction in the room, I was glad that Wil sat back down. This, I didn’t want to miss. The presentation was impeccable. Like something from a recipe book. And the aroma was divine. I took a mouthful and was sure I had just died and was floating towards heaven in a cloud of the softest pasta, butteriest crab and most flavourful sauce I’d ever experienced. I slowly savoured every mouthful.

Despite the amazing food, the remainder of dinner was quiet and had crossed the line of uncomfortable. Marlo tried to make conversation, talking about the lingering warm summer and her latest charity function. At one point, I felt sorry for her as her eyes flicked between her husband and her son with a faraway look.

Following dessert—one of the fluffiest zabaglione I’d ever tasted—Wil stood.

‘I think it’s time we left,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mum.’

‘But what about coffee?’ Marlo frowned as much as her botoxed face would allow.

‘Next time.’

Marlo rose from her seat, rounded the table, and leaned in to kiss Wil. ‘I wish you wouldn’t leave,’ I heard her whisper in his ear. ‘You know your father.’

Wil’s shoulders stiffened. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks,’ I said. ‘And please, thank the chef,’ I said to Marlo. ‘It was wonderful.’

Marlo and Ray nodded a silent, forced smile goodbye.

—

The purr of the idling engine was the only sound as we sat at the traffic lights. Wil stared blankly ahead.

‘You okay?’ I asked, turning in my seat to face him.

‘Yeah. I guess.’ He sighed. ‘They both bloody frustrate me so much. I mean, how’s Mum bringing up Nicole, for God’s sake,’ he said with a clenched jaw.

‘It’s okay. I’ve got thick skin.’

‘That’s not the point. Mum’s plain rude. And then Dad . . .’ He trailed off.

I reached over to Wil’s leg. It trembled under my hand. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

‘What does it matter, anyway?’ Wil said with an edge to his voice. ‘I’ve got plans. Something ticking away on the side.’

‘What do you mean plans?’ I asked.

‘To get me—us—ahead.’

‘As in?’

‘Still in property,’ Wil continued matter-of-factly. ‘Investments. Once they come through, I could leave, you know.’

‘Leave your dad’s agency?’

Wil nodded.

‘But what about taking over from your dad down the track?’

‘I need to make it on my own. Prove to Dad I don’t need him or his money.’

An uneasiness pricked at my skin.

Wil grabbed my hand, and squeezed it. ‘I’m going to do this, Dem.’

‘This?’

‘Get enough money for us to walk away.’ He held a palm up as he continued. ‘I know you don’t want to leave the café, but how long are you going to wait? For all we know, your dad mightn’t retire for another ten years.’

‘It won’t be that long,’ I said, pulling at my seatbelt which all of a sudden felt like it was way too tight across my chest.

‘And what till then?’ Wil said, drawing up beside another car at a red light. ‘Keep waiting?’

‘I don’t know. Keep saving, I suppose. Keep planning for what I want to do when it happens.’ My tone was clipped. Wil was acting strange, and I didn’t like where his thoughts or ideas were going for the second time this evening.

‘What if we travelled instead? You’ve always said you wanted to go to Italy—’

‘I know, but—’

‘But what if there was no reason not to go?’

Roberto’s words seeped back into my mind.

You must one hundred percent go to Italy.

‘Look, Wil, I don’t know. This is all too much right now.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I get it. Look, when all my business is done, we can talk more then.’ He smiled. ‘It’s going to be okay, Dem. I know it.’

The lights changed to green. I wasn’t sure what Wil was up to, but that uneasy feeling in my gut stirred again. One thing I was sure on, though, was that I couldn’t ever leave the café. Could I?