table and thank the housekeeper, Brigida, as she brings in two plates loaded with gnocchi in some kind of butter sauce. We both thank her and she departs, leaving us to enjoy our meal.
“I wonder how she got the shiner.”
Cass pulls a face. “It’s usually the husband, isn’t it?”
And while she wasn’t wrong, I had a strange insight into Cas’ life there and then. That whole sentence seemed to sum up why she hadn’t married Bernard and didn’t mind Rebecca taking her place.
Although, from her flirting in the car, I’d be hesitant in saying that Bernard and Cass were faithful to each other.
I make no comment on my insight, because I could be completely wrong and I don’t entirely know where the epiphany came from. Silence seems to be appropriate, so I only say, “It’s a nasty bruise. She’s far too small to be enduring that sort of violence.” I’m not lying. Brigida has to be all of five feet and as skinny as a pigeon on Trafalgar Square. Although, with the food she just served us, I’m not sure how!
“No. But there’s usually little we can do to help. She’s the cook too.”
Frowning at Cass’ dismissal of domestic violence and her abrupt change of topic, I make a mental note to ask after Brigida and to see if her husband is the one beating her. “Is her husband on staff?”
“Yes. He’s the gardener.”
If he was behind the beating, then he wouldn’t have a job for much longer. I’ll see to that myself.
Brigida bustles in again, removing our plates and replacing them with steaming bowls of pasta in a cream sauce alongside a heavy sponge cake, which she places in the centre of the table beside a decanter of sweating limoncello and a hot urn of black coffee as well as all the utensils we’d need to prevail ourselves of her spread.
“If that is all, signori, then I will go to bed now. The hour is late.”
Surprised at her level of English, I smile at her. “That’s fine. Thank you for a delicious meal. If the pasta is anything like the gnocchi, then we’re in for a treat.”
She blushes, the rouge of her cheeks clashing with the vitriolic shade of purple clouding her eye and cheekbone. “Thank you. Buonanotte .”
Ca ss stares at me with a raised brow and I glare at her, shrugging off her amusement. “You could have thanked her yourself!”
At my chiding, she merely smiles. “Why? When you did it for me and so charmingly.”
Ignoring her, I tuck into the cheesy pasta and proceeded to gorge on the cake, drizzling limoncello over it rather than take it as a liqueur.
“It’s wonder y ou’re as skinny as you are,” Cass comments, after leaving half of her pasta and skipping over dessert to black coffee.
“I work out. And I’m not skinny.”
As a kid, I’d been skinny. All bones and lanky muscles. A beanpole had been overweight in comparison to me. I’d worked hard for my lean muscles and I still could eat whatever I wanted.
As I finish my cake, I murmur, “You were flirting with the driver. Is that appropriate, do you think?”
Cass raises her cup to her lips and sips at the hot brew. “He was flirting with me and I returned the favour.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” As I ask the question, I pour myself a small cup of coffee. At that point, even if I have to endure Cass as a dining companion, I’m looking forward to the rest of my stay. I never cook for myself and having a talented woman like Brigida in the kitchen, my mouth is drooling at the thoughts of all the meals ahead of me.
“No. Not really. I like to think I’m an attractive woman. . . ”
There’s a sharpness to her tone that tells me I’ve inadvertently offended her. God, women can be so prickly. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I interrupt with a roll of my eyes. “I meant Clordina did exactly the same to me. Flirting. Excessively. Touching. Excessively. Uncomfortably so. I don’t trust it. Especially
“I wonder how she got the shiner.”
Cass pulls a face. “It’s usually the husband, isn’t it?”
And while she wasn’t wrong, I had a strange insight into Cas’ life there and then. That whole sentence seemed to sum up why she hadn’t married Bernard and didn’t mind Rebecca taking her place.
Although, from her flirting in the car, I’d be hesitant in saying that Bernard and Cass were faithful to each other.
I make no comment on my insight, because I could be completely wrong and I don’t entirely know where the epiphany came from. Silence seems to be appropriate, so I only say, “It’s a nasty bruise. She’s far too small to be enduring that sort of violence.” I’m not lying. Brigida has to be all of five feet and as skinny as a pigeon on Trafalgar Square. Although, with the food she just served us, I’m not sure how!
“No. But there’s usually little we can do to help. She’s the cook too.”
Frowning at Cass’ dismissal of domestic violence and her abrupt change of topic, I make a mental note to ask after Brigida and to see if her husband is the one beating her. “Is her husband on staff?”
“Yes. He’s the gardener.”
If he was behind the beating, then he wouldn’t have a job for much longer. I’ll see to that myself.
Brigida bustles in again, removing our plates and replacing them with steaming bowls of pasta in a cream sauce alongside a heavy sponge cake, which she places in the centre of the table beside a decanter of sweating limoncello and a hot urn of black coffee as well as all the utensils we’d need to prevail ourselves of her spread.
“If that is all, signori, then I will go to bed now. The hour is late.”
Surprised at her level of English, I smile at her. “That’s fine. Thank you for a delicious meal. If the pasta is anything like the gnocchi, then we’re in for a treat.”
She blushes, the rouge of her cheeks clashing with the vitriolic shade of purple clouding her eye and cheekbone. “Thank you. Buonanotte .”
Ca ss stares at me with a raised brow and I glare at her, shrugging off her amusement. “You could have thanked her yourself!”
At my chiding, she merely smiles. “Why? When you did it for me and so charmingly.”
Ignoring her, I tuck into the cheesy pasta and proceeded to gorge on the cake, drizzling limoncello over it rather than take it as a liqueur.
“It’s wonder y ou’re as skinny as you are,” Cass comments, after leaving half of her pasta and skipping over dessert to black coffee.
“I work out. And I’m not skinny.”
As a kid, I’d been skinny. All bones and lanky muscles. A beanpole had been overweight in comparison to me. I’d worked hard for my lean muscles and I still could eat whatever I wanted.
As I finish my cake, I murmur, “You were flirting with the driver. Is that appropriate, do you think?”
Cass raises her cup to her lips and sips at the hot brew. “He was flirting with me and I returned the favour.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” As I ask the question, I pour myself a small cup of coffee. At that point, even if I have to endure Cass as a dining companion, I’m looking forward to the rest of my stay. I never cook for myself and having a talented woman like Brigida in the kitchen, my mouth is drooling at the thoughts of all the meals ahead of me.
“No. Not really. I like to think I’m an attractive woman. . . ”
There’s a sharpness to her tone that tells me I’ve inadvertently offended her. God, women can be so prickly. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I interrupt with a roll of my eyes. “I meant Clordina did exactly the same to me. Flirting. Excessively. Touching. Excessively. Uncomfortably so. I don’t trust it. Especially
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