21. Sophie

We three sisters and Dad stood outside the bar in a medieval town in Italy – Louise and Dad both in a shirt and trousers, Julie in a flowing dress, and me in white denims and a silk shirt.

Julie squeezed Louise’s hand. ‘Ready?’

‘No.’

‘You’re as ready as you can be. Remember, you have the power here. You can pull the plug on this at any time. Just give me the word and we’ll be out of here.’ Dad patted Louise on the back.

‘Dad’s right. You can always tell Clara he’s dead,’ I said. ‘Marco knows nothing, so you hold all the cards.’

Louise nodded.

‘Okay, let’s do it.’ Julie pushed open the door and led us into the small local bar.

Every head turned and all conversation stopped. Three middle-aged foreign women and an older man coming into the bar in March was clearly an anomaly.

Julie marched purposefully towards a table for four, and I scanned the room. I spotted him. Italy’s Danny DeVito was leaning up against the bar, chatting to two other men. They were all dressed in scruffy jeans. Two of the men were in T-shirts but Marco had a nice blue shirt on.

The other clientele consisted of three couples sitting around a table playing cards, two old men sitting up at the bar, the barman and a dog.

‘He’s at the bar, blue shirt,’ I said, out of the side of my mouth, like some undercover cop.

‘I see him,’ Dad said.

‘Act casual,’ Julie hissed.

We took our seats and the barman came straight over. We ordered three large gin and tonics and a beer for Dad.

‘No denying he’s her father,’ Dad said, which was what we were all thinking.

You could see Clara in his nose and charming lopsided smile.

‘He’s better-looking in the flesh, to be fair,’ Julie said.

‘Nice smiley face,’ I added.

‘Louise?’ Julie shook her arm gently.

‘Are you okay?’ Dad asked.

Louise finally found her voice. ‘I just need a minute, and a drink.’

The barman came back with our drinks.

‘What bring you loffely ladeez to Pico?’ he asked.

‘We’re just …’

‘Uhm, we thought …’

‘A private matter.’ Dad cut him dead.

Looking affronted, he backed away.

‘Jesus, Dad, we’re trying to get to know the locals, not frighten the hell out of them,’ I said.

‘You might need to work on your small-talk, Dad.’ Julie handed Louise her drink and told her to take a good gulp of it.

We took turns spying on Marco, who was chatting animatedly with his friends.

‘He looks very relaxed and he has kind eyes,’ Julie said.

‘You think everyone has kind eyes,’ Louise replied.

‘Not everyone. Victoria has snake eyes.’

‘He smiles a lot, which is always a good sign,’ I said.

‘Stupid people smile a lot,’ Louise said.

‘He seems popular,’ Julie said.

‘He’s talking to two people. He’s not exactly being mobbed.’

Julie looked at me, raised her eyebrows and sipped her drink.

‘Okay, Dad,’ Louise barked suddenly, making us jump. ‘Go over and chat to him. Sophie, go with him so he doesn’t insult anyone. You’re good at all that boring small-talk.’

Louise had a knack of insulting you and paying you a compliment at the same time.

Dad and I rose from the table and walked over to where the three men were standing.

I waited for Dad to say something, but he seemed to have frozen.

‘Good evening, do you speak English?’ I said.

‘A leetle bit,’ the tall friend said.

The other two just stared at him.

‘Okay, so, we were wondering if … uhm … if you could recommend any special things to do in the area?’

‘Do you like walking?’ the middle-sized one asked.

‘I guess so, yes.’

‘Many beautiful walks ’ere. But maybe your ’usband is too old for long walking?’

‘Mother of God, she’s my daughter, not my wife.’ Dad finally found his voice.

‘I was thinking you were a very lucky man.’ The two men laughed.

‘Are they you seesters?’ Marco asked, nodding to Julie and Louise, who were doing a very bad job of pretending not to look over.

I looked at him directly for the first time. Julie was right, he did have kind eyes. Lovely soft, kind brown eyes unlike my eldest sister’s steely blue ones.

‘Yes, we are.’

‘Why are you ’ere?’ the tall one asked.

‘You bringing Papa on ’oliday?’ the middle one asked.

‘Kind of,’ I fudged.

‘Where are you from?’ the tall one asked.

‘Ireland,’ I answered.

‘Ah, Irlanda.’ They all smiled.

I smiled back. Silence. I looked at Dad, still frozen. Right, small-talk, my alleged forte.

‘So what do you do?’ I asked.

‘We farm the olives,’ Marco said.

‘Oh, you have olive farms? How fantastic. I love olives. Well, I like green ones, not the black ones so much. Actually, do they grow on different trees?’ I sounded like a total idiot but I ploughed on. Queen of small-talk.

The three men laughed.

Marco said, ‘No, eet ees the same tree but the green olives are the first ones you are picking and then if you want black ones you are waiting until later to pick.’

‘Oh, I see, so the black ones are riper?’

‘What is riper?’ the tall one asked.

God, this was painful, I really didn’t give a toss about olives.

‘Dad,’ I glared at him, ‘feel free to jump in.’

Dad cleared his throat and started babbling. ‘I don’t like olives. My wife used to love them. She tried for years, decades actually, to persuade me they were nice, but I just can’t stomach them. She’d try to hide them in casseroles, but I always found them and picked them out. The black ones have a very strong taste in my opinion …’

He was worse than me. I had to stop his crazy rambling.

This was not working. Sod it, it was time to get my sisters involved.

‘Why don’t I introduce you to my sisters and they can explain what “riper” means?’

I invited the men to join our table, which they willingly did.

I introduced my sisters. They told us their names. Tall man was Lorenzo and middle-sized man was Tommaso.

‘Louise, could you please explain what “riper” means?’ I asked.

‘What are you talking about?’ She scowled at me.

I was getting fed up with being dismissed, especially as I had succeeded in doing what I had been ordered to do – make small-talk and bring them over – while Dad had failed. Glaring at my sister, I said, ‘We were chatting, as you do, about these men’s olive farms and they were saying they pick the black olives later in the season. I said, “So the black ones are riper,” and they didn’t understand the word. I thought with you being in Mensa and all, you could explain it. You know, get involved in the conversation that I started.’

Julie, sensing the tension, jumped in. ‘“Riper” means that you wait until the fruit – actually, hang on, is an olive a fruit?’

‘Yes,’ Louise hissed.

‘Oh, that’s funny, I always thought of it as a veggie. Anyway, “ripe” means it’s ready to pick, and the fruit you pick later on in the season is riper.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Lorenzo nodded. ‘The black olive is riper.’

We all smiled and nodded, except Louise, who looked like she wanted to kill someone.

‘Louisa, why you look so angry?’ Tommaso asked.

Louise frowned, making her look even crosser. ‘I’m not. I’m perfectly relaxed.’

The men all cracked up, laughing.

‘You Irish, you supposed to be smiling, happy, drinking Guinness …’ Lorenzo said.

‘We’re not all drunk leprechauns,’ Louise huffed.

‘Jesus, Louise, chill,’ Julie said, under her breath. To the group she said, ‘We are very happy to be here in your beautiful town.’

I noticed Marco studying Louise. A crease formed between his brows. He was staring at her intently. Slowly his eyes opened wider and then …

‘You!’ he said suddenly, pointing at her. ‘You … you are the woman … Rome … long times ago.’

‘Hold on a minute now, Mister.’ Dad jumped up, blocking Marco from Louise.

Louise flinched, then regained her composure and looked directly at him. ‘Yes, it’s me.’

We all gasped. Tommaso and Lorenzo looked from one face to the next, perplexed.

This was not going according to Louise’s plan, not at all, and I had no clue what to do next.