She takes her time, studying it on the spoon and in her mouth before placing her spoon down and looking at Gio and then me.
“You are both trying so hard,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Santo appreciates it, and I do. This is excellent gelato, but it’s not Belotti’s gelato.”
“I know,” Gio says, resigned. He looks at me. “Let’s give it eight point one.”
I scribble the score beside the recipe and close the notebook.
“I should go,” I say. “Leave you guys to it.”
Maria looks at Gio. “Have you asked Iris to Ognissanti?”
“I —” He breaks off and looks away, a flush crossing his cheeks.
“Oh for pity’s sake, Gio.” She flicks a dismissive hand toward him. “Iris, I’m having a family dinner on Sunday evening, please come.”
It’s my turn to falter, and I look at Gio for guidance. His face is impossible to read, which, frankly, is no help. I don’t want to say yes and upset the fragile balance between us again, but Maria is like a force field all of her own and I feel compelled to accept her invitation. But, then…is it disloyal to my mother to feel so dazzled by this woman? I don’t know if they ever met; instinct tells me not. I hold Gio’s gaze and try to telegraph a silent message: Help me out here, I need a steer.
“Mamma’s right, you should come to the dinner,” he says finally. “I know Bella would like to see you again.”
“Well, in that case, how could I say no?”
I notice how he doesn’t include himself and wonder if he’s feeling press-ganged into this. If Maria notices the omission she lets it slide as she claps her hands, the gold bangles around her wrists making music as she pulls me in close again.
“She’s a hugger,” Gio says, shaking his head as he catches my eye over her shoulder. It’s clear from his face that he loves her and she drives him nuts. I hug her back, and it catches me unaware how good it feels to be gathered into her maternal embrace. I think of my mum, so different from Maria, yet similarly free with her emotions and always ready to throw her arms around someone and make everyone feel special: the girl in the cinema who upgraded our seats to the fancy recliners for a one-night-only showing of Pretty Woman the year before she died; the guy in the local market who gave me a huge burnished-sunshine peach from his stall for free, when I can’t have been more than five or six; a policeman in Trafalgar Square, working while others danced and wheeled around him one crisp and clear New Year’s Eve. I can almost smell her perfume as the memories crowd around me, so I say my goodbyes and get myself out on to the street, glad of the cold wind in my face to blow the memories back into their safe place. It’s so difficult, this act of balancing my past with my now, trying to do a good thing alongside trying to feel like a good person. I daren’t think about my mother too much while I’m at Belotti’s, it brings the past too close to the surface. I push my head down against the crisp, cold wind and power walk home, anxious for some time alone.
12.
SUNDAY FINDS ME SICKLY NERVOUS. It’s Halloween out there for most people across New York tonight, but I can’t say I’m sad to be doing something that doesn’t involve ghosts and ghouls. I never liked Halloween much back in the UK, possibly because it’s one of those things that only really looks fun with old friends and good neighbors. Tonight will be all about Ognissanti instead, which I’ve googled in an attempt not to appear totally ignorant. I now know it’s an Italian national holiday where families get together and feast, and that—thankfully—I don’t need to buy a witch’s hat to attend.
Maria and Santo live in Brooklyn Heights, which—although it’s only a few miles as the crow flies—is across Brooklyn Bridge, and means leaving Manhattan Island. I haven’t done that more than a handful of times since arriving in the United States, which would probably seem extraordinary to some but has been right for me up to now. Gio offered to call round for me this evening—he and Bella live in the condo above the gelateria and it wouldn’t be out of their way—but as I climb into the Lyft I’m glad I insisted on making my own way. Now it won’t be strange when I travel back alone.
I wasn’t sure what to wear tonight. My favorite washed-out jeans felt too casual, but my only decent black going-out dress felt too short and too formal. I ended up scouring local stores and found a green velvet blouse that is probably too trendy for me, but I like it anyway. Paired with skinny black jeans and heels, I hope it suggests “I’ve kept it low-key but made an effort,” and that the huge bunch of flowers in my arms say “Thanks for asking me over.”
I’m distracted by the city at night as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge. I’m a Londoner at heart but, even so, the scale and grandeur of the skyline here takes my breath, especially tonight as I travel across the illuminated bridge spanning the East River. I’m dazzled, nerves thrown out in favor of drinking it all in, the only sound in the van that of the female driver chatting quietly to someone in her earpiece. The nerves kick back in with a jolt as soon as the cab comes to a stop halfway along a street of elegant brownstones, each accessed by a flight of stone steps edged with black wrought-iron balustrades. Santo and Maria’s has small pots on each step filled with winter flowers, and at the top grand wooden double doors in an ornate stone surround. It’s stunning. Daunting, actually. So daunting I almost lose my nerve, but then one of the doors flings open and Sophia is pulling me inside.
“I saw you from the window,” she says, hanging my coat on the stand in the wood-paneled hallway. “You okay?”
“Are you sure I’m not gatecrashing a family thing?” I say, chewing the inside of my lip as I take in the polished parquet, sweeping staircase and low chandelier.
“Mamma’s excited to have you here, she wants to impress you with her cooking,” she says, laughing as she points out the guest bathroom before leading me into the living room. I’m overawed by the old-school opulence: high ceilings, grand framed mirrors, and a magnificent, welcoming carved fireplace. Deep sofas face each other either side of a low coffee table, pools of lamplight bathing the scene in warmth and comfort. For all of that, it’s not at all austere, and the family filling the space are not standing, or indeed sitting, on ceremony. The sofas are filled with Belotti sisters, and kids dash up to us, all of them come to have a look at the new person in their midst.
“You’ve met most of us,” Sophia says, taking the flowers from me as her sisters jump up to hug me. It’s a lot: so many people and so many hugs, too many kids’ and partners’ names being tossed out to have a hope of remembering any of them.
“Iris.”
Maria appears in a cloud of expensive scent and subtle sophistication—it strikes me that her house reflects her style perfectly.
“The flowers are so pretty, thank you,” she says, pressing a kiss against my cheek. “Gio is on the way, he called to say they’re stuck in traffic.” She looks down as a crawling child pulls himself up on her leg and she bends to lift the baby into her arms. “What is it, Leo? You want to say hello to Iris too?”