I’m sure the Belottis suspect there’s something happening between Gio and me, and I appreciate that none of them have asked directly, although there have been moments when Sophia has seemed as if she’s bursting to. They know Gio well enough to understand that he’s someone who needs to do things to his own timescale, and for my part I’m relieved to just keep things in precarious balance for as long as possible. I wish with all of my heart that this was an uncomplicated love affair, but it isn’t. Gio has his baggage, and I drag my invisible suitcase of secrets behind me like a lead weight. It’s going to burst open one day and spill my dirty underwear in the street for everyone to see, but for now I just want to take joy from the simple things as the calendar flips from day to day. Tomorrow will take care of itself.
31.
“ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS is your gelato recipe,” Bobby says, handing me a glass of wine. It’s Christmas in three days and the noodle house has officially closed until after the holiday, so I’ve come upstairs to say goodbye before they head off to rendezvous with Robin’s family at some ungodly hour of the morning. Their Vuitton luggage stands packed and ready by the door and the apartment is spick-and-span, more Robin’s organizational skills than Bobby’s, I suspect. They’ve generously given me a key and free use of their place over the holidays, but I think I might find it hard to leave my own apartment now the tree is there. I get a thrill every time I flick it on, like my own mini light switch-on ceremony. I don’t do a countdown, but I totally could.
“You’re still going to Gio’s family for Christmas, right?” Robin says, lifting Smirnoff onto his window seat.
“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t spend the day alone with the cat,” I say, watching the ginger furball turn circles on his cushion before folding himself down.
“He’s terrible company,” Robin says, fussing Smirnoff’s ear and getting his hand batted for his trouble.
Bobby sits beside me on the sofa and I reach out and touch his leg. “Are you wearing leather trousers?”
He rolls his eyes as he swats my fingers. “Pants, for the millionth time, and yes, one hundred percent lambskin.”
“Are you testing them as uniform for the waitstaff?”
Bobby looks horrified. “They’re Balmain, Iris. Your eye for quality is disturbingly inaccurate.”
“Wipe clean, anyway,” I say, catching Robin’s eye with a subtle wink. “Practical.”
“Jesus, I’m not going hiking in them,” Bobby says. “Talk to me about fashion when you don’t buy your clothes at the grocery store. Bacon and a sweater. Who does that?”
I laugh into my wineglass because he’s right. “It’s not my fault if my boss doesn’t pay me Balmain wages.”
“I heard he’s awful to work for,” Robin says, always happy to tag team with me when it comes to rinsing Bobby. “You should probably report him.”
“They’d never catch him to arrest him,” I say. “He’s like the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Okay, I have no idea who that even is, but I hope he has a better handle on fashion than either of you,” Bobby says.
“He was a swashbuckling hero,” I say. “Definitely wore leather trousers.”
Bobby looks slightly mollified. “You’re going to miss us,” he says.
“What he means is he’s going to miss you.” Robin raises his glass to me from his armchair by the fire. “Because he’s being forced to spend the holidays in Bermuda with my family.”
“I don’t like boats,” Bobby says.
“Or my mother,” Robin says, and they both laugh, because Robin’s mother is incredibly hard work.
“I’ll miss you both,” I say. “Text me every day.”
Bobby puts his hand on my arm. “Call us if there’s an emergency. Make one up if you have to.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and watch the fire for a while.
“You’ll be back by New Year’s Eve?” I say, checking even though I know the answer.
“Home before the ball drops,” Robin says.
I finish my wine, relieved I’m going to have my friends around me come the New Year.
* * *
—
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S Christmas Eve tomorrow,” Sophia says. She’s wearing an elf hat, a bell on the end that jangles every time she speaks. “I’m so ready for some time off, not thinking about anything but food.”
“How’s things at home?”
Santo finally came home a few days ago, and from what Gio has told me, it’s been a big change for everyone. His mobility on a stick is good enough for him to get around independently, especially with the subtle adaptations Maria has put in place to make sure he still feels like the vital head of the Belotti household rather than someone who needs taking care of. He does, of course, but they’ve made careful plans and surreptitious rotas to make sure Santo never feels less than the strong, respected man he’s always been.
Sophia rolls her shoulders, making her bell jingle. “Not too bad. Everyone’s thrilled to have Papa home, of course, but Mamma’s routines have all had to go out of the window, you know? She’s cooking for Christmas, Felipe is there a lot of the time…I think it’s all driving her a little crazy but you know what she’s like, always calm and collected on the outside. I’m glad to be out of the way for a while.”
Sophia has her own apartment a couple of blocks away but she’s been staying at the family home to help her parents for the last week or so and I know she’s been finding it stressful. She’s had me drinking mini shots of limoncello at ten in the morning, a tiny plastic glass of Christmas sanity.
“Papa’s coming here later,” she says, biting the side of her fingernail.
I nod, putting a hand up to steady the reindeer antlers Sophia has me wearing. “Gio said.”
They’re all quietly worried about Santo’s return to the gelateria, more for his health’s sake than the forgotten gelato recipe. There’s a weight of expectation, pressure mostly applied by Santo himself. He’s coming over with Maria later once the shop’s closed up for the afternoon. Everyone is hopeful that Santo’s memory will be jolted by his return to the kitchens, even if the doctors have said it’s a long shot.
“Will you be okay here if I nip down to the market?” she says. “I promised Mamma I’d grab a few things for tomorrow night’s dinner.”
“Sure, carry on,” I say.
Gio’s out this morning too, last-minute Christmas shopping, but business has all but dried up now so I’m not overly worried. Sophia replaces the elf hat with her coat and bobble hat before dashing out, and I stand behind the counter with just the festive radio for company. I wipe the coffee machine down, buff the glass counter to a shine, line up the few remaining cookies in the cabinet. This is the first time I’ve been completely alone in the gelateria and it’s an unexpectedly strange feeling, as if the photographs of the Belotti ancestors are holding an emergency meeting as they scrutinize me from the walls.
I pour myself a glass of water and try to tune my ear into the quiz on the radio but I just can’t shake the discombobulated feeling. I empty the dishwasher for something to do, my back turned to the door as I stack the clean cups on the shelf beside the coffee machine, studiously avoiding the Belotti eyes on the walls. Had I been facing the other way I might have spotted the yellow cab pulling up outside, and the two men climbing carefully out and stepping into the doorway. I’m humming along to “White Christmas,” oblivious until the bell over the door jangles and I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Santo Belotti.