‘Are you sure you’re okay, Gia?’
The woman rallied a little and took her time in answering.
‘Ignore me.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m just a little tired. It’s one of those nights where the evening has rumbled on longer than I would have wished. It’s like this sometimes, isn’t it? The minutes ticking by so slowly that you start to feel a little resentful towards the customers still hanging around. That’s not fair, of course. It’s their night out and I’m grateful they choose us to share it with.’
‘Can I make you some tea?’
‘Actually, that would be lovely, Daisy, thank you.’
She reached for one of the mismatched mugs reserved for staff and lobbed a teabag into it before filling the kettle.
‘Sorry, Daisy, I shouldn’t be so morose, especially after your big tip. We should be celebrating! But I don’t know . . .’ Gianna took a slow breath. ‘It feels like, recently, I just want to finish up and get home earlier and earlier. I can’t help it; they bug me, the lingerers, the lurkers, the drinkers, even the loud ones who want to shout out their next long story. Do they not have homes to go to, soft beds with clean sheets, warm showers where they can wash away the dirt of the day? I know I do . . .’
It was rare to hear Gianna quite so reflective and it bothered her.
‘I still like it when we get quiet couples on first dates. Do you remember that man last month who dropped his cutlery and then stuttered his order – I felt so sorry for him!’ Daisy pictured the sweaty, hapless chap.
‘Yes, and we were betting on him and his date’s chances of success. I don’t think he scored very well.’
‘He didn’t!’ she confirmed.
‘Ah, but you never can tell by looking, Daisy. Sometimes even the most mismatched of pairs can be blissfully happy and those who are all smiles and vino . . . Well, you don’t know what happens behind closed doors.’
‘I guess that’s true.’
‘It is.’
Daisy squeezed the teabag against the inside of the mug and added a splash of milk until the tea turned the colour of dark toffee, just the way Gianna liked it. She handed her the cup.
‘Thank you, dear. Or maybe I’m just an old cynic. What do you think?’
‘I think everything feels hard when you’re tired. I know . . .’ She paused; it was rare for her to talk about home. Wary that to do so here might in some way dilute her haven. This and the fact that she didn’t want pity, never that. ‘I know my mum finds things difficult; she’s tired a lot.’
‘Well, she’s lucky to have you, we all are.’ Gianna’s eyes smiled at her as she sipped her tea.
‘Who’s lucky to have who?’ Carlo came into the kitchen with empty bowls stacked on his upturned wrist and a clutch of dirty napkins in his hand.
‘We are lucky to have Daisy,’ Gianna said.
‘We are.’ He nodded, as he threw the napkins in the dirty linen basket and popped the bowls in the sink. ‘Not much longer. The last table have finished their liqueur and they look about ready to go. Is that tea?’ Carlo sniffed the air.
‘Would you like one?’ Daisy reached for a mug.
‘I really would.’ Carlo winked at her. She liked that she could do this one small thing for them at the end of a long day. ‘Back in a mo.’
He whisked back out to the restaurant and in no time she heard the bell ring above the door and the sound of the bolt being shot as the last of the customers left. It fascinated her, the way Gianna and Carlo, in a well-rehearsed routine, closed the restaurant for the night. Switching off lights, turning off power, flicking switches, closing doors. There was something captivating and intimate about it. The place never felt so cosy as it did at times like this when they’d worked hard, laughter and emotion still coated the walls, and the dining room now slumbered in semi-darkness. She liked it. Carlo stood by the sink and sipped the hot tea as if it was nectar.
‘I used to have nice hands.’ Gianna flexed her fingers. ‘But now I’ve got these veins that bulge like fat worms.’ She nodded at the back of her hands. ‘They’re a mess, look!’
It was true, Gianna’s fingers were etched with scars and burns, the slip of a blade wielded by a distracted hand, and the scald of steam had left angry red streaks. Calluses had formed where the heavy wooden handle of her favourite knives had toughened the once soft skin with the repeated action. Daisy guessed this was just collateral damage of a life lived in service to these four walls and the thousands and thousands of suppers, lunches and snacks she had prepared for the paying customers. It was as unexpected as it was awkward when Gianna started crying again.
‘Hey! Why tears?’ Carlo put down his tea and walked over to his wife.
‘I’d better . . .’ Daisy walked over to her locker to retrieve her hat, scarf and bike lock, trying not to listen, wishing she were somewhere else. It felt intrusive and embarrassing all at once.
Carlo placed his arms around his wife. ‘Don’t cry, bella.’
He spoke with such sweet concern it was like a knife to her heart. She could only imagine someone talking to her in that way.
‘I think . . . I think I’m tired,’ Gianna stuttered.
‘It’s been a long month. A busy one. We’re up fifteen per cent on this time last year.’ He nodded, as if this fact alone should be enough to lift his wife’s mood.
Daisy understood a while back that whilst Carlo was motivated by the rise in their bank balance, it didn’t seem to be the same for Gianna, whose face lit up not at the sound of the till, but at the wows and gasps of delight that filtered back into the kitchen when food was presented and tasted.
‘I’m a little emotional. I was just thinking, Carlo, about the day we might stop, about when it will be the right time to shut up shop and go home.’
‘We are going home!’ He rattled the keys in his hand and laughed at her tired mumbling. Daisy thought it was both placatory and a little condescending. ‘We’d be there a lot quicker if we weren’t stood here chatting.’
Gianna shook her head. ‘No, I mean home.’
Daisy tried not to listen, tried to open the fiddly padlock on her locker that often took a while to budge, tried to merge into the background, hum . . .
‘I know my mother has been dead for decades, but just the memory of her kitchen with her in it . . . I can’t explain, but it makes me so sad!’ This recollection was apparently enough to encourage the next bout of tears. ‘Sometimes it’s as if I lost her only yesterday and not all those years ago.’
Daisy could understand that; she too found that despite the situation she lived with, sometimes just the thought of her mother’s depression was enough to pull the rug from under her. And each time it caught her off guard, this torrent of grief and loss for the life they once lived had the power to knock the wind from her lungs. She wondered if it would ever stop, hoping in some way it would, and yet taking solace from the strength of feeling which meant she still cared deeply for the woman who was in there somewhere.
Gianna continued, ‘I’m . . . I’m thinking a lot about sitting in the sun, growing our own food, taking slow walks, afternoon naps – all the things we’ve spoken about for so long. I feel like it’s time.’