It was mental self-flagellation of sorts. There were boys in her class who had flattered her with praise, but they barely ignited a flicker of want. If anything, their nasal braying, scrupulous note-taking in lectures, and encyclopaedic knowledge of Star Wars disgusted her. It just wasn’t what she desired. She had attempted to rail against her most basic wants, but there seemed to be no way to justify or temper it.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to feel attraction for boys like Dylan Roper, who was tall with enviably thick, long hair. Dylan was in fact sweet, smart and nice. He paid her attention, and she appreciated it, even when he over-laughed at her jokes and popped breath mints before sitting next to her in chemistry. But he was no Cassian Kelleway.
She understood that life might be easier if only she could figure out how to stay in her lane. But alas, her misery was only intensified when she understood that it was nothing more than basic biology, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. It seemed her loins only jumped and her stomach only folded for a lithe, blond boy who moved in a pack and whom she doubted had ever noticed her. He knew her, of course he did – she was Jake’s little sister, and Jake was his best friend – but notice her? No, that was a different thing entirely.
It was her fate to be a background girl. Wallpaper. If only Cassian would give her a chance! She wasn’t interested in his opinion on cubism with a specific focus on Cézanne, whether he could mentally resolve complex quadratic equations or his thoughts on alternative energy sources. It didn’t even matter if he didn’t share her passion for botany – all topics she held in fascination. No, she just wanted to kiss him and for him to kiss her back. And not just a peck, but the kind of kissing that led to other stuff. The other stuff she imagined as she dawdled home from school or when she was in the library where, with a weighty textbook in her hand, she elevated her mind to the dizziest of heights, while stealing glimpses at him and any other athletes who roamed the halls in vests and shorts, her thoughts very much in the gutter.
‘Evening, Daisy.’
‘Hi, Gia.’
Walking into the kitchen, she greeted the co-owner and chef, who stood with her lustrous dark hair piled on the top of her head and a piping bag in her big hands. How Daisy envied the woman her hair and her ample bosom which jiggled as she worked. Twisting the top of the piping bag, Gianna released fat ribbons of her delicious mascarpone mix, which she speedily and expertly laid in a delicate pattern of waves over the top of the coffee-soaked sponge.
Daisy knew it was a smell that would always make her mouth water and one that she was certain in years to come would transport her right back to this kitchen of the Italian restaurant where she had worked for the last two years, graduating from pot washer to waitress when Piero had left. And now, with business not quite as brisk and their opening hours pared down a little, it was just the four of them who kept the cogs turning and the machine of the restaurant oiled – an older lady, Nancy, worked the shifts Daisy didn’t. And Doug, who lived upstairs, came in to wash dishes on the rare occasion they were super busy.
The money was better waiting tables, but there had been something gloriously rudimentary about spending hours with her hands submerged in the murky water of the sink where a constant stack of dishes waited to be rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher. It was freedom of sorts; no happy face required, but somewhere Daisy could simply be lost to the handling of heavy pots where the crust of charred meat clung and pale-coloured licks of sauces sat like tide marks inside them, waiting to feel the heavy swipe of a scouring pad and a sluice of lemony scented bubbles. A place where she could order her thoughts and breathe . . .
‘Did you get your essay back?’ Gianna asked without looking up from the task in hand.
‘Yep.’ She stashed her scarf and hat, happy that the woman took this interest in her, remembered things like the return of her essay. ‘I did okay.’ It felt easier than confessing to the red-ringed A+ on her paper, putting her at the top of the class for her year group.
‘Clever girl.’ Gianna smiled. ‘There’s lasagne in the oven or I can make you a salad. Or would you like both?’
The way Gianna fussed over her was one of the very best parts of her day. Daisy ran her hand over her stomach; the scent from the oven was way too tempting . . .
‘Lasagne will be lovely, thank you, Gia.’
‘My pleasure!’
Daisy fastened the apron around her waist and pulled her inadequate hair into a ponytail as she walked through the half louvre doors into the dimly lit thirty-cover restaurant.
‘Fully booked!’ Carlo clapped his hands, as he did when he was happy. His happiness, it seemed, was entirely dependent on the amount of money they were going to make.
‘Great.’ She smiled; they would all rather be busy. Not only did this make the hours fly, but it meant tips were better.
‘Gia set up after lunch, so we’re all good. We have a table of eight in at seven o’clock! It’s a wedding anniversary. The daughter is bringing a cake.’
Oh no! She felt her stomach drop.
‘A wedding anniversary?’ she asked, her mouth dry.
‘Yes.’ Carlo ran his finger under the booking in the diary which sat open on the table by the napkin and cutlery station. It was also where the phone lurked, allowing them to jot down bookings and take the odd pizza order. These had been a little thin on the ground since a fancy, cheap, sourdough place had opened up in town – they delivered, and their trendy brand was appealing to people just like her. Oh, and their pizzas were incredible! Not that she’d ever share this with Carlo. Or admit to feasting on them, eating quickly and greedily within the confines of her bedroom, feeling all at once disloyal and in complete raptures over the beauty of their bubbly, blackened, divine, soft, salty dough.
‘Mr and Mrs Kelleway. You know the Kelleways, they come in a lot. The old man likes to splash the cash.’
Kelleway . . . She spoke the word in her head as Carlo drew her back to the present. She nodded, and her ugly, bulky knees went a little soft.
‘I don’t . . .’ she began, trying to calm her flustered pulse and think logically of how she could get out of there quickly. ‘I don’t feel too well.’ She pulled open the neck of her shirt as if, in some cartoonesque fashion, to let off steam. The thought of serving Cassian, of him seeing her here at work! It was mortifying. Not that she was ashamed of her job – no, siree – she was embarrassed to see him anywhere! But the thought of being trapped here, in such close proximity . . .
‘Daisy’ – Carlo put his podgy fingers over his mouth – ‘don’t do this to me! We have a busy night! Have a drink of water and put off being ill until your shift ends.’ His eyes crinkled into the smile that made her love working for him and his wife. They were lovely people who paid her well, treated her kindly and sent her family a boxed panettone and six bottles of red wine each Christmas. ‘I’m half joking. Are you sick?’ He took a step towards her, his concerned expression almost more than she could stand.
‘No, I’m not sick, I’m . . .’ How to describe it? Dreading it! Wishing I could fall through the floor! Wondering if I can hide in the cupboard? Wear a disguise? ‘I’m fine.’
‘Grazie Dio!’ He held his hands up.