Chapter One
It all started on an unpleasant day, with unpleasant weather, at an unpleasant hour. Even the bed smelled unpleasant, although, that might have just been me. I took a sniff under my armpit. It was definitely me. Some people wake up with bad breath, dandruff or lousy hair. In my case, it was all three and more. I quickly snatched my phone from the dresser, discovering it hadn’t been charging as I’d hoped. Typical. A single notification blinked back at me. I opened Instagram to discover a new follower: Mrs Asparagus’s Quality Begonias. I sighed. How very riveting.
I got up, gingerly making my way to the bathroom, not taking my eyes off the phone. An average of 95 million photos and videos are uploaded to Instagram daily. I attempted the impossible task of washing my hands while scrolling through the feed. It was full of the usual: bikini-clad girls, staring absentmindedly into a sunset at some exotic location, accompanied by a colourful cocktail, or clutching a steaming mug of tea in both hands. From time to time they’d enlighten their followers with pieces of wisdom such as: “If you don’t love yourself, how do you expect anyone else to?” I looked at my reflection in the mirror. How indeed? I was twenty-six and for some reason still had copious amounts of baby fat filling out my cheeks, my hair looked like I used a firecracker to comb it and any attempts to grow a beard have only resulted in a small number of fluffy islands, dotted around my chin. It was a face only a mother could love. If the mother happened to be either half-blind or drunk.
I brushed my teeth vigorously until my gums began to bleed. Combing my nest of hair to dissuade any crows from attempting to sit in it, I tried to reward myself with an encouraging smile. All I managed was a terrifying grimace that made me look away. I was pretty sure even the girl from The Exorcist would run away in fright. My eyes turned back to the phone, absentmindedly liking every post I came across while still somehow managing to track down all the items that made up my kitchen uniform and stuffed them inside a bag. I made my way to the door, banging my elbow on the way out.
The cold autumn air hit me in the face, pinching my cheeks like an overzealous aunt at a family reunion. If you’ve seen one autumn morning in London, you’ve probably seen them all. Grey, windy and miserable, with a weird collection of smells that were either fumes from cars and nearby restaurants or of an altogether more nefarious origin. Still looking at my phone, I was greeted by more uplifting quotes. There was the always popular: “Dreams come true if we believe in them hard enough.” Right, as if. And, of course, one of my favourites: “I you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.” At that moment, a car whizzed by, going through a puddle and spraying me head to toe. I was sure the driver simply made an honest mistake, while still cursing under my breath. I didn’t know who could handle me at my worst, but even my best didn’t really seem like the most appealing of options.
The bus was full, as usual. Imagine a can of sardines, only better dressed and much angrier. Not taking my eyes off the phone, I treaded on an unsuspecting passenger’s toes.
“Oi, knobhead! Get off your phone and watch where you’re going, will ya?” he growled, barely taking his eyes from his own mobile device.
I tried to apologise, but could not muster the courage. Making my way to the very end of the bus, I went back to my scrolling. In addition to the bikini girls my feed was full of the usual suspects; the Influencers, Eternal Travellers, Entrepreneurial Guru’s, Zen Masters… all of them urging me to live life to the fullest and damn the consequences. That’s all well and good, but it gets harder to damn the consequences if you can barely afford a toothbrush. Not to mention toothpaste.
The bus wound its way through Central London, with the regular horde of excited tourists and not-so-excited locals filling the streets. The pandemic was pretty much over, but you could still see a few stragglers walking around with face masks. I got off the bus and it took all of fifteen seconds before a tourist blocked my path.
“Fish and chips?” She shouted, waving her arms wildly. Her English was so broken, you could have swept it with a broom.
“Fish and chips?” I asked back. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. She pointed to a nearby McDonalds.
“Fish and chips?” She asked, even louder this time. I shook my head.
“No. No fish and chips.” She looked around again, while I checked my phone impatiently. Finally, she pointed to a nearby pub.
“Fish and chips?”
“Fish and chips.” I agreed. She smiled and made her way to the pub. I guess I could have told her that this particular pub is smack in the middle of Trafalgar Square, and the fish is probably going to cost a fortune. I could also tell her it wasn’t even open. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of any way to mime this and was already running late. I took the tube to a dodgier part of town, where I worked at. La Bella Sofia, home of authentic Tuscan delicacies. At least that’s what it said on the sign above the door. The truth was a little different.
The place was one of those old rundown establishments that used to be a pub and then somebody, in their infinite wisdom, bought it and decided to turn it into an Italian restaurant. Sadly, they didn’t consider making the décor Italian as well, and the dining area was a mismatched collection of furniture. Tables that should have been thrown out a decade ago and chairs that looked like they were only good for hitting people over the head in case of a brawl. The only authentic Italian artefacts were two snow globes, one from Florence, the other from Venice, and a few extremely old strings of garlic. Good for keeping vampires away, and just as good for deterring a better class of customer. If you’re one of those people who go to pubs in the morning you know what to expect. Groups of students who’d been out all night and were now groggily waiting for breakfast, and a few regulars who come in every morning when the alcohol starts being served. You can usually recognize them by their foul tempers, even fouler body odour, odd clothing and a general lack of teeth. Our two regulars were called Sloppy Dave and Stinky Steve. Nobody knew who’d given them these names, but they fit them to a T. They’d been regulars when the place was a pub, and decided to keep coming even after the change to a restaurant because their favourite ale was still on draught. Stinky Steve grumbled something when I walked past. I had no clue what he said, so I just forced a smile and walked towards the kitchen. Before I reached the doors Gennaro barged through them, carrying a plate of unappetising-looking breakfasts. He took one look at me before his face turned an unhealthy shade of purple, a colour that spelt trouble.
“Andy!” He roared, seasoning the breakfasts with his spittle. “Late, always late!”
Gennaro was a proper Italian, like the ones from cartoons. He had dark hair, a dark moustache and even darker chest hair poking out his unbuttoned shirt, where a gold crucifix hung. He didn’t speak, as much as yell, waving his hands and pinching the tips of his fingers together.
“Sorry Gennaro,” I said, trying to think of an excuse. “The traffic was –”
“Yes, I know, the traffic was horrendous, there was a dead horse on the road, the Queen’s Guard blocked your way… I’ve heard them all. Get in there, the sausages are getting cold!”
Personally, I don’t know what he was complaining about. The sausages were always cold, the eggs had more shells than yolk and the bacon… well, the less I say about the bacon, the better. It also says a lot about an Italian restaurant where the top-selling item was a full English breakfast.
I quickly changed, tying my apron as I entered the kitchen. I took one look at the greasy walls, the rundown equipment and a big puddle of something dark and unidentifiable in one of the corners. For the 150th time I wished I were anywhere but here. I turned around to find Nona leaning on a counter.
“Morning Nona, how’s things?”
As per usual it took her a moment to realize that she knew me. Nona, like all Italian grandmothers, used to be an amazing cook. But she must have been pushing a hundred and it showed.
“Not good, bambino, not good. Bacon burned and I spilt a bag of salt in the marinara!” She croaked, hanging her head in shame.
I quickly hurried to the giant pot of sauce simmering on a stove. I tried it, using a small spoon. My mouth almost exploded. That’s what drowning in the Dead Sea must feel like. I quickly poured the marinara into the sink.
“No worries, Nona. Let me fix this, you go and take five.”
She shuffled through the back door slowly, before lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. Bless her. She should have retired sometime last century but refuses to stop working. Apparently, she can’t stand being around her husband. She once told me she came to London after running away from Mussolini and his regime. I asked her how she escaped, hoping for a thrilling tale of adventure. You can imagine my disappointment when she told me she simply took a train.
