The First Mistake(41)

‘And my, how you’ve grown,’ Antonio said to me. ‘I remember you when you were down here.’ I’d smiled as he’d held a hand out a few inches from the floor. ‘What are you now? Fifteen, Sixteen?’

‘Thirteen,’ I’d giggled, secretly pleased that he thought I looked older.

‘Bellisima!’ he said. ‘And Mrs Russo? Is she not with you?’

‘No, it’s just me and this one today,’ Dad had said, ruffling my head as if I was three. I flattened my hair self-consciously. ‘Father and daughter time.’

If I had been cross with him for treating me like a child, it didn’t last long, as he poured the tiniest amount of white wine into one of the glasses set on the table.

‘Don’t tell your mother,’ he’d said, winking.

I remember the sun shining and Dad offering to swap seats because he had sunglasses and I didn’t. I remember the starched white tablecloths and the smell of olive oil and garlic as bowls of seafood spaghetti wafted past us on their way to other diners. If it hadn’t been the last meal we shared, I doubt I’d be able to recall what we had, but because it was, I can see all too clearly my carbonara and Dad’s arrabbiata being set down before us.

‘This is the life,’ he’d said, as we tucked in. And it was. I couldn’t imagine having a better time.

‘One day this will all be yours,’ he’d continued, sweeping his arm over the packed veranda we were sat on. You couldn’t squeeze another table in if you tried. All of his restaurants, the one on the Isle of Wight and the four others on the mainland, were always fully booked, more often than not for months in advance.

‘But I can’t cook,’ I’d said, worrying that I wouldn’t be up to the job.

Dad laughed heartily. ‘When did you last see me in a kitchen?’

‘You’re always in it at home,’ I’d replied, confused.

‘But I don’t go to work and cook, do I?’

I’d shrugged my shoulders.

‘You just need to run the operation,’ he’d said. ‘As long as the chefs can follow Grandma’s recipes, you’ll be fine.’

As always, Antonio had joined us for a drink after our meal and, as always, I’d spent their mostly Italian conversation fixated on watching the smoke rings he created.

I was fluent in Italian, but it was still an effort to keep up, and anyway, they were just talking shop, so I zoned out. Now, of course, I wished I’d concentrated on every word Dad spoke, no matter how boring I thought it was, because ever since, his is the only voice I yearn to hear.

The next morning, back home, he had woken up, made Mum a cup of tea and collapsed on the kitchen floor with the teaspoon still in his hand. She’d tried to revive him, and the ambulance was quick to come, but it was already too late. He’d had a brain haemorrhage at just forty-nine.

The house had been full of people, even before I’d woken up, and I’d walked out onto the landing to cries and panic from the floor below. I knew something had happened, but it didn’t occur to me that it had anything to do with Dad. How could it? We’d just spent the best day together. He’d been perfectly normal, and he’d let me have some wine. It was our little secret. How could he no longer be there to share it?

My hand was still dangling down the side of the bed, ever hopeful of feeling Tyson, when my phone rang, making me jump. Hot Guy lit up the screen. I really had to change that.

‘Hi,’ he said tightly.

‘What’s up?’ I asked, immediately aware of his clipped tone.

‘That man’s called again,’ he said grimly. ‘I’ve got a good mind to call the police . . .’

‘And say what? People offer rewards for their pets’ safe return all the time. It’s not a crime to take it.’

‘But we didn’t offer a reward,’ he said.

‘No, but I would have done, if I’d thought about it. This guy’s obviously chancing his arm, but if he’s got Tyson, then I’ll happily pay whatever it takes to get him back.’

‘He says he’s got him and wants two thousand pounds,’ said Thomas.

‘Do you believe him?’ I asked.

‘I think we should take him seriously, in the absence of anything else. I’ve got his address.’

‘So, what should I do?’ I asked, my voice wobbling. ‘What’s the next step? Should I get hold of the cash?’

‘God no. I don’t want you turning up at some strange guy’s house with that kind of money on you.’

I gulped. ‘Me? You want me to go?’

‘Well, no . . .’ he faltered. ‘Not if you don’t feel comfortable.’

‘Look, I know I’m asking a lot of you,’ I said, ‘especially after everything you’ve done already, but would you mind going? You know Tyson – you’ll know if it’s him. I’ll give you the money and as soon as you’re happy, you can hand it over.’

It dawned on me how ridiculous it all sounded. ‘God, listen to us,’ I went on. ‘It sounds like something out of a film!’

I still felt uneasy when we met outside the bank and I surreptitiously handed Thomas a brown envelope stuffed with a hundred twenty pound notes. ‘I feel like I’m in the middle of a drugs bust,’ I said, laughing nervously. But Thomas was rubbing at his chin, deep in thought.