One Night in Italy (29 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

All’ufficio
– At the office

Trying to write a killer restaurant review with a hangover was one thing. Trying to write it with a hangover and an image of your boyfriend snogging another woman flashing through your brain approximately every thirty seconds was damn near impossible. Yet Anna’s copy needed to be on Imogen’s desk by four o’clock this afternoon: fact. And she knew that Marla, on returning to work, would go straight to Anna’s review like a heat-seeking missile hellbent on racking up a long, critical list of its faults. If there was a single lame sentence, Marla would cite this as conclusive evidence that Anna just wasn’t up to the job: fact.

Getting some fresh air and meeting Sophie helped some, especially as Sophie seemed so confident about her friend making a breakthrough when it came to the Gino-hunt. But all too soon she was back in her stuffy office, the screen in front of her maddeningly empty.

Enrico’s, the new Italian restaurant on Ecclesall Road, has a great atmosphere and lovely staff
, she began, then immediately deleted it. Ugh. Wooden and forgettable. Try again.

Love Italian food? Then you’ll love Enrico’s, the new Italian restaurant on Ecclesall Road
, she tried next. Also awful, she decided in the next moment, backspacing through the lot. Now she just sounded like a cheesy advert.

This was harder than she’d anticipated. That all-important first sentence was eluding her. Anna knew from previous Imogen lectures that you had approximately three lines to grab a reader. If you hadn’t hooked them in by then, they’d turn the page and ignore your carefully written piece. ‘You can have the most fascinating, brilliantly constructed article ever,’ Imogen liked saying, ‘but if the opening is shite, nobody will bother discovering its magnificence.’

Anna swigged the rest of her lukewarm coffee, trying to get into the right frame of mind. She never had this problem usually. Bloody Pete and his wandering tongue. Not only had he made her feel like a complete idiot, he was now inadvertently wrecking her career by distracting her from the job in hand.

‘Everything all right?’ said Joe, walking past just then. His expression was wary, as if he half-expected her to freak out and sprint away like she’d done the night before.

‘Yeah, fabulous,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

He put his hands up. ‘Only asking,’ he said, then walked off.

Oh great. Now she’d driven him away when he was only being friendly. She opened her mouth to say sorry, she didn’t mean it, but then shut it again because he was already out of hearing range.

Heaving a sigh, she turned back to her computer, made the font of her title bigger, put it into bold, then made it smaller again and added the date. Then she put her name into italics and out again.
Come on, Anna. Make a start. You can always go back and edit out the crap bits later. Just write, damn it!

Still her fingers hovered over the keys, refusing to tap out a single word. This was hopeless. Maybe she should just throw a sicky and go home. But then she’d have filed nothing for the review and Imogen would never give her another chance. Also, Marla would
love
it. Just imagine the gloating, the unbearable smugness.
More difficult than it looks, isn’t it? Not everyone has the talent necessary for reviewing, unfortunately.

Thinking of Marla gave her an idea. How did
she
, the self-proclaimed queen of the Sheffield restaurant scene, do it? Anna opened the newspaper’s website and clicked through past reviews, hoping for inspiration.

Picture the scene: it’s Saturday night, I’m in my new dress from Republic and some seriously mega heels, out with my three besties all looking their finest. Where’s the best place in town for a group of women to go for some fabulous food in stylish surroundings? Well, funny you should ask that . . .

Anna pursed her lips. Marla’s style was all me-me-me, but even she had to admit it worked in its own way. It was a damn sight better than the plodding opening sentences she’d already tried and rejected, that was for sure.

Come on, Anna. You can do personal. You can do bubbly. Just bloody start writing, for heaven’s sake.

She lowered her fingers like a maestro about to launch into a difficult piano concerto, then at long last began to type.

‘Anna, it’s me. Pete.’

‘Come in.’ Anna held the door open for him then stepped back as he tried to put his arms around her. ‘Don’t.’

‘Anna, love, you’ve got it all wrong.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Her voice was Arctic, crackling with ice. ‘What was it again – a blowjob at your mum’s house? A quickie in the Greyhound toilets? That’s lovely, that is, Pete. That’s total class.’ She folded her arms across her chest and stuck her nose in the air. ‘Just take your stuff and go.’

Shock and fear filled his eyes. His jaw dropped. Gotcha. ‘What do you mean? How did you . . . ?’ he stammered.

‘Your laptop,’ she said curtly. ‘All there in black and white for anyone to read. Anyone with half a brain cell who could guess your password, that is.’

His face sagged like a fallen cheese soufflé. ‘I . . . I . . . I was only mucking around,’ he pleaded. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

‘Don’t make it worse.’ She grabbed her handbag. ‘I’m going out now. I’ll give you half an hour to clear your stuff then I never want to see you again. Got that?’

‘But Anna . . .’

‘Bye, Pete.’

She walked briskly out of her flat and down to the Lescar, where for thirty torturous minutes she sat on her own at a corner table with a pint of Guinness and tried her hardest not to cry.

When she returned home, every last trace of Pete had vanished, bar a note on the table.

Sorry, Anna.
Then he’d started writing
If you ever . . .
only to change his mind and cross it out. Huh. She could only guess at what he’d been about to say.

If you ever want a shag, give us a ring.

If you ever feel desperate, call me.

If you ever decide you’ve made a mistake, you know where to find me.

Yeah, right. Hell would freeze over first.

If Anna thought a line had now been drawn under the traumas of the week, she was sadly mistaken. As soon as she arrived at work the next day, before she’d even taken off her coat, Imogen was on her case.

‘A word, please, Anna,’ she said in that crisp, no-nonsense way that immediately struck terror into your soul.

Oh God, Anna thought, following her boss into her office. Now what? It was that restaurant review, she could feel it in her bones. Imogen hated it. Imogen was regretting asking her to cover for Marla. Imogen was going to—

‘It’s the restaurant review,’ Imogen began, as if reading Anna’s mind. ‘I’m disappointed, I must say. I was hoping for something zingier, with a bit more punch.’

‘Zingier, with a bit more punch,’ Anna repeated dully.

‘Yes, Anna, the lovely zingy sort of punch that you manage in your cookery column. It’s glaringly absent this time. What went wrong? Any clues? Were you ill? Were you drunk? Had someone slipped you some Valium? You blew it.’

Whoa. Why don’t you just come straight out with it, Anna thought, wincing. She opened her mouth, wondering whether or not to pour out her lovelife sorrows on her boss’s powder-blue padded shoulder. It took her less than a second to decide Not. Imogen was about as touchy-feely as an alligator. ‘Sorry,’ she said feebly. ‘Must have been having an off day. I’ll give it another try.’

‘You do that. And bring in the personal touch this time. Less of the meh, give me your voice. Make it your story, okay? I’ve promised the subs they can have it by midday, so you’d better get on the case. Clock’s ticking.’ She spun on her chair to do something on her Mac, so Anna took the hint and scuttled away.

Yuck. It was like redoing homework. As a journalist, you could never be too precious about your writing – it inevitably got corrected, tweaked, cut – and that was fine; that was part of the job. Being asked to start from scratch on something was a completely different matter. Her sole consolation was that Marla wasn’t there to witness this humiliating walk of shame back to her desk.

She re-read her rejected review, spirits sinking. In all fairness, Imogen was right to sack it. The whole thing was pretty turgid, reviewing-by-numbers at its worst: I ate this, my companion ate this, the restaurant was like this.

Okay. But that was yesterday’s attempt. Today she’d crack it. In two hours and forty minutes, no less. If Imogen wanted zing and punch and the personal touch, she’d bloody well give her the lot.

If you’ve been reading my cookery column recently,
she began,
you’ll know I’m a sucker for Italian food. So when I was offered the chance to review Enrico’s, the new Italian restaurant on Ecclesall Road, I’d booked myself a table before you can say ‘bruschetta’.

She paused. Good. That would do it. What next?
Make it personal
, Imogen had said. Personal. Okay. Then she remembered Pete’s lie about not being able to come to the restaurant with her, and her eyes narrowed. Should she drag Pete into the review, make him part of ‘the story’? Imogen might be furious with her for straying beyond her remit.
This is meant to be a piece about food, not your private life, for goodness sake
, Anna could imagine her snapping. But on the other hand, she might love it. And what better way to lure in a reader than with the added spice of some real-life gossip?

It sounded a perfect place to spend a romantic evening, but unfortunately my boyfriend claimed he was busy
, Anna typed
. Shame! Just as well—

She hesitated, knowing that Pete’s mum read the weekend edition of the paper, cover to cover, as did his workmates. Oh, knickers to the lot of them, she thought. He’d brought this on himself.

Just as well a handsome colleague was free to accompany me
, she typed. Read it and weep, Pete, she thought, stabbing the keys viciously as she went on. I don’t need you anyway.

Unlike the first dreary affair, this review practically wrote itself. The cloud had lifted and she flexed her writing muscles with glee, knowing that her copy was witty and sparky, with truckloads of that elusive zing.

Will I go back to Enrico’s? Hell, yes. And here’s the acid test. As Handsome Colleague and I left, heads spinning from the dangerously moreish PornStar Martinis, I felt so deliciously full and content that not even the sight of my ‘boyfriend’ smooching the face off another woman in the window of Nando’s could wipe the smile off
my
face. Plenty more
pesce
in the
mare
, as they say!

She checked it all through for any grammar and spelling mistakes, then copied it into an email and sent it to Imogen before she could change her mind. Sometimes, a girl had to do what a girl had to do. And a giant two-fingers up to Pete in the weekend review would do very nicely for starters.

On Saturday morning, Anna woke up early and reminded herself that this was the first day of the rest of her life. She dug out her sports bra then put on her tracky bottoms and running shoes and went dutifully to the weekly Park Run in Endcliffe Park. This was one New Year’s resolution she had actually kept up so far, and she loved meeting her friends every Saturday to take part in the huge, everyone-welcome five-kilometre run that took place rain or shine.

A run with the girls followed by a hearty brunch in the park café was just what she needed. Her friend Chloe was recently single too, and over their plates of eggs and bacon they planned a few girly treats together to prop one another up. Afterwards, Anna headed back towards her flat feeling much better about the world. She had some new recipes she wanted to try for next week’s cookery column and then she was going to spring-clean the flat from top to bottom. She might even look at flights to Rimini. Hadn’t Sophie told her it was the best cure for a broken heart?

She grabbed a paper from the newsagent on the way home and flipped through the pages to find her review. Imogen had pronounced herself ‘delighted’ with the new, improved piece when she’d read it (‘
That’s
more like it!’), and Anna had glowed with praise (and relief) for the rest of the day. Ahh, here it was. She stood in the street while she looked at it appraisingly – then nearly dropped the newspaper in shock.

Wait – somebody had changed her headline. Like, totally rewritten it. She’d titled the review: MAMMA MIA! ENRICO’S GRABS A PIZZA THE ACTION, but now the lettering screamed: MAMMA MIA! ENRICO’S . . . THE FOOD OF LOVE?

Worse than that, one of the designers (who? Wait till she got her hands on them) had added a broken-heart image to the layout as well as . . . Oh no. A silhouetted image of Joe’s byline photo with question mark graphics around it, clearly identifying him as the ‘Handsome Colleague’ of the piece.

Flaming hell. This was a disaster. This was spectacularly awful. Instead of two-fingers to Pete, the designer had made it look as if the piece was all about her falling in love with
Joe
. How had this happened? Had Imogen given the brief, or had the designer decided to make mischief?

Stuffing the paper under her arm, she ran all the way back to her flat and snatched up her phone. She had to warn Joe about it, tell him there’d been a terrible misunderstanding, let him know that this was not – repeat, NOT – her doing.

Too late. As she switched on her phone, she saw that he’d already sent a text, the cold unfriendliness of which left her chilled to the bone.

Just seen your review. WTF? Jules is fuming. Thanks a bunch.

‘But I didn’t mean . . .’ Anna protested out loud, then slumped onto the sofa in dismay. Bollocks. Worse and worse. How was she ever going to dig herself out of this one?