One Night in Italy by Lucy Diamond Page A

September, most of which ran through until summer. Ahh – not quite all. Hurst College, an adult education centre, offered a three-month ‘Beginners’ Italian: Conversation’ course starting in January.
    ‘That’ll do,’ she murmured, whipping out her Visa card and signing up there and then. Afterwards she hesitated, reluctant to put her credit card back in her wallet just yet. January was ages away. She needed something to chew on in the meantime.
    Back she went to her list of search results. You could study great Italian architecture at the university – hmm, that was a module in a degree, maybe not. There was a course in Italian history too, but that was less her thing. Then she saw it. Giovanni’s, a lovely deli on Sharrowvale Road, ran Italian cookery courses in their kitchens above the premises. Rustic Italian Suppers. Fresh Pasta. Classic Italian Desserts.
    Her stomach rumbled. This was more like it. She loved Italian food! With a few quick clicks, she signed up for an ‘Introduction to Italian Cooking’ course the Saturday after next. Then, hearing the brisk clip-clopping of high heels in the vicinity, she hastily closed the browser. That sound meant only one thing: Imogen, her editor, on the prowl, and those laser eyes of hers never missed a skiving worker.
    Anna returned to her boring article about the mysterious special guest who was switching on this year’s Christmas lights, looking every inch the diligent hack as her fingers ran across the keyboard. Her mind, though, was a feast of home-made pesto and chocolate truffles and an Italian chef kissing his fingertips and exclaiming over her culinary skills. Maybe she’d turn out to be a natural. Maybe there was this hidden depth to her, previously unseen. ‘Well, my father’s Italian,’ she imagined telling the others in the class airily. ‘I must get it from him.’
    Then she remembered that she was never actually going to meet this father of hers unless she took action. ‘Return to the source,’ Colin had advised. Like it or not, that seemed her only option. She was going to have to bite the bullet and approach her mum.
    Tracey Morley was now Tracey Waldon, having married Graham Waldon five years ago. The two of them lived in a quiet suburb of Leeds with their sulky ginger cat Lambert (Butler, Lambert’s brother, had gone to meet his maker the year before) and Graham’s extensive cacti collection.
    Although it had always been just the two of them during Anna’s childhood, mother and daughter were not bonded at the hip as you might expect. Theirs was not a cosy relationship of daily chats on the phone and long gossipy lunches or spa days in white waffle robes like some of her friends and their mums. This was fine. Anna knew that her mum loved the very bones of her and would leap in front of a speeding bus to push her to safety if need be, but Tracey was tough too, suspicious of any touchy-feely stuff. She held her cards close to her chest, always had done.
    ‘Christmas shopping?’ Tracey repeated doubtfully when Anna rang to suggest meeting up. ‘What, us two?’
    ‘I thought it would be nice to do something together,’ Anna said, slightly wounded that her idea hadn’t been welcomed with open arms. ‘We don’t have to actually buy Christmas presents or anything,’ she went on, when her mum didn’t reply immediately. ‘We can just have lunch and a chat, you know.’
    There was a suspicious silence. ‘Oh God,’ her mum said suddenly. ‘Are you pregnant, Anna? Is that what this is all about?’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Because I did think you were looking a bit chubby about the face last time we saw each other, and I said to Graham, you wait, I think our Anna’s going to have some news for us soon. And—’
    ‘Mum! MUM! I am not pregnant!’ She hunched over the phone, wishing she hadn’t made this call in the office. Her colleagues must be having a field day with so much personal information flying around. ‘For heaven’s sake! Can I not