Satisfied that the ingredients were now diced to a suitable size, he turned and plucked a number of basil leaves from the huge plant which took pride of place on the window sill above the sink and roughly tore them into pieces with his hands. The supermarket had once mistakenly turned his routine request for one basil plant at his monthly foray into on-line shopping into one dozen plants. He had repotted these into a large ceramic planter and had been dining off this mistake ever since; the plants simply would not die.
He drizzled some oil from a truly exquisite glass bottle standing on the counter, which had previously held grappa di barolo, that amber nectar so rare in the UK that one had to go to Rome to buy it, into one of the pans and ignited the gas burner and started to cook the vegetables.
He bent down and pulled a large glass bowl from a cupboard. Moving to the other side of the island, and behind her, collecting his little basket as he moved, he took down a large balloon whisk from the wall, a grater, butter from the fridge and six eggs from a rack, together with two plates and some cutlery. He returned to the hob and stirred the vegetables again, adding some more oil to compensate for the oil which the mushrooms had absorbed. He broke the eggs into the bowl and gently whisked them together with a little salt and pepper from mills which stood on the open counter with the bottles of oil.
He took the now partially cooked vegetables from the hob and allowed then to cool to the wistful sounds of Rostropovich's cello and, after a few minutes, poured them into the beaten eggs, adding the torn basil leaves and stirring the mixture gently. He melted the butter in his second pan and, when it had melted, poured in the beaten egg and vegetable mixture. Slowly the mixture began to set and he left it to simmer, bubbling gently. When it had completed cooking, running around the island once more, he grabbed a second spatula from the wall, ran back to his former spot by the hob and deftly cut the frittata into two halves and scooped them onto the two plates. After vigourously grating the cheese using his finest grater over the dish, he presented the plates with a flourish.
"Voilà," he said. "Two frittatas! As granny Berlusconi used to make back in old Napoli;, in the days when my grandfather used to run bootleg sloe gin for the Cosa Nostra! You know, there's something about an omelette or a frittata which always reminds me of Graham Kerr, the '70s TV chef, the Galloping Gourmet; I don't have the foggiest notion of why, it just does. Tuck in, before it gets cold!"
She drew a plate and a knife and fork to her while he pulled out a stool to sit opposite.
They ate in silence, although this was predominantly out of a mutual fear of somehow upsetting an unspoken, but nonetheless rigid, etiquette; he was, in any event, accustomed to dining alone and was used to the simple pleasure of eating, devoid of any extraneous activity such as conversation. As he laid the knife and fork side by side on the now empty plate, he rose from his stool and asked politely:
"Coffee? I have filter or espresso. Or some tea, perhaps?"
"Espresso would be nice, if it's not too much trouble," she said. She had spied the Gaggia machine on the long counter beyond the food mixers and processors and had wondered if it was just for show or whether she would be offered her favourite non-alcoholic beverage; that heady blend of bitterness and creamy froth, so unlike its bland and anodyne counterpart, cappuccino.
"Doppio?" he asked. "Double or just a single?"
"Double please," she replied.
He took two small cups and saucers from the glass fronted cupboard above the machine and switched it on at the wall socket. The machine was one of the newer, computer controlled Gaggias which measured and ground the beans with every new cup, heated the water to steaming point and then passed it from the reservoir and into the cup; all at the press of a single button. He switched on the kettle and after it had boiled, poured steaming water into the cups. He gently swirled the water around first one cup then the other before tipping the contents into a small plastic beaker which lay to the side of the machine. He placed one cup in the centre of the Gaggia and pressed a button. The machine made a loud whirring noise as it ground the arabica beans and two gentle, percussive sounds as the now finely ground coffee was gently tamped into the 'portafiltro' before finally the machine began to decant the steaming coffee into the cup. The sound of the trickling water was followed within seconds by the aroma of freshly made coffee.
"Best smell in the world," he said. "Sugar?"
"Yes, there's nothing that can compare with the smell of fresh coffee and no, no sugar."
The machine whirred, gently thudded and trickled its ambrosia for a second time. Placing the cups onto the saucers, he gingerly carried them to where she sat.
"These are odd saucers," she said as she turned the saucer around in her hand; the depression for the cup was not centred but lay off to one side.
"Cute, aren't they?" He replied. "The space is for your biscotti I think, which I do not have, I am afraid; saves it from getting wet if you spill the coffee, I think. I stole them from one of the chains, 'Costas', 'Café Nero', one of those, but definitely not 'Starbucks', over a period of about six weeks. I'd bury myself at the back of the store and offload a cup and saucer wrapped in a napkin into my then partner's handbag each time. Surprisingly, I haven't broken or chipped a single one, although I did steal eight, six plus two spares, just in case. They must be at least ten or eleven years old now."
"Artist, sometime chef, petty criminal; you get around, don't you?" She smiled and yet somehow it seemed forced, not quite natural.
As he sipped the espresso, back on his stool, he was aware of a tension in the air; a feeling that something was being suppressed; left undone; left unsaid. He dismissed the detritus of his recent culinary effort, the egg-smeared pan, the dirty plates as being responsible; he seldom washed up or loaded the dishwasher immediately after eating. He had not noticed this tension before. It had somehow crept up on him, unannounced, although perhaps he had been too pre-occupied with showing off his work, something which he always relished, and preparing food. Only now, at the post-prandial coffee, was there time for reflection; perhaps that explained it, he thought.
"Thank you," she said suddenly as she pushed her now empty cup away from her. "The meal was truly scrummy and the coffee simply divine. And the paintings. Well, words fail me, which doesn't happen to me very often." She paused, as if she were steeling herself for something. She repositioned herself on the stool and stared at the coffee cup, at the cream-coloured ring left by the froth and the carmine stain from her lipstick on the rim. She moved the saucer to one side. She looked for her small clutch bag, although it had not moved from its place by the side of the stool.
"Oh, this is ridiculous!" she exclaimed with a shout. "I came all of this way, two hundred miles, not counting getting lost, not once but three times and I am sitting here like some tongue-tied teenager, too frightened to say what needs to be said; what I want to say! I was so scared about this, scared that you wouldn't even remember me and, if you did, what you might say. Why did you have to be so bloody nice! So welcoming! As if what I did never happened or it happened to someone else!"
He smiled.
"It was a long time ago; one gets over these things. Other pains, other heartaches intrude over the course of a life and wipe the slate clean or at least remove it to some bottom drawer of a chest in some forgotten spare room or attic to be dragged out only occasionally. Don't beat yourself up over it, you have more important considerations now."
"Damn you!" She said. "I came here to apologise and here you tell me that it's not necessary. I came here to say sorry for walking out on you like that, without a word; for telling my mother not to tell you where I was, not to speak to you; for taking everything that was ours and pretending that it was mine and mine alone; I am sorry for all those records that I stole, yes, stole is the correct word. You know, I don't think that my mother ever really forgave me for telling her not to speak to you, she always had a soft spot for you; I don't think she could understand why I couldn't just tell you to your face that it was over, why I had to run away like that. I am sorry. It all seems so ridiculous now, I don't even know now, or then, why I did it. Why I couldn't just talk to you."
"You did leave me my coffee set with the phoenix," he said quietly. "It's here in the dining room; on display. Quite apposite, really. Especially when I eventually rose reborn from the bourbon-soaked ashes of my own immolation. You're here now and, with what time that is left to you, try not to be a stranger in the future. Email me occasionally, visit my blog, give me a call; just not during the day, evening is best! Contact the gallery, tell them you want to be put on the mailing list for upcoming exhibitions or sales." He smiled again.
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