We were soon out of central Florence, which was much smaller than I’d thought, and were speeding along the motorway at an alarming rate. In an attempt to make up for lost time (all of about six minutes), Gino was literally putting his pedal to the floor, and we were slicing in and outof lanes, overtaking other vehicles and practically screeching around bends. I tried to distract myself from the feeling that I was about to end up in a ten-car pile-up by looking out of the window at the rolling hills flanking us on both sides. It was the perfect day for it at least, with temperatures already in the mid-twenties.
‘This landscape you see here, on both sides, is the ideal climate for growing grapes and olives. Cold and rainy in the winter, dry and humid in the summer,’ said Gino in his Italian lilt, which would have been relaxing to listen to if we weren’t bombing along at about ninety-five miles per hour.
‘Travelling alone, are you?’ piped up Peter from the back seat.
Since it wasn’t clear who he was talking to – presumably Aidan, but I could see why it wouldn’t be obvious – nobody answered.
‘You at the front, there. Party of one. Are you travelling alone?’
Aidan finally cottoned on to the fact that this question was being directed at him and half-swivelled around in his seat again.
‘Sorry. I was miles away there. Yes.’
‘He’s just explained that he’s a journalist, Peter,’ said Sophia.
‘Well, journalists take holidays, too, don’t they?’ grumbled Peter.
I crushed myself up against the door, pretending to be very interested in the miles and miles of rolling hills we were passing while also secretly listening to every single thing they said.
‘What an interesting career!’ exclaimed Rosamund, more enamoured than I’d seen her get about anything, ever. ‘Who is it you write for, may I ask?’
‘A new travel magazine launching next month. We’re hoping to rivalConde Nast Traveller,’ said Aidan.
I hid my surprise. The whole Conde Nast scene had never seemed like his thing.
‘That sounds fabulous,’ gushed Rosamund. ‘Oh do let us exchange details before the end of the day. We’d love to read the finished piece.’
I tutted quietly. I wanted Aidan out of my life again, not friending my mother-in-law-to-be on Facebook.
‘There are many other things growing in these fields,’ went on Gino. ‘Porcini mushrooms. Wild asparagus. Truffles. And then of course there is the wildlife: rabbits, deer, pheasants, boars. Boars are very bad for vineyards. And vineyards, for us, are life.’
I surreptitiously checked my phone. Nothing.
‘Anything from Nick?’ asked Sophia.
‘Nope,’ I said, trying not to sound fucked off but failing dismally.
I could feel Aidan looking at me, fleetingly, as though he was trying his hardest not to. I always knew when his eyes were on me, it had been that way from the moment we met.
As we whizzed along the motorway, Gino told us about the legend of the black rooster, an ancient dispute between Siena and Florence to decide who would control the Chianti territory. Something about a white rooster and a black rooster and where they met in the middle being the point at which the border would be. The people of Siena starved their white rooster, thinking it would travel far and wide looking for food, so expanding the area they would control. The Florentines overfed their black rooster, giving him more energy and so he got much further and, as a result, Florence controls nearly all of the Chianti district.
‘Chianti Classico wine must be eighty per cent Sangiovese,the red grape native to this area, and it must have the black rooster seal. If it does not have these two things, it is not Chianti classico.’
‘Good to know!’ shouted Peter exuberantly from behind.
‘You can see our first stop, there in the distance,’ continued Gino. ‘San Gimignano. A medieval village which stands four hundred metres above sea level and is called the New York of Tuscany on account of its fourteen towers. This village was the first producer of Saffron in the Middle Ages and is a UNESCO world heritage site.’
I shuffled in my seat, needing to stretch my legs which had been scrunched in a weird position so as not to accidentally brush my knee against Aidan’s. I was still toying with the idea of saying something to him, something very casual and bland, so as not to draw attention to myself. Because wasn’t it weird that I’d ignore someone when they were sitting right next to me? Then again, Nick’s family probably thought I didn’t know how to behave in social situations like this, anyway, so perhaps they weren’t as surprised as I thought.
The van pulled off the motorway and after travelling up a country lane or two we pulled over at a grand, terracotta gateway leading into the village. It reminded me of Èze, a place I’d visited in the South of France once, and it shimmered in front of us, as enticing as the Emerald City.
‘You will have forty minutes here,’ announced Gino as he jumped out of the van and then came around to open our passenger door.
Light flooded the interior of the vehicle as we all unbuckled our seat belts. Aidan was the first out, me next, followed by the others. I purposely angled my body away from him.
‘You must visit Gelateria Dondoli,’ said Gino. ‘It is an ice cream shop on the main square of the village and this hasthe best ice cream in not just Italy, but in the world. Their speciality is the saffron ice cream, it tastes like nothing you can imagine. Then you must look at the views.’
‘Sounds delightful,’ said Sophia, stretching and flipping her Fendi sunglasses on.