I am not at home. I’m typing this from a little café in Italy, with the late afternoon sun sliding down the walls and the smell of freshly ground coffee everywhere. Lucky me, I know.
From “Coffee Soon?” to Heathrow
This whole long weekend escape, from which I’m flying back tomorrow morning, began in the most casual way. Giovanni and I were exchanging messages, nothing dramatic, when he suddenly wrote, “coffee soon?” I assumed he meant our usual London haunt, something civilized like Saturday morning after errands. Instead, it escalated with breathtaking speed into, “take your passport and meet me at Heathrow at 13:00 hours.” No emoji. No explanation. Just that cool, military sort of precision he loves to use when he’s arranging something outrageous.
Giovanni’s story is almost as strong as the espresso they serve here. He was born to Sicilian parents, with one foot in London’s theatre-land and the other planted firmly in old-country traditions. In 1990, he finally followed his parents’ pull back to the continent. He drifted south and then sideways until he eventually carved out a life somewhere between Tuscany and Paris. These days, his world stretches across borders and time zones: a villa in the Tuscan countryside wrapped in vines, a discreet apartment in Paris, a constant stream of business trips, and a phone that never seems to stop buzzing.
A Complicated Personal Life
His personal life is, of course, another drama. He has an ex-wife who still moves in all the right circles. He has five children, scattered between school terms and holiday homes. There are three dogs who apparently respond only to commands in Italian, and a mistress tucked away in Paris with one child of her own. Before you ask how on earth he manages to keep such a complicated life afloat, the answer lies in his six-figure salary and his relentless appetite for motion. Whatever he does—some highly specialized, high-stakes work, if you believe him—clearly pays for a lot of school fees, dog food, and hotel suites.
My Role in His Drama
Where do I fit into this elaborate arrangement? That’s the interesting part. Giovanni likes to keep up appearances with the Italian social elite: the glossy crowd who care deeply about labels, reputations, and who is seen on whose arm at which restaurant. He also has a not-so-subtle desire to rub his ex-wife’s nose in the fact that he has not lost touch with the ladies. Ex-Mrs. Giovanni, as far as anyone can tell, remains blissfully unaware of the Parisian mistress and the extra little branch on the family tree. So when he needs a polished, well-behaved British companion for a weekend in Italy, I become the girlfriend experience.
I don’t mind, not really. I love Italy in a way that’s hard to explain. The language tumbles over itself. Dinners start late, when London is already asleep. The air smells of citrus, exhaust fumes, and possibility. I’m also no stranger to being discreet. I know when to smile, when to step back from a conversation, and when to let an innuendo drift past as if I don’t understand a single word. It’s a role I slip into as easily as a silk dress.
In Search of “Proper Coffee”
So we came to Italy for what Giovanni insisted on calling “proper coffee.” The kind that is ground from good, glossy beans in an actual Italian bar. Pulled by someone who has spent years perfecting their crema instead of tapping impatiently at an automatic machine. Now here we are, seated in an authentic restaurant with a bar that hums with life. Cups clink. Spoons chime against porcelain. Steam hisses from the espresso machine like some benevolent dragon.
When our turn came, I deployed my modest Italian with theatrical care. I leaned in just enough, smiled up at the barista, and used the limited vocabulary I have—enough to manage a warm “grazie” and to point at the correct line on the menu without looking entirely helpless. I added my most dazzling smile for good measure. Red-blooded Mediterranean men, I’ve discovered, like to feel noticed and appreciated by red-blooded British women. There is a particular sparkle that appears in their eyes when they realise you are genuinely delighted to be there, and not just ticking off some tourist box.
How I Take My Coffee
As for how I take my coffee: I will never say no to a well-made cappuccino, all velvety foam and chocolate dusting. But if I’m honest, I have a weakness for a latte. Smooth, gentle, and drawn out, like a conversation you don’t want to end. Especially when it’s homegrown: beans roasted a few streets away, milk from a local farm, and a barista who knows half the customers by name.
It was during one of these coffees that I discovered something delightful. While we were strolling back to the hotel along a narrow side street, we passed a modest sign tucked between a florist and a tiny bakery: a barista training school. Not some glossy, international brand, but a small, serious-looking place with big windows and stainless steel counters. Rows of espresso machines lined up like soldiers. As it turns out, the training centre is conveniently located just around the corner from our hotel.
A New Possibility
The idea lodged itself in my mind immediately. The thought of learning how to coax flavour from a grinder, how to pour milk so it curls into perfect little hearts and leaves in the cup, feels oddly thrilling. There’s something seductive about the precision of it all: the tamping, the timing, the exact temperature of the milk. So now I find myself daydreaming between sips. I wonder whether my next trip to Italy might not be as someone’s glamorous plus-one, but as a student in an apron, practising latte art while the city wakes up outside.
For now, though, I’m still the discreet girlfriend at the corner table. I enjoy my coffee, watch Giovanni charm the staff, and think that this impulsive weekend might have opened up a different kind of possibility altogether.
