Dreaming of Florence Read online

  ‘Not a lot of detail, is there?’ Alice sounded a bit doubtful. ‘And they want somebody to start in only just over a month. Could you get out of your current job as soon as that?’

  ‘I imagine, as far as the school here’s concerned, the sooner they can stop paying me, the better.’

  ‘Well, it does say good salary so why not give it a try? I’d hate to see you move away but, to make up for it, there’s always the knowledge that I’d be able to come over for holidays in Italy.’

  Together, they drafted a reply, asking for more details about the school and the position on offer. At Alice’s suggestion, Debbie included a query about accommodation. Somehow, she got the feeling that could be very pricey in a place like Florence. She dug out her old CV, updated it and sent the whole thing off.

  After Alice left, she sent a text message to Pierluigi, asking him how the interview had gone and telling him the latest developments, hoping he would be enthusiastic at the possibility of her coming to Florence. Maybe, she told herself, if this job materialised, she might see him again in less than a month.

  That night, as she lay in bed, turning over in her head the developments of the past few days, she felt herself gently slipping into the warm embrace of her special place once more. As her eyes closed, she could hear the birds singing and smell the roses. As she drifted off to sleep, she could feel the touch of the bronze arm against her shoulder and the warm fingers clasping hers. It was relaxing and reassuring and very, very familiar.

  * * *

  It all happened very quickly after that. She got a reply to her application the very next day. This came from a man called Steven Burrage, who described himself as Principal and Director of Studies of the Florence Institute of English Studies, FIES for short. This school was situated right in the very centre of the city, only a matter of yards from where Debbie and Alice had sat drinking very expensive Prosecco and eating even more expensive ice cream at the rear of the Duomo. Debbie and Alice had walked past it on their quick tour of inspection, but she remembered little about it apart from its proximity to the cathedral. The email informed her that the school had a population of three hundred students and had been in operation for over thirty years. It all sounded very promising.

  Steven Burrage informed her that he would be in London to interview potential candidates the following Friday and Saturday, and invited her to come and meet him. She replied immediately, asking if the interview could be on the Saturday as she was working on the Friday, and the appointment was set for Saturday noon at an address in Soho that sounded like a travel agency. Presumably the agency had some arrangement with the school.

  She spoke to Simon at work, who told her how sorry he would be to lose her and promising her a glowing reference if she did decide to move on. As she had expected, he saw no problem in her leaving at the end of September, even though this was now less than a month away.

  There was no response to her text message to Pierluigi, but this was most probably because he was still in the USA. She decided to delay contacting him again until after her interview in London when she would hopefully have something more definite to tell him.

  She travelled down to King’s Cross by train on Saturday and made her way across to Soho. She arrived well in advance and found the travel agency without difficulty. She went in, introduced herself, and was ushered into a back office where she waited for Mr Burrage.

  It was a long wait.

  It was almost one o’clock before Mr Burrage put in an appearance. He arrived in a state of considerable agitation, apologising profusely for the delay, which had been due to a problem on the line that had held up his train in from the suburbs. He was a short, middle-aged man, with a scarily red complexion, wearing a heavy tweed jacket in spite of the warm early September weather. His accent was unfathomable, completely without any regional inflections, no doubt as a result of years spent abroad, teaching foreigners.

  The interview took Debbie by surprise. It went like this:

  ‘Your name’s Deborah Waterson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve been working in one of the best schools in Cambridge for the past five years or so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you start on the fourth of October?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent. Have you had lunch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a curry.’

  Slightly bemused, Debbie followed him out through the travel agency and into a narrow street directly opposite. Halfway down there they turned right, and then left again, or that may have been right. By this time Debbie was beginning to lose her bearings. Then, abruptly, he stopped and the unmistakable smell of Indian food filled their nostrils. She glanced at him. The expression on his face was not dissimilar to their old spaniel when he smelt his tin of food being opened.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll lead the way, shall I?’ Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door and led her up a flight of red-carpeted stairs to another door. Beyond this, Debbie found herself in a huge dining hall filled with tables and decorated in a dramatic combination of black, red and gold. A tall, bearded head waiter approached, bowed, and escorted them to a table in the far corner. He deposited two menus, the thickness of telephone directories, on the tabletop and hovered while they sat down.

  ‘Can I get you anything to drink, sir, madam?’

  The hungry dog expression on Mr Burrage’s face broadened. ‘A pint of lager, please. No, better make that two pints.’ Remembering his manners, he glanced at Debbie. ‘What would you like to drink, Deborah?’

  ‘Just water, please.’ Debbie had no intention of letting alcohol interfere with her better judgement in what was, after all, a job interview.

  The waiter bowed once more and retired. By this time, Mr Burrage’s head was buried in the menu. Debbie followed suit and soon realised she was out of her depth. Never a great curry eater, her field of expertise didn’t really extend much beyond chicken tikka masala. She let her eyes run along the multitude of dishes that filled page after page until she felt them start to glaze over. She set it down and looked across the table, just as Mr Burrage looked up.

  ‘Decided what you’re having?’

  Crossing her fingers, hoping she wouldn’t regret it, she shook her head and told him, ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  A young waiter arrived at that moment with two pints of beer, a jug of water and two water glasses. From the speed with which Mr Burrage reached for his lager, Debbie got the impression he wouldn’t be using his water glass any time soon.

  ‘Cheers, and welcome aboard.’

  As Debbie was still digesting whether this represented a job offer, Mr Burrage proceeded to empty two-thirds of his first pint down his throat. He replaced the glass, wiped his forehead with his napkin, and gave a sigh of satisfaction, before beaming across the table at her.

  ‘So, anything you’d like to ask me, Deborah?’

  She poured some water into her glass and tentatively enquired about what appeared to be her new job. ‘Can you tell me who I’d be teaching? Adults, kids, whatever?’

  ‘Adults, for the most part. We don’t do a lot with kids these days. The Italian state school system’s working pretty well for languages nowadays, more’s the pity. Most of our clients are adults.’

  ‘Working adults?’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed. That means most of the teaching takes place in the afternoons and evenings, after the students finish work.’

  Just then the head waiter returned to take their order and Debbie sat in silent apprehension as she heard Mr Burrage order a frightening number of dishes, only one of which she recognized – naan. Well, she thought to herself, at least she could eat some bread if all else failed. As the waiter turned to leave, Mr Burrage drained the remains of his first beer and proffered the empty glass.

  ‘And another one of these, if you would.’

  The food arrived very swiftly and in such profus
ion that another small table had to be set alongside theirs to hold it all. Debbie took a tiny helping of each of the dishes, in the hope of finding something she liked. Opposite her, Mr Burrage worked his way assiduously through all of them, washed down with liberal quantities of beer.

  The food proved to be excellent and Debbie found herself taking second helpings of almost everything. As they ate, she continued to ask questions about the job and received remarkably clear answers. In short, it looked as though her working week would mainly take place between the hours of five and ten o’clock on weekday evenings. Accommodation was apparently no problem. A room would be found for her “at an affordable rent” in a flat shared by other teachers.

  Mr Burrage was on his fourth, or that might have been his fifth, pint of lager when he dropped an unexpected bombshell.

  ‘You say in your CV that you speak Italian. How well do you speak it?’ To Debbie’s surprise, the question was directed at her in very fluent, unaccented Italian. She took a deep breath and tried her hardest to reply in her best Italian.

  ‘I’ve studied it for almost ten years. Just evening classes recently. I think I’m reasonably fluent, but I badly need practice.’

  To her surprise and relief, she heard him grunt approvingly. ‘Excellent. That sounds great.’ He carried on in Italian as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As she listened, she rather wished she had ordered a pint or two of lager herself. This was turning out to be quite nerve-wracking.

  ‘What we really need, Deborah, is a Director of Studies. I’ve been doing it all for a good few months now, ever since Angela left, and I need somebody who can interview students and teachers, decide on syllabus, provide training for less experienced teachers. You know – all that sort of stuff. With your background, qualifications and experience, I think you’re the right person for the job.’

  ‘You want me to be Director of Studies?’ Debbie was still trying to work out just what might constitute tutta quella roba lì - “all that sort of stuff”.

  ‘That’s right. You’d still be doing some teaching, but a reduced timetable of course. The pay would be quite a bit better than a normal teacher’s pay.’ He produced a pen from his pocket, took the paper napkin from underneath the water jug, and scribbled the bare bones of the job offer for her. She squinted across the table, reading upside down. On the face of it, this would mean fewer contact hours in the classroom, a lot more responsibility and, after a brief calculation, a salary that would work out to quite a bit more than she was getting at present. She felt her spirits rise.

  He finished scribbling and spun the napkin round so she could read it without craning her neck.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ She barely noticed that he had reverted to English.

  ‘I’m very interested.’ She gave it some thought. ‘Yes, I really am very interested.’

  ‘Excellent. Deborah, do you dislike alcohol? You’re not teetotal or anything?’

  Bemused at the change of direction to his questioning, she shook her head. ‘No, I’m not teetotal. I just thought I’d better stay sober, seeing as this is a job interview.’

  He beamed. ‘Excellent. That’s exactly what I need. I want somebody serious. Terrific attitude.’ To reinforce his remark, he drained the last of the beer in his glass. ‘Do you like Prosecco, by any chance?’

  ‘Um, yes, yes I do.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He raised his arm and waved it in the air. The head waiter was at his shoulder within seconds. ‘Could I see the wine list, please?’

  Conversation lapsed as Mr Burrage studied a wine list that looked as comprehensive as the menu. While he did so, Debbie’s mind was racing. Here she was, being offered what sounded like a challenging new job in the city of her dreams. Much as she enjoyed teaching, she had always hankered for a bit more responsibility, but she knew full well that in English language schools, you either taught in them or ran them. There was little in the way of a pyramidal career structure. It had famously been described as being like a plateau with a radio mast. Now she was being offered the chance to leapfrog up to the next level.

  A bottle of Prosecco arrived and Mr Burrage subjected the label to close scrutiny, removing his glasses in order to read the small print. Finally satisfied, he handed it to the waiter to open while he replaced his glasses and explained to Debbie. ‘Valdobbiadene.’

  ‘Val… what?’ This was a new word for her.

  ‘The best Prosecco comes from Valdobbiadene, up to the north of Venice. I had to be sure.’

  Debbie filed the information away, alongside the information that Mr Burrage knew his wines. And liked them.

  The wine was poured and Mr Burrage looked across the table towards Debbie. ‘Well, what do you say? Are you joining the good ship FIES? We’d love to have you.’

  Debbie stared down into her wineglass for a few more seconds. It would mean a major upheaval in her life. It would take her further away from her parents and her friends, particularly Alice, and it would mean making a new start a thousand miles away from here. Was she really ready for this? Her eyes strayed to the top of the wine bottle, protruding from the ice bucket, a crisp white cloth folded across it. The Prosecco had come all the way from Italy to here, so why couldn’t she do the same in reverse? Surely a new life in Florence was all she had ever dreamt of. Taking her courage in both hands, she made her decision, looked up, and smiled.

  ‘Yes, please. Thank you so much. I’m delighted to accept the offer.’

  She wondered if she should offer Mr Burrage a handshake, but he had other ideas. Unsurprisingly, his wine glass was already in his hand and he held it out towards her. Once she had raised hers, he reached across and banged the two glasses together sufficiently hard to attract the attention of nearby diners. Luckily, the glasses were strong enough to withstand the impact, although a trickle of Prosecco ended up on the back of her hand.

  ‘Excellent, Deborah, excellent. Your very good health.’ And he drained his glass in one.

  He was already reaching for the bottle in the bucket as she was still licking the Prosecco off her hand, wondering just how much her life was going to change as a result of this decision.

  Chapter 7

  The very next day, Debbie was relieved, and slightly surprised, to receive a detailed and comprehensive email confirming the offer of the position of Director of Studies at the school in Florence, along with a contract to sign and return. Clearly, when he wasn’t eating and drinking, Mr Burrage was very businesslike, and she took that as a very good sign. She replied formally, accepting the offer, and printed off the contract to return by post. She also received a reply to her text message to Pierluigi, telling him of her decision. It was encouraging and disappointing at the same time.

  Great news. Am going on holiday to Greece for a few weeks (no mobile signal) and will be in touch when I get back. No news about US job yet. X. Pierluigi.

  Being selfish, the idea that he might not get the American job and so might be there with her in Florence was exciting. On the other, the fact that he was likely to be in Greece at least initially when she arrived in Florence was disappointing, but she felt sure she would see him before long.

  She handed in her notice at work and, with the landlord’s blessing, managed to dispose of her flat very quickly to a friend. Alice volunteered to look after her excess belongings, including her brand new bike, for the time being.

  The following weekend Debbie took the train to Bristol and broke the news to her parents.

  Her father, not unexpectedly, was a bit suspicious. ‘That all sounds fine, but just you make sure you get your social security and pension and all that kind of thing fully paid up.’

  All his life, her father had been deeply suspicious of employers. He wasn’t likely to change now, only a few years short of retirement. Debbie gave him a smile.

  ‘I’m sure it’s all above board, Dad. I’ve got a written contract and everything. It’s all spelt out.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s good, but you just keep a
n eye on them. Foreigners don’t always have the same respect for the rule of law as we do.’ Debbie was about to protest, but he changed the subject. ‘Anyway, this way we’ll be able to come and see Florence for ourselves when you’re settled. There are flights from Bristol to all manner of places all over Europe. We’ll probably be able to get over to see you just as quickly as trying to get from here to Cambridge.’

  The previous year her mum and dad had got caught up in a massive traffic jam on the M25 on their way back from a weekend in Cambridge with Debbie, and had few illusions as to how long the journey could take.

  Her mother was also concerned, not so much for her daughter’s pay and conditions, but for her personal happiness. ‘As long as it’s what you want.’ She caught Debbie’s eye. ‘But are you sure you feel like moving to another country?’

  ‘I think I could do with a bit of a challenge, and the job sounds perfect for me. I’d get to practice my Italian, do a bit of teaching, and move on to something with a bit more responsibility at the same time.’

  ‘And money-wise, will you be able to manage?’ Money had always been tight in their household and it was inevitable her father should focus on that.

  Debbie nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. I’ll get a few thousand from Cambridge when I leave, and with that I should have enough to buy my air ticket, pay a deposit for accommodation and so on. I should even have a bit left to pay off some more of my student loan.’

  They went through the details of the job together until Debbie felt confident they were both reassured. She had gone through the same exercise with Alice a few nights earlier and the result had been the same. Given the uncertainty of her position in the school in Cambridge, the offer of a better-paid, more varied position in the city of her dreams was too good to miss. And, of course, with the man of her dreams waiting for her over there as well, the prospect was enticing. For now, she didn’t mention Pierluigi to her parents. There would be a time for that later on.