Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino part two

Friday, January 30 09

Apart from the frisking, the journey itself to Milan was painless. No children to worry about or chase, Mr and Mrs Bennet could read at leisure and shut their eyes, without the fear of a little Miss Bennet pushing up their eyelids.
Despite it being such a short trip, Mrs Bennet did manage a small taste of Italy. Mozzerella balls, which Mrs Bennet mistook for eggs; nuggets of aubergine accompanied by battered zucchini flowers (courgette) stuffed with melted cheese; toasted bread, dripping with olive oil and topped with tomato, fried chicken, salad and tiramisu to end. This was a true Italian restaurant and plates of endless tasty morsels appeared from nowhere; the waiter only too keen to educate Mrs Bennet who was intrigued by what was set before her; he, equally intrigued as to why she ordered a cappuccino at the end of a meal. It was past six o'clock and obviously not the done thing. But he gave her one anyway, much to her delight. At least she hadn't ordered a cup of tea!
They were leaving before six the next day, so she could avoid making the same mistake. She did think about home, her children, her parents, her Darcys in the Dirt and wondered how they all were. But she did so need this break. She needed the sleep, but unlike Mr Cappuccino who obviously managed to recharge his batteries. Neither Mr or Mrs Bennet could do so. They both woke continually throughout the night thanks to an extremely noisy fan in their room, which neither of them knew how to turn off. Mr Bennet worked out where the off switch was in the morning - far too late.
He left Mrs Bennet early for a breakfast briefing and then for a morning of meetings. She felt oddly alone. For weeks she craved some quiet, some space, some time where she didn’t pretend to have six heads and twelve arms to meet the demands of Mr Bennet and the Bennet brood. But now, sitting alone in the hotel’s dining room, sampling Italian cheeses and meats, the romance of Italy had left her. Surrounded by men in suits, talking animatedly in their singing tongue, she missed the familiar noise of home. Who would want to spend hours in a hotel room tied to a computer, sitting on their own at a table looking lost and jumping from plane to plane to make the next meeting? One night away was enough. Italy without a partner must be tough. The last time she visited, she’d got lost in Venice, the capital of romance and had spent two hours aimlessly wandering the streets and attractive arched bridges looking for her friend, who was aimlessly wandering about looking for her. All Mrs Bennet remembered was celebrating their reunion with a cappuccino. Both single at the time, they then questioned what they were doing in such a romantic place without a beau. A question Mrs Bennet was asking herself some 14 years later...and she was married. She spent her time writing, reading, researching and putting together a feature on Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds, for a glossy magazine. Sad as it was, it was refreshing to be able to use what was left in her brain without the interruption of drills and demands from little children. But after 24 hours confined in a small hotel room with just a bottle of carbonated water for company, she was ready to go home. A shuttle bus, a Metro experience, a double decker train trip (her first), a bumpy flight and car journey later, Mrs Bennet arrived back at the part-built bite-size Pemberley and dashed upstairs to kiss all five sleeping heads. That night, Mr and Mrs Bennet slept fitfully - he dreaming of business deals going wrong; she of handsome young Italians making her go through a never ending tunnel of security arches.