Too tired and distracted to cook, Charlotte wandered across to Italia in the hope she’d get a table without a booking. The other night from her table at the Indian restaurant across the road, she’d seen how busy this one was.
Tonight, it was almost deserted, and she was whisked to a round table with a bright tablecloth near a window. Although there were few patrons, the kitchen was noisy and several delivery drivers with ‘Italia to Home’ on their tops waited for their bags to be packed. Behind the pass, Doug called orders and cut pizzas.
“Welcome to Italia. I’m Bronnie and will look after you this evening.” A friendly faced older woman, red hair pulled back in a bun, appeared tableside with a menu and notepad. “Would you like to order a drink first?”
“Hello, Bronnie. I’m Charlotte. Um,
