LITMIR.BIZ

       SEVEN

      At last I was in a yellow cab and on my way to meet Harry Redford for dinner. I’d had a difficult day, trying to do my rewrite, and I had given up at the end of the afternoon. Frustrated, I’d put the chapter away until tomorrow; I needed time to think about it some more.

      I was glad to leave the apartment. It had been so sad and empty without the joyful, buoyant presence of my sister. Jessica had left that morning, very early, to catch the eight thirty British Airways flight to London. She had some meetings there before returning to Nice to prepare for her upcoming auctions.

      Fortunately, First was not clogged with traffic, which was a big relief, and the cab moved at a good pace up the avenue. I was running late, and the restaurant was way uptown in East Harlem. Harry and I were having dinner at Rao’s, which stood on the corner of East 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue.

      It had always been my father’s and Harry’s favourite restaurant in Manhattan. They had started going there in the 1970s, had had the same table every Monday night since then, a table which they ‘owned’.

      When they were away covering wars, or out of town on other assignments, their families and friends got the chance to use the table, and were thrilled to do so. Over the years, Rao’s had acquired a special kind of mystique and glamour, some of this due to the celebrities who often went there, and it was virtually impossible to get a reservation because of the regulars.

      Tommy and Harry had become good friends of Vincent Rao and his wife Anna Pellegrino Rao over the years, and they were shocked and saddened when Vincent and Anna both died in 1994.

      Since then Rao’s, owned by the same family for over a hundred years, had been run by Frankie Pellegrino, Anna’s nephew, and his cousin, Ron Staci, who owned it together. It was exactly the same as it had always been: warm, welcoming and fun. Dark wood-panelled walls, permanent Christmas decorations around the bar, pristine white linen cloths and a jukebox playing softly in the background combined to create a cosy atmosphere.

      It was Frankie who greeted me affectionately as I pushed open the door twenty minutes later to be enveloped in a warm blast of fragrant air, the mingled smells of traditional Italian cooking. It was exactly seven thirty, and I wasn’t late after all.

      Frankie had known me since I was ten, and he gave me a big bear hug. ‘Welcome, Serena, we’ve missed you.’

      After I’d hugged him in return, I said, ‘I know what you mean, but it’s only been two weeks.’

      ‘It seems longer,’ he shot back with a grin, leading me past the open door of the bustling kitchen, situated near the front door. We chatted as we walked through the room to the booth that was ours every Monday night.

      Harry was already standing, beaming, as I hurried towards him. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes!’ he exclaimed, kissing me on the cheek, holding me close for a moment. He was always exactly the same.

      We sat down opposite each other in the booth. ‘Sorry about not joining you for the last couple of weeks,’ I apologized. ‘But I really had to isolate myself, to move ahead on the book.’

      ‘I know that, Serena, and you don’t have to explain or feel badly about it. I’ve always told you, it’s not possible to be a committed writer and a social butterfly. One or the other occupation usually has to go.’

      He glanced at the package I’d placed on the seat next to my bag. ‘Is that for me? Are those the first chapters you promised to give me? That you want me to read?’

      I noticed his eyes were bright with anticipation. He was the one person who had encouraged me to write a biography about my father, and actually believed I could do it. He was my biggest booster and always had been. But then I was like the daughter he had never had.

      I said, ‘I’ve brought you the first seven chapters that I think are okay. Those are enough to give you a taste, aren’t they?’

      ‘More than enough. I can’t wait to get into them.’

      ‘I want you to be honest with me, Harry. It’s important that you tell me the truth.’

      ‘Of course I will,’ he promised, and ordered two glasses of white wine from one of the genial waiters. Turning back to me, he went on, ‘It would be unfair if I lied to you, just to please you. Now wouldn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

      He leaned back against the banquette and nodded approvingly. ‘You look good, Serena. Very good in fact. Never better.’

      ‘Work helps. I’ve been keeping myself busy with the book, and Jessica cheered me up. It was a lovely surprise when she showed up out of the blue.’

      ‘I’m sorry she couldn’t come tonight,’ he murmured. Harry loved Jessica and Cara as well as me.

      ‘She was disappointed not to see you, but she couldn’t cancel her meetings in London, and changing her ticket would have been difficult.’

      ‘I understood. And I told her this when we spoke on the phone.’

      The wine arrived and we said cheers in unison as we touched glasses.

      As I relaxed and sipped the cold wine, I studied Harry for a few seconds, thinking that he looked fit. He would be sixty-nine this year, yet appeared so much younger. There were not many lines on his face and he was tanned. He had a lean look about him, bright blue eyes and salt-and-pepper brown hair. Harry interrupted my thoughts when he said, ‘I ordered the mixed salad, the roasted peppers you’ve always loved, pasta pomodoro and lemon chicken. How does that sound?’

      I laughed. ‘You’re just like Tommy; he always ordered far too much.’

      ‘Just taste a bit of everything. You can take the rest home if you want, to eat another day; it’ll sustain you while you’re writing,’ he suggested in his charming way.

      ‘Thank you, Harry, but no thanks. I have to be careful these days. I’m sitting at a desk a lot.’

      ‘Ah yes, the curse of all writers, Serena,’ he responded with a laugh.

      Leaning across the table, I now said, ‘I’m trying to remember as much as possible about 1999, Harry. Jessica has given me some of her recollections. What about you? I know you and Dad were in Kosovo, weren’t you?’

      He was holding his glass of wine, and he stared down into it for a moment or two. When he lifted his head and looked across at me, I saw the bright blue eyes had darkened, were suddenly filled with a hint of sorrow.

      At last, he said quietly, ‘I remember the hell of that particular war. Tommy and I were there from March to June. It was tough, a lousy war. But then all wars are lousy. We were about to get out in May, but changed our minds. We stayed on. The ceasefire came in June, after the NATO and UN intervention, and we finally left. Your father went back to Nice. I came to New York. I’d wrenched my back, helping some desperate women push a broken-down truck, filled with wounded and dying children, to safety. I knew I had to get the best medical treatment, which is why I came back to Manhattan.’

      ‘Then you went again to Kosovo in September, didn’t you?’

      ‘Yes, we did. Your father thought we should cover the aftermath of the war, and I agreed. We went to Sarajevo as well. Later we flew to Nice for Thanksgiving, as I’m sure you remember.’

      ‘I

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