Chapter 9
9
Ding!
As the seatbelt light switches off, I eyeball it suspiciously.
Looking out of the window confirms that not only are we safely on dry land but that the sun is shining – something that was not happening in the UK this morning.
Then I realise that there is a hand on my arm, lightly shaking me, which must have been what woke me up.
I turn to the woman next to me, opening my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say.
‘We’ve landed,’ she tells me. ‘In Bari.’
‘Oh, great,’ I say.
There’s something about her tone… something that makes me think she knows more than I do.
I can’t believe we’re here. The last thing I remember was being in the airport, feeling nervous, taking one of those tablets my mum gave me, and then…
Oh God. After that moment things are a little hazy. I can see snapshots, here and there, of how I got here, but everything seems like a mess of colours and sounds. I remember a departure lounge here, a plane bathroom there… but it’s all brightly coloured and, weirdly, the only thing I can recall hearing was ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’.
‘I took something, before we took off – a herbal thing my mum gave me – because I’m scared of flying,’ I explain – just in case I need to explain.
‘I guessed as much,’ she replies. ‘Somewhere between you snoring like you were possessed by the devil and aggressively flirting with the flight attendant.’
I feel my cheeks warm as the embarrassment quickly builds inside me.
‘Oh, God, was he offended?’ I dare to ask.
‘ She was fine,’ the woman reassures me. ‘But I would think twice, before I took one of those mystery tablets again. You had… a lot going on.’
Oh, the cringe is almost too much to take. I have no idea what I said to the flight attendant and, frankly, I hope I never find out. I wouldn’t say I was a master flirter at the best of times so I can’t imagine I was at the top of my game, flirting with a woman, while off my face on herbal pills.
Being a frightened flyer, I don’t ever take my time getting off the plane, always keen to get my feet back on terra firma asap. Today, though, today I’m setting new records, flying (no pun intended) through the motions to get out of here as soon as possible.
I shuffle through passport control like the absolute criminal that I feel like (although, crucially, am not), which is probably only drawing attention to me. If I’m not careful, I’m going to bring about my own strip search, by looking like I need one, even though I have nothing to hide.
My relief at not being stopped is short lived when I finally get my phone turned on, and connected to a local network, only to see that I have a message from Andrea saying she is so sorry but she’s stuck in traffic, which is just brilliant, just what I need. A second message comes through telling me not to worry, that her parents have offered to pick me up, and that they will be waiting for me at the exit, with a sign with my name on. Then another one comes through, where she apologises again, saying they will take me to their house and she will meet me there asap.
My head is still fizzing from my herbal high. The last thing I need to navigate right now is meeting the parents of the pen pal that I’ve never even met.
I do my best to navigate the crowds of people at Bari airport, weaving in and out of busy areas, while still keeping an eye out for Andrea’s parents.
My nerves are starting to get the better of me – although not quite enough to make me consider rolling the dice on popping another one of Auntie Irene’s herbal pills. I’m lucky my weird high was confined to the plane. Here, in the airport, where so far I haven’t heard a word of English, doesn’t seem like a good place to be off my head on pills, even if they are legal ones – although, if I’m being honest, I’m starting to wonder whether that’s really true or not.
I can see the exit up ahead so Andrea’s parents must be here somewhere. If they’re even here – and if they’re even Andrea’s parents who are waiting for me. Ah, there we go, my overactive imagination is joining the party finally. I’ve switched genres, from comedy caper to suspenseful thriller. You’ve got to think about these things, though, right? What if someone sinister is waiting for me? What if this whole trip is a set-up, and I’m about to be kidnapped, or trafficked or murdered? I’ve seen movies. Too many movies, probably, but now that the thought is in my head, I can’t quite seem to be able to shake it off.
I need to, though. I’m being silly. Like, even if a couple of murderers were waiting here for me, they don’t know who I am, or what I look like. If I approach two big blokes in ski masks, holding a sign with my name on, then fair enough, I’ll run a mile, but if they really are her parents then it’s going to be obvious, surely? And, come on, what are the chances of something like any of the above actually happening? The most likely thing to happen, in all situations really, is that things will be simple and boring and unremarkable. Plus, this is Andrea; we’ve been pen friends since we were kids, and her emails have been too detailed to have come from anyone but her.
As a large group of tourists shift out of the way, I spot a couple – maybe in their late fifties or early sixties – standing by the exit. The two of them are smiling, warmly, as they scan the room as though they’re looking for someone.
The man is smiling in a way that instantly puts me at ease. The woman too. It’s almost like, in a strange way, they remind me of my parents, just like a sexy Mediterranean version. I wonder if she cooks to solve almost every problem, and if he spends a lot of time hiding in his shed. Somehow they seem like they would be much cooler.
Then I notice, in his hands, he’s holding a sign that says ‘Robin’ on it. So this is definitely them, and the weird stuff I was worrying about, well, I can let go of all that. Sometimes things really are just straightforward, and I’m baffled by how weirdly disappointed I feel all of a sudden. Well, it’s not that I wanted to be murdered, or anything like that, but I did consider, for a second, that something actually exciting might be about to happen to me, for better or worse. But nothing exciting ever happens to me, does it? Even the accident at the gym yesterday (my God, was that only yesterday?) happened to Priya, not me, and no, I don’t wish it was my foot that was crushed instead, but what I’m saying is that even when things are kicking off, I’m an eyewitness at best.
But that’s fine, I’m here on a work trip. I want to be the one who comes up with the dream pitch for the client; I don’t want drama. Sometimes a lift from the airport is just a lift from the airport, and that’s exactly what I need.
I approach them slowly, in a way that a police officer would approach a person standing on the edge of a building threatening to jump, trying not to spook them.
I smile and wave, and they smile back.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly.
Their faces fall. Oh boy, that’s not good.
‘Hi,’ I say again. ‘Ciao.’
Perhaps giving it a go in Italian will help.
The man says something back to me in Italian and, honestly, I don’t understand a word of it.
‘Sorry, I don’t speak Italian,’ I say. ‘Do you speak English?’
The couple look at one another, then at me, then the man says something else and – again – I have no idea what he’s saying.
‘Robin,’ I say, pointing at the sign, before pointing at myself, but they’re not connecting the dots.
‘Robin,’ I say again, as though saying it again will help. I rack my brains, trying to think of a way to mime to them who I am. Well, Andrea must have told them about me. Perhaps I can show them who I am.
I can’t think of anything to do to mime my job, or the fact that I’m here for a corporate retreat, so I decide to focus on the wedding part of the trip.
‘Robin… me… Andrea… trip… wedding…’
I can’t believe I’ve resorted to simply shouting keywords while I frantically rub my ring finger.
It works though because finally the man’s eyes light up.
‘ Come ti chiami ?’ the woman asks me.
Oh, oh, I know that one. And it has unlocked a memory, of sorts, from when I at least tried to learn Italian at school. He’s asking me what my name is. Okay, let’s see if I remember this correctly.
‘ Mi chiami Robin,’ I say, which I don’t even think is right, but I watch as a wave of realisation washes over him.
‘ Ciao , Robin, piacere ,’ he says, smiling widely as he approaches me, kissing me on each cheek. ‘ Mi chiamo Leonardo.’
‘ Mi chiamo Antonia, ciao ,’ the woman says. She pulls me close and kisses me on each cheek too.
This is, wow, weirdly familiar – especially considering that my own dad doesn’t even say hello to me most of the time when I drop by for a visit.
Leonardo and Antonia are a good-looking couple. People say that the Mediterranean diet does wonders for people as they age – which I’ve always found super hard to imagine because, to me, if I lived here, I would probably eat nothing but pizza and ice cream, but Leonardo and Antonia look great on it. Genuinely, I don’t think they have a grey hair between them.
Leonardo says something to me and, again, I have no idea what any of it means. He points at me, then at his wedding ring. Oh, I guess he’s checking that I’m here for the wedding.
‘ Sì , sì ,’ I say, nodding my head overenthusiastically.
Leonardo smiles, clearly happy that we’ve figured this out, despite the language barrier.
‘ Andiamo , Robin,’ he says, beckoning me with his hand, instructing me to follow them.
‘Okay,’ I reply with a smile.
Leonardo kindly takes my case, walking ahead, while Antonia hangs back to walk alongside me. She doesn’t know what to say to me, obviously, so she just keeps smiling at me.
Yep, this is suitably awkward, but they seem nice enough. And at least I know for sure that Andrea speaks perfect English, so she will be able to translate my gratitude to them for picking me up.
Leonardo loads my case into the boot of his car before opening the car door for me.
‘ Grazie ,’ I tell him.
I don’t know if I’m impressed or ashamed by how little Italian I do actually remember. I want to say that, in my defence, I studied French for more school years than I did Italian, but I probably remember even less of that. That said, when I say I studied a language at school, that’s probably too grand a term for it. Does anyone actually leave school (in England, anyway) fluent in another language? Most of the kids I went to school with didn’t even leave with a great grasp of English as their first language.
There’s not much I can do now apart from go with the flow – and hope that Andrea isn’t long, because I’m not sure how far mimes and five words of Italian is going to get me.