Chapter Three
Daphne
T he plane touches down with a soft jolt on a bright morning in early March; the kind where the sky is so blue it almost looks fake.
As the engines hum to a stop and the seatbelt signs flicker off, a ripple of movement surges through the cabin. People start shuffling around, grabbing their bags, stretching out stiff limbs. I stay in my seat a moment longer, staring out of the tiny oval window at the tarmac below and trying to process the fact that I am officially here.
I’m in Rome. For three whole months.
Rome.
The thought hits me like a delayed reaction, settling heavily in my chest as I finally unbuckle my seatbelt and stand.
This isn’t some fleeting holiday. Nor is it a long weekend of sightseeing before returning to the mind-numbing routine of writing about influencers and their petty drama.
This is my life now - at least for the next ninety days.
Dragging my carry-on down the narrow aisle, I step off the plane into the terminal, blinking against the flood of morning sunlight pouring in through the high glass windows.
Everything around me is a blur of travellers and flight announcements crackling over the speakers - along with the occasional child crying, because of course there’s always a child crying at an airport.
But beneath the usual chaos, there's something different in the air.
Rome has a feeling .
It’s in the rich scent of espresso wafting from the nearby stall and in the smooth, rapid-fire conversations swirling around me in a new language.
It’s in the easy confidence of the people moving through the terminal, effortlessly chic even in their travel-worn states.
I grip the strap of my handbag a little tighter, a sudden awareness creeping in that I am, without a doubt, an outsider here.
By the time I make it through security and baggage claim, my overstuffed suitcase finally thudding onto the carousel, the weight of my situation fully sinks in.
This is it.
No turning back.
Three months in a country where I barely speak the language, covering a sport I know next to nothing about and surrounded by people who will absolutely see right through me.
But, hey - at least there’s pasta.
*
I stumble out of the airport, my suitcase clunking behind me.
I’m admittedly a little overwhelmed, but I can’t help but feel like I’m in the middle of a postcard dream .
The warm air, the rush of chatter and the smell of freshly baked pastries drifting out of every café I walk past on my way out of the airport...
It’s as if everything has been plucked from a movie set.
Or, you know, one of those influencer posts that I’ve spent far too much time scrolling through in the name of work.
Knowing I’m not going to be covering reality stars for the foreseeable is a genuine treat, and I can’t quite get over the fact that my job has sent me here .
Richard had pitched this as a career opportunity to me, and though he’d also made it clear that his reasons for pushing me into this were simply due to a combination of convenience and to tick off a diversity chart, who knows - maybe I can make some kind of progress after all.
Maybe I can do well enough that it’ll prove to everyone that despite my age ( and the fact that I have a vagina ), I’m capable of covering meaningful content.
Even if I am here for football.
At least it’s a start.
I weave my way through the sea of travelers who linger by the exit. My eyes scan the crowd of drivers holding up various signs, my fingers tightening around the handle of my suitcase.
Please don’t let there be a mistake. Please let there actually be a car for me.
Then, I spot it: my name, printed in bold, black letters on a sign held by a short, middle-aged man in a crisp navy blazer.
This is the beauty of travelling for work - that everything has been handled for me. No last-minute panicking over hotel bookings, struggling with Google Maps or desperately attempting to find an overpriced taxi.
Everything has been taken care of.
And while I’ve been nervous about this entire experience, I haven’t actually been all that stressed. I guess I've not had much time to overthink it, which has, for once, been helpful.
I smile politely as I approach the driver, offering a small buongiorno in what I can only hope is a semi-decent accent.
He responds with a friendly nod, taking my suitcase with ease ( which is impressive, considering I may or may not have packed half my wardrobe inside of it ) before he gestures for me to follow him to the sleek black car waiting at the curb.
As I slip into the backseat, I let out a slow breath.
For the next sixty minutes or so, I can pretend I’m just here on an exciting European adventure - one where I spend my days sipping coffee in sun-drenched piazzas and my nights wandering history-soaked cobbled streets.
I settle back against the cool leather seat and stare out of the window as the car pulls away, letting the sights of Rome unfold around me. The sun is pleasantly warm, casting a golden glow over the ochre-colored buildings, and the streets are a perfect kind of chaos, with vespas weaving between cars and pedestrians dodging traffic like it’s a sport in itself.
It’s beautiful, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I can breathe .
Maybe I can even use this rare moment of peace to focus on something other than work.
I always have a hundred different stories swirling around in my brain. Half-formed characters, tangled plots and ideas that flash through my mind at inconvenient times only to disappear before I can do anything about them .
Between deadlines, distractions and the sheer exhaustion of daily life back home, I never actually get around to writing any of them down. My fantasy novel has been left mostly untouched, collecting metaphorical dust in my laptop’s documents folder.
But right now, I have nothing else to do but think .
Maybe I can finally unravel some of the plot holes that have been haunting me. Maybe I can figure out what happens in chapter twelve instead of avoiding it like a tax bill.
Or maybe I’ll just sit here, soak in the beauty of Rome and enjoy the silence.
*
The car pulls up outside my apartment building, and I take a moment to absorb the chaos around me. The streets are buzzing with life, while the building itself is charmingly traditional.
With a soft terracotta facade, wrought-iron balconies with trailing greenery and wooden shutters that look like they’ve been there for centuries, I couldn’t be happier with where I’ll be staying.
It’s adorable. Nestled on a quiet cobbled street just off a busier main road, it’s close enough to the action but tucked away enough to feel like a hidden gem.
From what I remember reading in the briefing notes, I’m within walking distance of a few major landmarks, and there’s a metro stop just a few minutes away. Perfect for exploring - less perfect for someone who will likely be spending more time in football stadiums than historic ruins.
The apartment has been rented out by the media company I work for, a temporary home for whichever poor soul was going to get shipped out here on assignment.
Mark Chapman lives nearby - the journalist I’ll be working with - which means I won’t be completely alone in navigating this new world.
Not that I expect him to be particularly helpful. From what little I know, he strikes me as the kind of man who assumes you should just figure it out rather than bother him.
The driver helps me wrestle my suitcase onto the pavement before nodding a polite goodbye, leaving me staring up at my new home for the next three months.
Well - here goes nothing.
I hoist my bags up the small stone steps, push open the heavy wooden door and step inside the building.
The air inside the building is cool, carrying the faint scent of something vaguely citrusy, as if someone mopped the floors with lemon cleaner in an attempt to mask how old the place actually is. The stairwell is narrow - the kind that was probably designed long before anyone had the bright idea of installing an elevator - which means I have no choice but to drag my suitcase up them.
I pause at the base of the staircase, sizing up the challenge ahead.
My main suitcase is stuffed to the absolute brink of its capabilities and feels like it weighs roughly the same as a small car. My two smaller bags sit beside it, looking deceptively manageable.
Priorities , I tell myself. Get the heaviest one up first, then worry about the others.
Gripping the handle, I brace myself and start the ascent. The wheels bump loudly against each step, my arms burning with every pull .
By the time I reach the second floor, I’m winded.
And I mean truly, embarrassingly winded - like I’ve just completed an intense full-body workout rather than climbed a modest number of stairs.
The hallway is lined with thick wooden doors, each one adorned with ornate brass numbers. I find mine - 2B - and fumble for the key that had been handed to me at the airport pickup desk.
The lock sticks at first, but with a little force (and a muttered oh, come on ), it finally gives way.
My new home is small, but charming. There’s a tiny kitchenette with a fridge and two-burner stove, along with an old but sturdy-looking wooden dining table tucked beneath a small window.
The living space consists of a couch, a single armchair and a coffee table that’s seen better days - but the real highlight is the balcony.
I can already see the soft golden light spilling in through the French doors, an invitation to step outside and take in the view.
Priorities, I remind myself.
I drop my suitcase in the bedroom, glance at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser and give myself a pointed stare.
My auburn hair is a mess, my face is slightly red from my impromptu stair workout and my dark t-shirt is clinging to my back in a way I’d rather not think about.
“You’re in Rome,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”
Then, with a resigned sigh, I trudge back down the stairs to retrieve the rest of my luggage .
I’d been a little worried about leaving my bags at the bottom of the stairs given all the advice I’ve received about pick-pockets and opportunistic thieves watching and waiting, but they’re still here - waiting for me like two smug little reminders that I am, in fact, not built for manual labour.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and grab them both. I sling one over my arm and grab the handle of the other with my free hand.
The second trek up the stairs is marginally easier, but partly because I pause halfway to dramatically sigh and lean against the railing like some tragic heroine in a period drama.
When I finally reach my apartment again, I drop the bags just inside the door and shut it behind me with a soft click .
That’s it. I’ve officially, temporarily, moved in.
I take a moment to catch my breath and survey the new space properly.
It’s small but cozy, with high ceilings and rustic wooden beams that make it feel like I’ve stepped into someone’s charming Italian grandmother’s home. The walls are painted a warm, buttery yellow, and the terracotta floor tiles are cool beneath my feet when I kick off my sandals.
There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner, already stocked with a handful of books left behind by previous tenants. I scan the spines, noting that they’re mostly Italian paperbacks, although there are a couple of well-worn travel guides and, inexplicably, a copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary in English.
I make a mental note to check if there’s anything else worth flipping through later.
A gentle breeze drifts in through the slightly open balcony doors, and that’s when it really hits me again .
I’m here. In Rome.
For three whole months.
I wander over to the balcony, pushing the doors open fully. The view isn’t exactly postcard-worthy, per se: just a narrow, winding street lined with old stone buildings and bustling cafes.
Still, it feels homely in a way that London never quite has.
It’s chaotic. It’s loud.
And, for now, it’s home .
A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts, and I blink, turning towards the sound.
I don’t know anyone here yet, which can only mean one thing.
Work has officially found me.