Chapter 6 April 13th #2
‘Thank you ever so much,’ I say, relieved I don’t have to lug all my stuff onto a train by myself. Of course I had everything under control as I am a seasoned traveller, but after flying it’s always nice to have someone meet you.
‘This way, please,’ he says politely. He is very well-dressed and handsome.
No wonder people like coming to Italy. It is such a beautiful country, judging by what I’ve heard and seen online.
How had I never visited Italy before? There are so many places to see: Rome, Venice, Florence, Naples, Palermo.
I make a mental note to research a few of them and perhaps leave the spa a couple of days earlier so I can fit in some travelling.
The shuttle bus I thought he was driving turns out to be a black Alfa Romeo Quadrifoglio.
Not that I have any interest in cars, but Joe is obsessed, so I recognise the Alfa Romeo logo on the front, and the boot says Quadrifoglio with a four-leafed clover.
He would be thrilled to know I travelled in one of these.
I’d like to take a picture to send him, but I don’t want to look like a tit.
Oh, who cares about that! I clear my throat.
‘My little boy loves this car,’ I tell the driver. ‘Would you mind if I took a picture?’
The man smiles. ‘Of course. Would you like one behind the wheel?’
Suddenly shy, I shake my head. ‘Uhm, thank you, that’s okay.’
He nods and lets me take a picture before he loads my luggage into the boot.
‘How long is it to Villa dei Respiri?’ I ask as I buckle myself into the back seat. Black leather, very comfortable.
‘About two and a half hours,’ he replies. ‘There is some reading material for you and a snack if you push the green button.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, trying not to appear to be too eager. I’m practically salivating at the idea of what could be in there, so I wait until we have cleared the airport and are on the motorway before I dart the driver a look and then push the button.
A hatch opens with a soft swoosh and a tray pops out with two separate sections to choose from: Caldo and Freddo.
I know that caldo means hot, so I push that button and a pitcher of coffee pops out like in the Jetsons, complete with porcelain cups and saucers, brown sugar, white sugar and even sweeteners.
It smells delicious! Next to it is a plate of croissants and another one loaded with mini savoury muffins.
Oh, my word! James Bond and Mary Berry couldn’t have done it better!
I take one and bite into it: broccoli, bacon and melted Parmesan cheese, yum!
Curious, I decide to open the cold flap, and am rewarded with another small feast: mini sandwiches containing salmon and ham and a selection of cold cuts, such as salame and Prosciutto di Parma and cubes of assorted cheeses alongside some sun-dried tomatoes, tiny onions, artichokes and olives, all drenched in olive oil.
I wash it all down with a glass of white wine.
I’m probably eating everything in the wrong order, sooo un-Italian, but I’m sure I’ll learn.
I realise that I’ve never even considered visiting Italy before, simply, and stupidly, I now see, because of its association with my mother. But she’s down in Sicily, and with an entire boot between us I’ll be just fine. Grand, actually.
Sated and satisfied, the gentle lull of the car on the road relaxes me, and I decide that it’s okay if I let myself nap for a while. We’ve a long drive ahead.
*
‘Here we are, Signora,’ a deep voice wakes me. ‘Villa dei Respiri.’
I sit up and rub my eyes, murmuring a Thank you. And then my eyes pop wide open.
Villa dei Respiri Spa is a dream resort, nestled on the shores of Lake Maggiore.
It is a nineteenth-century, Art Nouveau villa with a peach-coloured rendering, in some places faded but for this all the more genuine, with vast botanical gardens featuring mostly Mediterranean plants such as azaleas, agapanthus and oleander, but also English roses and conifers.
Punctuating the landscape here and there are ancient sculptures alongside both antique and modern water features.
I feel like Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale, vacationing in a luxury villa with the love of her life, James Bond.
And vacationing, in fact, is exactly what I’m doing.
Minus the love of my life, of course, whom I’ve left at home in the person of the unsuspecting Markus.
A handsome man, around thirty-ish, comes to greet my taxi and shows me into the massive, elegant lobby and I just know that Villa dei Respiri is going to be amazing.
Through a wide doorway, I can already see lake views with open terraces and white linen curtains billowing in pine-scented breeze, and fancy drinks and foods, and ladies dripping with jewels and gallant men vying to attend to their every need. More Gatsby, anyone?
I’m given a brochure listing Villa dei Respiri’s offerings: skin care sessions, lymphatic-drainage massages, Botox (I can only imagine the cost of that), different kinds of yoga classes (good luck with that one), Pilates (and that one), cooking classes to learn how to prepare healthy and fulfilling food, and plenty of other learning opportunities clubs, such as arts and crafts, music lessons, singing lessons (good thing my mother wasn’t here or she’d be trying to teach the teachers), swimming lessons in their Olympic-sized pool that, judging from the pictures, looks like it wouldn’t be out of place in Hollywood.
They even have bocce. Not that I’d ever play bocce, but still, it’s nice to know.
I’m truly looking forward to this fantastic sojourn, secretly grateful to my estranged mother for trying to buy me back.
Not that I can be bought, but it’s nice to be spoilt for a bit.
And why not? Don’t I deserve good things, too?
I will probably never have the money she landed in when she married Whatshisname, and I’ll probably never live her lifestyle, but while I’m here I’ll be damned if I’m not going to make the best of it.
It’s a good thing the brochure mentioned the dress code and that I packed some elegant clothes, I muse as I look around me.
These people are so obviously changing at least four times a day.
Where the hell do they find the energy? I can barely be bothered to change from my pyjamas into my jeans and a jumper, barely washing my face in the morning as I push my hair into a haphazard ponytail and trudge to the oast house at the bottom of the garden where Markus is waiting for me.
He would laugh his head off if he saw where I was now, not to mention take the royal piss out of me.
Judging by the fleeting looks from the sportily-clad guests around me, I’m assuming they’ve just come out of one of their tennis lessons (white with black piping seem to be the unspoken rule around here) and have stopped for a glass of cucumber water and a chin-wag before showering and changing for lunch, which, as I can tell by the diaphanous linen tablecloths billowing in the breeze and the clatter of shiny silverware being placed on the tables along with white porcelain, will not be long now.
All this elegance, and what a gorgeous backdrop!
I never thought I’d ever set foot in Italy, but to be sent to this lovely resort at the foot of the Italian Alps is something that might even move me.
The mountains are so majestic, reaching infinitely up into the cobalt-blue sky and taking almost all of my field of vision.
The purest snow covers the highest peaks but down here I can almost feel the warmth of the summer to come.
And my room? Pure white decadence, with a bed big enough for my entire family. The sheets must be silk, and the towels are so thick and soft I could bounce on them all day.
It sounds silly. Juvenile, even, but when I was a teenager, I always dreamt of having a big, beautiful bed and sharing it with a loving partner.
It would be a place to celebrate our relationship, with a thick duvet and fresh linen every week.
It would be the most comforting and welcoming part of the house.