But First, Pizza
According to the famous saying, all roads lead to Rome.
Well, no, apparently not, thought Maggie, as they finally arrived later that evening after circling the city, taking one wrong turn after another, as the city sweltered and the traffic fumes choked and the air conditioning on the Fiat decided to conk out.
Not when Flick was in charge of the directions.
Still, any frustrations and weariness were soon swept away by the sheer engulfment (was engulfment even a word?) of finding herself in Italy’s capital city.
After climbing three flights up the narrow staircase of a little backstreet pensione – the only accommodation they could find available online at such short notice – the bickering and the bad moods seemed to instantly evaporate as they opened the full-length windows, folded back the heavy wooden shutters and stepped out onto their tiny balcony.
And there it was, stretching out before them, a sea of Roman terracotta rooftops, studded with church domes and lit by a blazing crimson sky, streaked with golden pinks, caramelized tangerine and clouds that hung like deep purple bruises.
‘What’s that?’ asked Flick, pointing into the distance at the large dome that dominated the skyline.
‘St Peter’s Basilica.’
‘Wow.’
There were so many adjectives at her disposal, so many ways to convey things and Flick fiercely prided herself on her vocabulary and use of language.
On her clever metaphors and carefully inserted similes.
She was a writer; her job was to communicate.
But now, gazing at the panorama before her, she was rendered speechless but for one simple, clichéd exclamation.
‘Just. Wow.’
There. She’d said it again.
Standing beside her, Maggie glanced at Flick, at her eyes lit up, reflecting the sunset.
And that kind of magic that comes from travel and finding yourself somewhere beautiful.
She felt it too and for a few moments they both stood together, side by side, looking out across the rooftops, breathing it all in and forgetting the reason they were there.
The evening air was sweltering. The city buzzed beneath them.
The sounds of ancient church bells, revving Vespa engines and suitcases being wheeled across the cobbles, mingling with laughter and glasses clinking and delicious aromas from the restaurants below.
All sounds and smells of life. It was all here.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Maggie, reluctantly breaking the spell and turning back to the matter in hand.
‘Well, according to the itinerary the cruise ship doesn’t dock until first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Where is it now?’
Flick pulled out her phone and pinched at a document on her screen.
‘Elba, wherever that is.’
‘It’s an island. Where Napoleon was exiled to.’
‘Cool.’
Maggie noted Flick didn’t even pretend to be interested in what she thought was actually an interesting bit of information, but was now focused on taking a photo of the view.
‘Do you want me to take one of you in it?’ she offered.
‘Oh. No. Thanks. I hate myself in photos.’
‘Why? You look lovely.’
Flick pulled a face and went back to taking a photo and Maggie thought about how she used to be the same when she was her age, always thinking she looked awful, hating to be photographed because she thought her thighs were too big or her face too spotty and she wasn’t wearing a full face of make-up.
And now, whenever she looked back at old photos of herself, all she saw was someone young and beautiful and she wished she could reach back in time and give herself confidence.
To take herself by the shoulders and tell her that one day in the future she would kill to look like that again.
And now here she was, wishing she could explain all that to Flick and realizing that no, she couldn’t, you just had to learn it yourself.
‘Well, in that case, I guess we’ve got the evening off,’ she said instead.
‘It’s like being on holiday.’ Flick grinned.
‘A Roman holiday.’
‘Is that another film reference? ’Cos I know that one.’ Flick looked triumphant. ‘Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck.’
‘So you don’t just watch Love Island?’
Maggie was teasing, but Flick looked offended.
‘Not everyone in their twenties watches that mindless rubbish.’
‘Who says it’s mindless rubbish?’
‘I do. It’s just women parading around in bikinis.’
‘And men parading around in tiny shorts. My friend George loves it. He’s always sending me screen grabs to cheer me up.’
Flick threw her a withering look.
‘Maybe you should watch it,’ suggested Maggie. ‘Before you form an opinion.’
Flick bristled. Forming opinions about things was something she prided herself upon. First impressions. Gut instinct. It was how she made sense of the world. Protected herself from all the confusing, complicated stuff, of which there’d been plenty in the last few years.
‘Roman Holiday was one of my mum’s favourite films,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘She loved Audrey Hepburn—’ She broke off, her expression thoughtful as she looked back out across the city, taking it all in.
‘She said she always wanted to bring me to Rome. To show it to me. She said the first time you see Rome it has to be with someone who loves you.’ She felt her eyes well up. ‘But she never got the chance.’
‘Maybe she’s with you here now.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe that stuff.’ Flick gave a brisk sniff and shook her head firmly. ‘I’m not going to see a white feather or a rainbow and think it’s a sign from Mum.’ She glanced across at Maggie. ‘Do you? With your dad?’
‘No, not really,’ she confessed. ‘But I like the idea.’
‘And why does it always have to be a feather or a rainbow, anyway?’ she tutted derisively. ‘If Mum was going to give me a sign, it would be something that cheered me up.’
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno.’ Flick leaned against the balcony, peering down into the street. ‘Pizza?’
And the mood was suddenly lifted and they both turned to each other and laughed.
‘Actually, pizza would make me really happy right now,’ agreed Maggie. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Me too.’
‘Right. Come on then, let’s quickly shower and change and then I’ll take you to this great pizzeria I know. The last time I was in Rome I had the best pizza.’
‘Much better than a feather.’
‘Much better.’
Grabbing her toiletries from her suitcase, Flick went to use the shower in the ensuite while Maggie hung a crumpled dress on a hanger and hoped the creases would fall out. As Flick walked to the bathroom, Maggie turned to her.
‘I know I’m not your mum, but I want you to know you’re in Rome with someone who cares about you. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad I get to show you the city.’
There was a pause and for a moment Maggie feared she’d overstepped the mark. Oh dear. Was that insensitive? Had she said the wrong thing?
But as anyone who has lost anyone knows, the only wrong thing to say is nothing at all and Flick’s pause wasn’t because Maggie had been insensitive.
It was because, of all the sympathy shown to her by family and friends, this simple act of thoughtfulness by a woman she’d only just met floored her.
It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said.
‘Me too.’ She smiled and opened the door.
It was a July evening in Rome and after the sweltering lethargy of the brutal midday sun, the city had revived itself from its riposo and come alive in the dusky shadows.
Narrow cobbled streets were crowded with freshly showered tourists eating gelato and shopping for souvenirs, while piazzas thronged with restaurants, street musicians, faded stucco and fountains and the orange glow of a thousand Aperol spritz.
A glorious jumble of life past and present.
After fifteen minutes of weaving their way through the backstreets, Maggie suddenly turned to Flick.
‘Wait, I have to blindfold you.’
‘I thought we were just going out for pizza?’
‘We are, but I need to cover your eyes.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask why. It’s a surprise.’
‘I hate surprises.’
‘You’ll like this one. Trust me.’
Flick was unconvinced. Once, on a school coach trip to Windsor Castle, she’d learned about coats of arms with Latin inscriptions and decided her motto would be ‘Trust No One’.
Only, she didn’t know what that was in Latin because she went to a local comprehensive and they didn’t study Latin.
Plus, her ancestors were all coalminers; they had outside loos, not family crests.
Still, it was probably just a royal family thing.
Something from medieval times, along with the suits of armour and swords.
Or so she thought until she’d gone to university some years later and been teased about her accent by posh boys wearing gold pinky rings with family crests, and realized it was actually a real thing.
Magnus stultus.
‘OK, OK.’ Surrendering with a sigh, she allowed Maggie to put her hands over her eyes and lead her faltering across the cobbles.
‘Mind the kerb . . . Careful, there’s a scooter to your right . . . Nuns incoming!’
Maggie barked out instructions, while Flick, feeling incredibly vulnerable, clung on to her arm and allowed herself to be steered down the street.
‘Ow,’ she yelled, as she bumped shoulders with a passing tourist. ‘This better be worth the surprise.’
‘It is, trust me.’
She was led a bit further, trying not to trip on the cobbles.
‘OK, now you can open your eyes.’
As Maggie removed her hand, Flick blinked in the evening sunlight.
‘Ta-dah!’
Flick gave a sharp intake of breath. She was standing next to the most magnificent fountain, surrounded by candy-coloured buildings – which, she learned from googling later, were examples of baroque architecture – in the middle of a large square filled with restaurants and terraces and tourists.
As anyone who knew Flick would tell you, she wasn’t often lost for words, but as she tried to take it all in, she was overwhelmed.
‘Where am I?’ she managed finally.
‘Piazza Navona.’